#Transient Room Tax

[myalgias]

Excerpts from the article:

Because it’s clear that being “the last public space” isn’t a privilege. It’s a sign that something has gone terribly wrong.

At the time, countless articles asked if new technology meant “the death of the public library.” Instead, the institution completely transformed itself. Libraries carved out a new role providing online access to those who needed it. They abandoned the big central desk, stopped shushing patrons, and pushed employees out onto the floor to do programming. Today, you’ll find a semester’s load of classes, events, and seminars at your local library: on digital photography, estate planning, quilting, audio recording, taxes for seniors, gaming for teens, and countless “circle times” in which introverts who probably chose the profession because of their passion for Victorian literature are forced to perform “The Bear Went over the Mountain” to rooms full of rioting toddlers.

In the midst of this transformation, new demands began to emerge. Libraries have always been a welcoming space for the entire community. Alexander Calhoun, Calgary’s first librarian, used the space for adult education programs and welcomed “transients” and the unemployed into the building during the Depression. But the past forty years of urban life have seen those demands grow exponentially. In the late 1970s, “homelessness” as we know it today didn’t really exist; the issue only emerged as a serious social problem in the 1980s. Since then, as governments have abandoned building social housing and rents have skyrocketed, homelessness in Canada has transformed into a snowballing human rights issue. Meanwhile, the opioid crisis has devastated communities, killing more than 34,000 Canadians between 2016 and 2022, according to the Public Health Agency of Canada. And the country’s mental health care system, always an underfunded patchwork of services, is today completely unequipped to deal with demand. According to the Canadian Institute for Health Information, from 2020 to 2021, Canadians waited a median of twenty-two days for their first counselling session. As other communal support networks have suffered cutbacks and disintegrated, the library has found itself as one of the only places left with an open door.

When people tell the story of this transformation, from book repository to social services hub, it’s usually as an uncomplicated triumph. A recent “love letter” to libraries in the New York Times has a typical capsule history: “As local safety nets shriveled, the library roof magically expanded from umbrella to tarp to circus tent to airplane hangar. The modern library keeps its citizens warm, safe, healthy, entertained, educated, hydrated and, above all, connected.” That story, while heartwarming, obscures the reality of what has happened. No institution “magically” takes on the role of the entire welfare state, especially none as underfunded as the public library. If the library has managed to expand its protective umbrella, it has done so after a series of difficult decisions. And that expansion has come with costs.

[lvh-short-stories]

Wake of the Levantic

Edited by Greg Hopkins

Winter thaws and spring buds through that auspicious Saturday morning. Picture a star student called Foy. The child sees in the news that his idol’s starship is a sham, caught instead with lucre in hand. The idol’s excuse, “Fools! Who in their right mind would believe it viable, so do not be surprised at my guile.” Thinking the news is false, Foy ignores it.

At breakfast, his mother says, “There’s a bum sleeping on our bench.” Foy’s father gets up from the table to investigate, and Foy follows him. On seeing the pair, the vagrant flees. With Foy’s help, the father lugs the bench into the garage. The father goes back in alone, leaving the child in the yard.

Isolated now, Foy checks the mail. On opening the mailbox’s lid, along with the envelopes and flyers, Foy notices bundled with an advertisement, a yellow ticket announcing a spring cruise. The boy pockets the ticket separately. In the distance, he sees a group of kids laughing as they play a game together. On returning, Foy spots the transient lying behind a neighbor’s shrubbery near a conifer.

Minutes later, Foy comes back in and places the mail on the kitchen table. While thinking about telling his parents about the vagrant, the father points to the ticket that fell from Foy’s pocket. The father snatches it away and places it in the shredder with its discarded brethren. Throughout, the father complains about paying taxes for this sort of junk to be delivered.

A long night awaits Foy. Hot, the kid opens his window to cool his room. Hours in, the kid falls into slumber. The child awakens on a lifeboat in an unknown sea under a pink sky. A snug sports jacket encloses his chest. A nearby cruise ship sails up, turns and stops close to the kid. Inscribed in gold letters on the ship’s hull read Levantic. From the deck, a staff member waves to Foy.

The staff member calls out, “Are you interested in a quest?” When the child refuses, the staff member continues, “No trust in your heart?” The staff member throws down a rope ladder. Suddenly, against his best interests, Foy grabs the ladder and climbs up. On the last rung, the crew member reaches out her hand to help the kid complete his ascent. Suspicious, Foy waves the offer away to ascend alone.

Once aboard, the staff member introduces herself as the second mate. She then asks the child for his ticket. Foy panics, remembering his father shredded the ticket. He calms, feeling his ticket, in one piece, in his pocket. Handing the ticket over, the staff member validates it. Once confirmed, the second mate escorts Foy further.

The second mate gives a brief tour of the ship. She mentions the many gifts that the captain has bestowed upon them. There are many pastimes available to Foy; and, many friends, awaiting Foy’s invitation. The only parts of the ship off limits are the captain’s chambers and the lower decks, but for all else, Foy is welcome to partake.

With the orientation finished, the crew mate said, “Relax until the evening. You’re an honored guest.” Parting ways, the second mate says, “It’s a sight not to miss, and perhaps, one might even glimpse our illustrious captain.”

That day, Foy celebrates among the other children with a multitude of wonders: enticing games, simple, dynamic and ready for another member to jump in; refreshments from all corners of the world pleasantly presented; slides through labyrinthine pipes; and, familiar toys with endless new features. Among all these delights, Foy meets a group of well-dressed kids. Their dialogue was witty, their intellect substantial; and, Foy was very pleased to be in their company.

That evening, there was a grand ceremony on the deck. The passengers participated in a dance. At its conclusion, all the other children tore off fronds from branches of nearby potted trees. They placed the fronds, alongside their jackets, on the ground to form a path. Foy, not wanting to be left out, mimicked their actions.

Later that night, an eclipse of the moon took place, darkening the deck of the ship. This event surprises Foy. When the moonlight and other lights return, his companions exclaim hearing the sounds of clip-clops, the smell of a barn and pine, and the feeling of warmth, yet Foy sensed none of it. When the moment passes, the celebration continues.

On the way back to his cabin, Foy noticed six bright candles on a table. Between the candles stood vases of multicolored roses arranged in a circle, interspaced among them were depictions of an old woman, a middle-aged man, and a four-eyed child. Finally, Foy sees the silhouette of a man behind the blinds of the captain’s chamber window.

Looking back, Foy notices the makeshift path has disappeared. The torn-off fronds were seamlessly reattached to the limbs of the potted plants. For where the jackets went, Foy is left guessing.

On leaving the deck, Foy overhears the wealthy kids complaining about the disturbance, stating that no lunar event was expected. They attribute the moon’s absence to passing clouds. To confirm, Foy looks up. A clear starry sky stretches across the horizon. He goes back to his room and finds his lost jacket, neatly folded, on his bed.

Over the following days, a fog spread and deepened. The activities were more constrained. The candles on the captain’s table burn out daily; for which, after a few days, only three candles remain. While Foy jokes with his peers, a man wearing a badge etched with the word Security comes up to their group. The vagrant from Foy’s neighborhood was being forcefully escorted. When Foy asked, the security guard said that he was a stowaway. To rub salt into the wound, the vagrant was sleeping in the captain’s bed.

As the cruise continued, the vagrant was held in the brig in the lower decks. Foy’s companions mocked the vagrant, saying he was lazy and should be thrown overboard. The child forgets about him, reveling in the witty talk of his rich friends.

On Thursday, dinner was a meager affair. The second mate states, “This is the best the captain can offer.” In their disappointment, Foy’s friends gripped. At the meal’s end, the second mate brings out a letter, which she claims contains life’s greatest secret.

The friend’s interruptions drown out the second mate’s words. The second mate finishes and sits quietly. Leaving his companions, Foy sees two lighted candles left and the captain’s quarters dimmer.

In the morning, the ship sails up to a looming bluff to a sea cave. As the ship enters the cave, the lights are reduced. Decorations were shelved. Food and drink lost all flavor. Singing and dancing ceased. And, no one spoke above a whisper.

Hours later, Foy heard a muffled announcement over the intercom requesting that everyone pick up a lantern and join in a procession. Over the next hour, all but Foy departed, each returning to their rooms, extinguishing their lights. He was left alone on the deck.

Foy nervously hastened to his cabin. Passing the darkening captain’s chambers, the kid sees all the candles, save one, have burned out. On reaching his room, the child, instead of extinguishing his lantern like the others, nervously kept it on all night.

The next day, Foy leaves his jacket on his bed as he leaves his cabin. The child noticed that the rose blossoms were now shriveled, revealing thorny branches. Foy joins his companions. They go on a walk around the ship to look for others to agree with their opinions.

The group arrives at the captain’s cabin. The candles are all extinguished. The door is locked. A sliver of light comes from its cracks. Rationalizations fly; the companions relapse into jest.

To calm their nerves, the remaining children talked about their idols. Foy highlighted his idol, from a time that seemed so long ago. Instead of praise for such an erudite response to their query, the rich kids mockingly laugh. The companions confirm that Foy’s idol is a charlatan. The very idea of travel among the stars, they state, “A fool’s errand.”

Later, they play hide-and-seek. If Foy finds a good spot to hide, his reward will be to join them. Not knowing that the promise was a lie, Foy hides, in the bowels of the ship. His light is an ember on the verge. Hours pass in silence, and Foy’s light fades. Foy had been ditched in darkness.

Lost and alone in the dark, Foy sees himself as he truly is. It terrifies him. Foy begins to cry. A smell of pine fills the vault. A grating voice in the darkness is heard, “Why are you crying?” The voice belonged to the vagrant. With his other senses reduced, Foy senses that the vagrant’s presence is pure; that conclusion shook Foy to his core.

Sensing Foy’s distress, the vagrant offers his hand. Foy angrily pushes the hand away. A moment later, the vagrant offers his hand again. Foy slaps it away. Despite all this, the vagrant offers his hand again. No matter what Foy does, no matter how many times he refuses, the offer endures. Finally, in desperation–Foy takes it. Hand-in-hand, the vagrant leads Foy out. On the threshold, the vagrant points to the exit. Foy leaves, but the vagrant remains behind.

Foy rejoins the clique. On seeing Foy, the rich kids, instead of being sorry for their behavior, berate Foy for his lack of discretion. In shame, Foy departs for his room. Passing the captain’s cabin again, the cabin was darkened. On returning to his room, Foy cannot find his comforting jacket.

The next day, in the darkness of the tunnel, the ship shudders. Rubble falls. The companions run and hide. At its climax, there was a splash. When the shock lessens, a light grows in the distance. The shade tunnel has now come to an end.

Foy hears singing and praises in the distance, but Foy sees only his rich companions. His companions’ fright is forgotten. They express annoyance. The rich kids comment only on the ship’s poor service, for which their parents paid so much.

Now, the only ones that remain are Foy and his companions. “Wait,” Foy said, “Wasn’t there another?” Foy thinks again, then shakes his head, “My mistake, only us and none other!”

The ship makes port on a desert land. Not a single tree or shrub of live vegetation could be seen. Still, on the wind, singing and praises could be heard, but once again, no one except the rich kids and Foy were present.

The rich kids scoff at this affair, “This is false advertising,” they claim. The blame is not for the owners of the ship, but the negligent staff. To them, the optimum path lies in automata, prestige, and what wealth can buy.

On reaching the ship’s rail, his companions sent Foy out to scout. Reluctantly, Foy descended the rope ladder. Once aground, he explored the forsaken place. Foy searched; yet beyond a circle of short flat-topped stones among briers, he saw nothing. Dejected, Foy returns to the ship.

At the port, something was amiss. The ship is departing. In haste, Foy runs to the pier. In the distance, the rich kids heckle loudly at the kid’s folly, “Fool Foy, Fool Foy, Fool…”.

Distraught, Foy returns to the ring of stones encircled by sharp briers. The muddled Foy sat on a stone. His despair overwhelmed all else. Suddenly, a single sentence from the second mate came to mind, “No trust in your heart?”.

Revelation. Trying to see, the child closes his eyes. For a long time, the results are lackluster. On the verge of giving up, Foy’s mind drifts to that lonely night a couple of days ago. Remembering the vagrant’s words and his offered hand; little by little, the smell of pine permeates the air.

Foy opens his eyes, not to the void, but to a large table filled with food and drink. Other smells began to surface, not only of the entrées but also from the garden. The white noise of a gentle brook, its cool mist soothing, runs in ribbons throughout, accentuating the scene. Further, instead of briers, Foy is surrounded by myrtle trees. Beyond that, he sees chromatic forests, emerald meadows, and well-tended trails stretching to the horizon, begging to be trodden.

Foy wondered why he hadn’t seen this before. In his unabashed joy, the child samples the smorgasbord of manna and quail entrées, delightful and familiar. To wash it down, sweet milk. Foy’s appetite and thirst sated, in more ways than one. Around Foy, instead of stones were chairs filled by friends.

Suddenly, Foy felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. He sees the distasteful vagrant once again. The vagrant asks for alms. Instead of giving a paltry scrap, Foy remembered his comforting words and guiding hand. Seeing no open chairs, Foy offers him his seat in his stead. Overjoyed, the vagrant thanks Foy and sits down.

Without a place, Foy turns away. Suddenly, the vagrant says, “Please take the seat next to me.” The kid turns back, saying, “There are none here.” Foy then notices not only a welcoming seat, yet a plate, utensils and cup where none were before. Not only that, the vagrant is not a bum at all–in his place sits the promised captain.

Woven around the captain’s cap was a wreath of soft pine, with aromatic narrow cones evenly spaced. A purple cloth rings his chest as a sash. The captain again invited the kid to take the seat.

Foy, realizing his lack of protocol, quickens to his place and states, “Yes, my captain.” The captain says, “Please just call me teacher or, better yet, my friend.” The captain smiles and all rejoice.

The second mate and the security guard arrive with Foy's former companions. The captain asks, “Foy, what penalty would you inflict on these people for their cruel acts?” Foy replies, “Please forgive them and give them back their place at the table.” The trees applaud, and the captain smiling agrees. The table expands to accommodate everyone.

The captain grants Foy another boon for his trust in his wayward companions. The child asks, if possible, for a cone from the captain’s headband. The captain snaps a fragrant cone from his cap and places it in Foy’s hands. Suddenly, the captain rose from the table to meet with all the others in turn.

Foy sits among his pardoned companions. They apologize for their behavior. Foy returns the apology. They all laugh in relief. With that past, all enjoyed the feast and festivities together.

A while later, the captain returns to his seat. The captain struck a spoon against his glass and asked all to once more take their seats. The captain then brings out a covered basket. The captain said: “Some of those seated are gifted. But, those gifts do not make you better than others. Do not hide or covet these talents. Use them to help the forgotten.” The captain takes off the cover from the basket and light emerges.

The captain reminds everyone of the lesson from the meager feast. Foy in shame remembers the words lost due to his rich friends’ diatribe. Foy asks what that command was again, and the captain, smiling, says, “It bears no repeating, for it is written in your heart.”

The captain continues, “No matter what life throws at you, no matter what dark paths you take, always remember, a seat will be ready for you at my table.” The captain finishes, “Your quest has reached its end, yet your mission has only begun.” The captain now goes. Other children in distress ask for whence the captain departs. The captain merely says, “Far, yet near.” Gone now is the captain.

Foy, alongside the rest of the children, returns to the beach. There, Foy spots hundreds of lifeboats ready to go. Foy and his rich friends drag a boat to sea, the water seeps through their shoes.

Away from the shore, Foy boards the lifeboat with his friends in tow. Their drenched feet dry once more. Once settled, they sail silently, yet contently, into the mist.

The next morning, Foy awakens in his bed. His blanket is on the floor. Foy finishes his morning rituals. On a second look, Foy spots on the floor near his open window, among scattered leaves and petals, a narrow pine cone. Foy thinks, “Could the wind have blown it in?” He picks it up. Bringing it closer, the kid observes its familiar scent. Foy takes it, carries it, and goes to breakfast.

Presenting the pine cone to his parents at breakfast, the mother states that the cone is not of pine at all, but, in fact, of fir. Foy comments on the aroma, yet for the parents’ noses, no scent. Further, the mother states that it probably has pests, and now in the trash, it rests. Episode passed, to the bin the child goes, and there pockets the fir cone once more.

Foy heads to school. On the way there, he spots the rich kids from before. Instead of their luxurious clothes, common ones they wear, their dialogue is simple, and their intellect is mundane. The kid realizes his previous interpretation was mistaken.

Foy goes up to them, takes out the fragrant fir cone, and smiles. No words are exchanged, instead, the other kids nod in acknowledgment. All now go to school together again.

As the years go by, one by one, Foy’s friends can neither smell the fir cone nor even acknowledge it. Eventually, even the fir cone was lost. Still, for Foy, its scent lingers on the wind, especially when among the forgotten. A reminder of the mission for him–and all others–till it’s time to take one’s seat again at the captain’s table.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Single Jobless Plan to Ask Arrest, If Evicted From Ukrainian Hall,” The Globe and Mail. October 18, 1938. Page 13. ---- Possibility of a sit-down strike, faded, but a challenge to the police to arrest 100 transient single unemployed men loomed when it was reported the sheriff of Toronto would evict them from their only available quarters - the Ukrainian hall on Berkeley Street. 

At a meeting yesterday the men offenders. most of whom range from 17 to 27 years of age, decided that instead of attempting a sit-down strike or any disturbance such as occurred in Vancouver last spring, or in Regina a year before, they would call upon the police to lock them up in police stations on vagrancy charges. 

Some fifty of the guests in the hall crowded into the visitors' gallery at the City Hall yesterday when a committee of six waited close to the council chamber in hope of a hearing by the Council which did not materialize. 

Sheriff Cain declined to say whether or not any eviction order had been issued. It is anticipated that no attempt will be made to move the men until tomorrow, when the Ontario Government may decide what will be done with them. 

Most of the single unemployed men claim they have no home town to which they can go now that Toronto has definitely decided it will not provide for those who cannot claim residence in the city in recent years. 

Police officials admit that if the hundred or more men were to be locked up in the police stations as vagrants the capacity of cells in the downtown stations would be taxed to such a capacity that there would be no room for other offenders.

Those present af yesterday's council meeting conducted them- selves in an orderly manner at the City Hall. With the exception of a lone detective-sergeant no special officers were on duty to guard the proceedings of the city fathers.

[royalcaredisabilitiesservices]

What Are Accommodation Services?

Accommodation services are a type of service that provides rooms, buildings or lodging for short term stays. These services include hotel, motel and bed & breakfast accommodations. They also include boarding facilities for students.

In a situation with an imbalanced power dynamic, accommodating can be a practical way to resolve conflict. It can help to preserve and enhance relationships.

Accommodations

Accommodation services are a vital part of the hospitality industry and offer many employment opportunities. Whether you run a hotel, hostel, bed and breakfast or serviced apartment, accommodation services can help you generate more revenue from your guests. However, it’s important to get the pricing right to attract customers and ensure profitability.

Accommodations are intended to help students with disabilities access the academic atmosphere of SUNY Potsdam. Students with documented ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) disabilities may request accommodations for course-related activities or examinations. The SSD (Student Support Disability) office will engage the student in an interactive process to explore accommodation options, review disability-related documentation and evaluate the unique attributes of each course activity or exam.

It is also possible to outsource some aspects of accommodation service. This can reduce operating costs and save time. It can also allow businesses to hire a team of skilled professionals who can meet their customer needs and deliver an excellent experience.

Taxes

Accommodation penrith services are businesses that sell shelter on a short-term basis, usually to travelers or tourists. These include hotels, motels, hostels, bed and breakfast accommodations, and commercially marketed private residences. These establishments offer complementary services, such as meals and laundry. The industry also includes recreational and entertainment facilities.

Taxes on lodging are levied by state, local, and municipal governments. Most states levy both a sales and lodging tax on overnight transient accommodations. Some also impose local bed taxes. The following table ranks the 50 states and the District of Columbia by total tax rate on lodging accommodations.

In addition to the sales and lodging tax, some hotels impose an additional charge for occupancy called a local bed tax. This is a separate tax from the room rate and must be shown separately on a hotel bill. For information on the taxability of this charge, see Tax Bulletin Hotel Services (TB-ST-333). Generally, local bed taxes are not subject to state and local sales and use tax.

Regulations

In the accommodation industry, there are a variety of regulations that govern the way accommodations can be used. These include laws regarding accessibility and taxation. In addition to these, there are also other rules that need to be followed, including those relating to student privacy and confidentiality. Students should be aware of these rules, especially as they pertain to student records and disability accommodations.

Businesses that offer accommodation services can use various strategies to generate more revenue, including effective branding and marketing. They should also focus on sustainability, which will appeal to environmentally-conscious travelers. In addition, they should use data to understand customer behaviors and make informed decisions about pricing and product availability. This will help them maximize revenue and achieve a competitive advantage. This is particularly important in an industry that can be highly competitive and price sensitive.

[cottage121]

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[tanadrin]

here’s a thought I’m not very invested in, but I invite you to try on for size:

there are a lot of arguments that Boredom is Good, Actually. that, back before smartphones/the internet/television/radio/books/storytelling/language/instinctual nonverbal communication, we were sometimes bored, and it was not only fine, but Good--it helped us develop longer attention spans, and flex our imagination. Kids these days, uphill both ways in the snow, argle bargle, etc., etc.

This is bunk. Boredom is, like other negative stimuli, straightforwardly bad. We don’t try to justify other second-rate negative stimuli like itching or uncomfortable seating, or that thing where it’s not exactly cold in the room, but your fingers feel freezing. We don’t opine that the world was better, back before topical antihistamines, wing-backed library chairs, or gloves. But boredom is more omnipresent, and thus as part of the cope that is the human condition, we valorize it. Like death, or taxes.

A world without boredom would not only be fine, it would be demonstrably better than an identical world with it. Note, I said, without boredom, not without the capacity for boredom. Like other transient states such as pain, hunger, fear, or taxes, the capacity for boredom can serve as an important motivator. Such states signal you need to avoid a certain harmful stimulus, eat something, run away from that attacking tiger, etc. But boredom itself is not an intrinsic good, and the tiny amusements which suffuse our lives to stave it off, whether they’re podcasts or video games or subreddits where people gossip about their personal lives in exchange for advice, are mostly of net benefit to the human species.

[five-rivers]

Home

The building that housed Fentonworks had never been normal, no matter what neighbors and real estate agents might profess.

Things had happened there. Deaths. Wild twists of fate and shocking coincidences. People who lived there heard noises, saw things, felt things. Experienced sicknesses with no cause. Were cured of sicknesses without cause. Survived things that should have killed them.

It was a thin spot between worlds. Reality was a rippling membrane, frayed enough for things to shine through.

The construction of the neighborhood itself had been… strange. It happened much faster than it should have, as if there was a whole extra shift of workers on the project.

The townhouse that would one day become Fentonworks had stood out even in that mystery. Extra rooms, a basement deep enough to cause a nasty fight with regulators, features not approved by the architect.

It was a wonder they hadn’t hit any of the water lines or the sewage systems. A wonder- and an impossibility. So, the matter was ignored and dropped.

Then the next owners expanded that impossible basement, building another, secret basement and putting things in the walls- They were criminals, of course. It was expected for them to do illegal things. (Although exactly what they had done was… oddly uncertain.)

(Drugs, perhaps.)

Then, the lunatics. Then, the tiny cult that collapsed in on itself. Then the empty years, dozens of transient ghosts trying and failing to pass through, and the ghost hunters. So many ghost hunters, none of them particularly successful.

Then, the Fentons.

Then, little Jazz.

Then, little Danny.

Danny with wide eyes that saw too much.

And all the horrors that the Fentons could dream up, from living hotdogs to weapons that burned like stars and doors to places that should not be visited.

And this was Danny Fenton’s home.

.

The Manson estate was an odd case, even for Amity Park. Save for the basement, the entire building they lived in had been transplanted, brick and beam, from Germany.

Rich people were bizarre.

Even the Mansons couldn’t explain it. The man who had done it hadn’t been a Manson. The Mansons, who were relatively new money, all things considered, had purchased it from one of the man’s children. Anything to boost their prestige.

It was fancy, and it was old, a gothic and statuesque mansion worthy of its name. Still, it wasn’t quite fancy or old enough to merit the kind of expenditure moving it had to take.

Hence the rumors, squelched by the Mansons, that the place was haunted.

It wasn’t.

The rumors, however, were enough to get one Samantha Manson interested in the occult. Especially given how hard she saw her parents working to hide the rumors from her.

No. The mansion wasn’t haunted. For all it’s oddities and quirks – which only multiplied as the Mansons added more and more features to it – the building itself was mundane.

(The land it was built on might have been another story.)

And this was Sam Manson’s home.

.

The Foleys didn’t want to know what Tucker got up to in the attic, but liked to think that, with that one exception, their home was a nice one. It was on a nice street, in a nice neighborhood, just far enough away from Fentonworks to keep both sightings of the Ghost Assault Vehicle and resultant property damage and property taxes to a minimum. Within walking distance of the high school, a supermarket, and a park.

They kept the fridge and pantry stocked. Their food might not have always been healthy – red meat was an element of almost every meal – but it was always available and filling. They made an effort for the dietary restrictions of Tucker’s friends of course.

All the rooms were kept clean and neat. Even Tucker’s, by way of bribes. Everything was organized, everything had its place. Except, perhaps, for the stray shoe or piece of schoolwork.

But that attic.

It really hadn’t been anything, before Tucker asked if he could move his computer stuff up there. Just a storage space, one too difficult for either Angela or Maurice to climb up there often. They didn’t consider themselves old, but they couldn’t call themselves young either. Not with a son Tucker’s age.

Once Tucker had realized the attic was there, he had been fascinated. And, well, once he was old enough for them to not worry about him falling off the ladder, they let him go up.

Some days, it seemed, he didn’t come down.

Better than his faintly disturbing Ancient Egypt phase, where he kept bringing pictures of mummified corpses to the table. Or, worse, the werewolf phase.

And this was Tucker Foley’s home.

.

Amity Park had claimed the distinction of ‘most haunted town in America’ long before the Fentons opened their portal. In fact, that was the reason the Fentons had set up shop there, in the first place.

No haunted town was complete without at least one haunted house. Amity Park had several. Not to mention a haunted hospital, a selection of haunted schools, a haunted museum, a haunted pool, a haunted crosswalk, a haunted mall, a haunted football field… The list went on, essentially ad nauseum.

Of course, that list mostly consisted of places that became haunted after the Fentons built their portal. But even before then, some places offered their dubious charms to tourists.

Mostly gullible ones. More than half of the claims of hauntings before the portal opened were fraudulent in their entirety. These places quickly went broke and got abandoned when real ghosts started showing up.

One of these was the ominously named Raven House, which stood in the hills on the west edge of town.

The story the tourists of years gone by had been told was that a widower had lived out here, all by himself and that one day, he stopped coming to town, or paying his bills, or even getting his mail. When the mailbox at the end of the long driveway was full, the mailman decided to go check on the widower. What he found was a flock of ravens and a skeleton, entirely picked clean of flesh.

No such death had occurred there, nor in any part of Amity. No such person had ever lived in the house, either. The last owners, before the company that decided to market the house as haunted, were a couple with two children.

It wasn’t until months after the portal started up that it became haunted in truth.

.

“This place isn’t haunted,” said Danny, panning his flashlight over cobwebbed corners on the ceiling. “I don’t think it ever was.”

“That’s what, strike five?” asked Sam.

Danny shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Four, actually,” said Tucker. “We counted the hospital as inconclusive, since we don’t know if anyone was there before Spectra.”

Danny nodded. “It’s weird, though, isn’t it? That no one lives here, I mean. It looks like a perfectly nice house.”

“Décor’s a bit… eh. Trying to hard to be haunted,” said Tucker, poking a raven decal on the wallpaper.

“I like it,” said Sam. “Needs cleaning, though.”

“Hey,” said Tucker, “you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you? Because I’m pretty sure that’d be illegal.”

“It isn’t as if anyone else is using the place,” argued Sam. “It could be a great backup hideout, if we ever had to… you know.” She glanced at Danny. “Plus, we’d be doing them a favor, really, keeping things clean and lived in.”

“I think it’s an okay idea,” said Danny.

“Yeah, but you think lots of dumb things are good ideas. Like showing up at a party hosted by people who publicly humiliate you on a regular basis.”

Danny grumbled something about trauma responses that sounded like a direct quote from Jazz and something else about that incident being ages (aka weeks) ago. Then, he brightened.

“We could get one of the little ectoplasm generators to power everything,” he said. “Remember all that stuff we lifted from Skulker and Technus? We could actually use it. Study and test things without worrying about whether our parents will walk in. I mean, your attic is great, but still.”

“Plus, we can have actual lab safety protocols. No offense, Danny.”

“I am the one that half-died in a lab accident, so… None taken.”

Tucker rubbed his chin. “Alright. I suppose I can see the appeal… But if we have stuff that can trace back to us, we could get in serious trouble."

“We’ll be careful, then,” said Sam.

“Anything I take from Mom and Dad has plausible deniability. They’ll assume ghosts stole it.”

“We also need to clean if we’re being serious about this. And get a fridge. And figure out the pluming situation.”

“Fridge is on the list. We have to be careful about the outside, too. If this place is suddenly well maintained, people will notice.”

“Sure, but that isn’t something they’d call the cops over,” said Danny. “They’ll just assume new people are moving in. If anyone sees it at all. We’re pretty far away from anything. But pluming won’t be too hard. We just need to bring our own water. Like, toilets flush using physics. If you dump more water in, they’ll go, no electricity required.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can’t even tell you how many time Mom and Dad blew out all our breakers with stuff in the lab,” said Danny. “You pick up a few things.”

“Well,” said Tucker, swinging his flashlight over to examine a discolored spot on the ceiling. “Then… Home sweet home, I suppose.”

.

There was a house in the hills in the west hills of Amity Park.

And this was the home of two and a half humans and half a ghost.

[emma-what-son]

How Sir Philip's son cast a spell on Emma Watson: The super-woke Harry Potter star and the playboy son of the disgraced Topshop tycoon - it's hard to think of a more unlikely romance, writes ALISON BOSHOFF

One can almost see her eyebrows raised in quizzical disdain. Hermione Granger would surely disapprove.

Pictures emerged this week of Emma Watson, the serious-minded Harry Potter actress and eco-warrior, hopping out of Sir Philip Green’s family helicopter in Battersea, South London. Curious, some would think, given Emma’s long-standing war against fast fashion, that she would accept a lift from the fallen King of the High Street.

More curious still, however, is that Emma, 31, has apparently been enchanted by Brandon Green, Sir Philip’s 28-year-old son, whose longest relationship to date seems to have been with a Belarusian bikini model. Could there be a more unlikely romance?

Aside from both being awash with money —Brandon is an heir to a £2 billion fortune, while Emma is said to be worth about £59 million —they appear to have almost nothing in common. Yet according to a friend, a certain magic is in the air.

‘Brandon has been wooing Emma,’ says one source. Another says: ‘They are an item, although she hasn’t met the family yet.’

Emma, who once mused about being ‘self-partnered’, has certainly had more suitors than her single status would have you believe.

At 17, an early boyfriend was rugby player Tom Ducker, but her most serious romance seems to have been with another rugby player — and fellow Oxford student — Matt Janney, with whom she broke up in 2015.

Then there was another Oxford student, Will Adamowicz. The relationship lasted from 2011 to 2013.

She was then seen out and about with actor/producer Roberto Aguire, whom she first met in 2005 on the set of Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire. She also seems to have a particularly weak spot for young tech millionaires, as she has dated at least three of them, most significantly U.S. entrepreneur William ‘Mack’ Knight, whom she split from in late 2017 following a two-year romance.

Then came a six-month love affair with handsome Glee actor Chord Overstreet. They broke up during the summer of 2018.

She was then spotted sharing cocktails with tech CEO Brendan Wallace, a New Yorker, now 38, who is co-founder of a venture capital fund. By summer 2019 she was rumoured to have moved on to another tech millionaire, Brendan Iribe, CEO of Oculus.

She most recently split from her boyfriend of two years, businessman Leo Robinton.

It’s a longer list of amours than you might expect for someone who claims to be ‘self-partnered’, but then Emma is a woman who solemnly examines her life.

‘The boyfriends or partners I’ve had have generally made me feel really cherished. They have built me up,’ she said.

Quite how Brandon — who featured in Tatler’s ‘most eligible’ list in 2014 and was once caught patting Kate Moss’s bottom — fits into Emma’s orbit of admirers, remains to be seen. Although, like Emma’s other admirers, he does have a job running a tech investments company.

So who is this handsome young man — and what does Emma see in him?

Born in 1992, he was raised in Monte Carlo with big sister Chloe. His mother, Tina, is resident in the tax haven and was the ultimate owner of the Arcadia group, which went into administration last year. He went to the principality of Monaco’s International School.

To say his was a gilded upbringing would be an understatement. A source in Monaco says: ‘All the time he was growing up, the Greens would never fly commercial, always in their private jet.

‘They have a private chauffeur and in the family penthouse at the Roccabella building in Monaco there are uniformed maids standing to attention in every room just in case someone needs something. That’s the lifestyle Brandon was born into and has always thought was completely normal.’

He and Chloe have the use of the 109ft yacht Lionchase — Sir Phil has the 295ft Lionheart —which is moored in Monaco in the winter and cruises around the Med all summer.

I’m informed that his mum will pick up ‘seven-figure’ boat bills for the pair of them at the end of the season without blanching.

Brandon’s 2005 Bar Mitzvah caused a stir. It was held at the Grand-Hotel du Cap-Ferrat, with entertainment provided by Beyonce, Destiny’s Child and Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli. There were 300 guests over three days, all hosted by Sir Phil, who was then the boss of Topshop, BHS and Dorothy Perkins, all part of the Arcadia group.

When he was younger, Brandon seemed to be happy to join Chloe in a celebrity-packed party lifestyle. Locals say he was ‘practically living in Monaco’s Sass Café and partying until dawn every morning with a bevy of models’ in his 20s.

Kate Moss — a friend of his father — spent much of her 2011 honeymoon break with Jamie Hince on board his yacht and they got on famously. In 2013 he was spotted playfully groping Moss’s bikini-clad bottom while on holiday in St Barth’s. At the time he was 21.

When she was 21, Emma Watson had been famous for a decade and had just finished making the Potter films.

While Brandon found life one long, joyful party, she was struggling introspectively with having money and acclaim. As she recently said: ‘I’ve often thought, I’m so wrong for this job because I’m too serious.’

She felt physically sick when she found out how much money she had earned from the Potter films, and considered not renewing her contract to complete them.

Following stellar A-levels, she took an English degree at Brown University in Rhode Island — over five years, due to disruption from filming.

Brandon Green doesn’t have a degree. There was some idea that he might buck the family trend and go to university, but Sir Phil told an interviewer at the time: ‘It’s up for discussion,’ and evidently it was decided that was not the right path.

Instead, he spent years learning the ropes of the fashion business with Sir Philip and working for Arcadia.

As the BHS scandal raged in 2016 — after Sir Philip sold the company to a bankrupt, with a hole in its pensions provisions — and the company went bust, Brandon was sent to host a table at the Met Gala Ball in New York in his father’s place.

For three years, he was also a regular at the Topshop show at London Fashion Week, sitting with model Jourdan Dunn and chatting to Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour.

He began to go to Cannes, again as part of Topshop’s presence at the film festival, and to attend the Amfar charity gala on the arm of girlfriend Maryna Linchuk, a Victoria’s Secret model who towered over him.

But when Chloe became more involved in the family business and started designing shoes, Brandon stepped back from the spotlight.

They are a close family, all the more so since the woes that beset the Arcadia Group and Sir Philip before it collapsed. In fact, this seems to have acted as a wake-up call for Brandon.

A source said: ‘Once Philip fell from grace so badly, all the A-list celebrities and many of the world’s elite dropped the Green family completely. It really shook them up.

‘There was a party in Monaco that a family friend threw for them in the middle of the BHS pensions scandal. Brandon looked around aghast and said to Tina, “We don’t know anyone here!”

‘They felt the world hated them. Philip would fill his days doing laps of Monaco on foot with his bodyguard and personal trainer. Tina would busy herself in her art gallery or with her interior design business. There were a lot of tears; it was an awful atmosphere for the staff and for the family.

‘Brandon could see how transient popularity is and how big A-list stars had been using them for free holidays on their yachts for years. The whole experience sparked a “woke-over” in Brandon.

‘He got very interested in biodiversity and saving the oceans. He does a lot of charity and advocacy work with both Monaco’s Prince Albert’s Foundation and Princess Charlene’s Foundation. He is a trained deep-sea diver, he is very into fitness and gets involved with galas and charities that help the planet. He does frequent beach clean-ups and whatever he can to help.

‘It’s all very low-key, as he doesn’t want to be seen to be doing charity work for PR. But he’s been getting Tina to donate a hefty amount of money to charities that help save the planet too, saying they should do some good with their huge fortune.’

A second source says it is now Brandon, rather than Chloe, who is the apple of Tina’s eye, and he who is seen as the one who will eventually turn the family’s public reputation around.

A friend says: ‘He is very disciplined, intelligent and keen on study. He reads a lot, he travels a lot. He’s polite and well-mannered. Whatever he does, he embraces it fully. His parents are proud of him.’

His hobbies include skiing, at which he excels. He trains almost daily and took part in a gruelling cycling and swimming charity event last year for Princess Charlene of Monaco’s charity, going from Corsica to Monaco.

The friend adds: ‘He eats right and doesn’t drink or party — he is a very nice young man.’

How Brandon came to meet Emma, whose woke credentials may prove challenging for his family, is somewhat unclear, although it is believed his newfound interest in charitable ventures may have steered him her way.

Last year Miss Watson joined the sustainability committee at Kering, the owner of top fashion brands such as Gucci. She was labelled ‘Hollywood’s queen of ethical dressing’ by Vogue.

She has been taking a break from acting after appearing in the 2019 film Little Women but remains an active advocate for ‘race and gender justice’ via various charities. In 2014 she became a UN Women Goodwill ambassador, and she also ran a feminist book club, Our Shared Shelf, on Twitter.

She loves writing poetry, jigsaws, cats and nights in.

Her first purchase with the Potter millions was a ‘brick-like’ Toyota Prius. She said: ‘It’s sensible and boring, like me.’

Not that Emma is as staid as she says. In conversation with Gloria Steinem at an event in London in 2016, she revealed that she subscribes to a sex education website called OMGyes.

It’s a far remove from the days when she was cast in the Harry Potter films at nine years old, having been found via the theatre club she attended. She only completed filming the last Potter when she was 20, in June 2010.

Sources who knew her in the Potter days say her father Chris’s influence was paramount, even though she lived with her mother in Oxford.

The experience of growing up on Potter was so constricting and stressful, when the cast and crew held a ‘wrap party’ at Harry’s Bar after the final set of reshoots in 2010, she didn’t attend.

She said in 2017: ‘It’s something I’ve really wrestled with. I’ve gone back and quizzed my parents. When I was younger, I just did it. I just acted, it was just there.

‘I was finding this fame thing was getting to a point of no return. I sensed that if this was something I was ever going to step away from, it was now or never.’

Post-Potter, her films have been generally low-key. It is said she turned down the La La Land role that brought Emma Stone an Oscar.

Her £3 million London home was selected after she viewed it over Skype, because she can come and go unobserved.

That’s not to say her life is in any way normal: her social circle includes fashion figures such as Antoine Arnault of the LVMH dynasty, she has been the face of Lancome perfume and launched a collection with the ethical fashion label People Tree.

The question now is, will Emma finally find lasting love with a most unlikely Green?

[nickgerlich]

The Song Remains The Same

Sometimes I have to beat the same drum more than once in a semester, and this time is no different. If the song comes back on the radio, you have to listen, at least for a while, before you can change the station.

But this time, while we are treated to yet another hand-wringing session about the demise of the American shopping mall, at least there is now some hope for how to repurpose these rapidly shuttering giants of the retail space.

As  a once-proud Phoenix mall has now been sold and the land rezoned for other uses, comes the possibility of turning tired old malls into combination living/playing/working/shopping hubs of activity. Everything from onsite hotels to apartments and condos, offices, restaurants, Amazon fulfillment centers, and groceries are now being tossed about as acceptable complements to the dwindling few retail stores.

I think of Amarillo’s Westgate Mall, which has been around since October 1982. It was purchased last February, right before the nation went into pandemic pandemonium, by a consortium of New York investors, including Mason Asset Management, Namdar Realty Group, and CH Capital Group. Of these, Namdar manages the facility, and is known in industry circles for operating struggling and distressed malls.

That’s never a good sign when they come to your town.

And let’s face it, Westgate is struggling, with two of its five anchor tenants empty, and now a steady trickle--some might say flow--of interior tenants leaving as well. No doubt the pandemic accelerated those departures, putting a capital “S” on the word struggling, and making it even more difficult to survive into the future.

The crazy part is that, given Amarillo’s remote location, it was actually a retail oasis for people living in parts of five different states. In years past, you could casually cruise the parking lots and see license plates from Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, and Oklahoma. The phrase “country comes to town” was very real here for many years, but those transient shoppers have dwindled thanks to e-commerce, streaming video, and the expansion of stores like Walmart into other smaller towns throughout the region.

Those folks just don’t have as much reason to come here these days.

So what’s a mall to do, and specifically, Westgate Mall? I have some suggestions, although I most certainly do not have the money to put behind those words. So take them for what they are worth.

Amazon is out as a fulfillment center, for now at least, because they are building a one million square foot facility on the east side of town. But the empty department stores could be modified and/or demolished to allow room for a hotel, dining, living, and other activities. Given that it has one of the most prominent locations in the city, along I-40 on the west side of town, it could be a magnet for travelers and locals alike.

Perhaps the last thing we need to see happen is for a mega church to move into the old Sears building, because while churches serve their purpose in the community, they are not revenue-producing. And this is retail property, so it needs to be generating not just sales, but also taxes the city can use.

As I have said many times to my students, I am about the last person in the community to go to the mall. I only go around the holidays, and that is only as a last resort, if I cannot find my items online. I had to venture into Westgate Mall last December in a frantic search for a couple of items (to no avail, I might add), and noticed that even then, when one would expect all of the storefronts to be open and busy, and kiosks every 20 feet, the place looked like it was having a bad hangover.

It’s time to put some effort into the future, not just moaning about the present. Yes, I believe the analysts who say that 25% of our malls could be gone in five years. But no amount of doom-glooming is going to offer a solution. While the pandemic forced everyone to figure out how to survive a short-run phenomenon, we must now put our minds together to solve a long-term pandemic, and that is the exodus of shoppers to other platforms and off-mall competitors.

I like that drum beat. Keep playing it.

Dr “Bang On The Drum All Day“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

[tiaragqueen]

Give A Rest

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Prince! Kouji Kouda x Maid! Reader

✂ Word Count: 562

✂ Trigger Warnings: Obsessive behavior, stalking, yandere theme.

[Edited]

***

Excuse me while I turned this precious boy into a lovelorn yandere. Enjoy this very subtle fluff, everyone.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“You don't know how long I have waited and I was going to tell you tonight. But the secret is still my own, and my love for you is still unknown.” - Alone [Heart]

For Koda, your smile was his favorite thing in the world. Sure, he loved pretty much everything about you. But when he saw your smile, especially the one that he caused, it was enough to spring blood into his cheeks and warmed his chest.

Koda stood by the window of his room, gazing down at your crouching figure in the distance. It was by pure chance that he caught you one day, admiring the blossoming flowers and verdant trees and breathing in the fragrant air. Fortunately, his window overlooked the vast garden so he was able to observe without your knowledge. And after many sightings, he concluded that you liked to come during your free time. It was a good thing because such moments were where he could cherish your serene face.

Unfortunately, you rarely visited because being a maid entailed a busy schedule. That and because the castle he lived in was never short of guests that came nearly every day, either for business purpose or mere pleasure. He could only imagine how taxing such an occupation, especially to a young woman like you. You had to serve the important people under great pressure and readily accept every treatment regardless of your feelings.

Your fatigued face, hunched back, stagger, and heartrending sobs at one torpid night confirmed the rigors of your job and the lassitude that you’d been holding inside in fear of insults and reproofs.

If he could, he would gladly take you away from such an exacting occupation and give you the whole world. However, the love between a prince and a maid was forbidden. And the fact that he even got obsessed with you along the way didn’t ease the severity of his predicament.

But what could he do? Koda couldn’t force himself to stop liking you all of a sudden, let alone forgetting you. He had been watching you for far too long to start breaking whatever relationship that existed between you.

No, he couldn’t do that. He loved you. You were the only thing he looked forward to every day. You were the only reason why he bothered to wake up every morning and finish his tasks quickly. You were the only thing that occupied his mind. He had been searching for a reason to live other than being the future king, and now he finally found it.

His love story might not be as beautiful as those fairy tales nor it would end in similar happily ever after, and he might not be able to love his future wife the same way as he did to you, but Koda knew better than to take for granted your occasional presence. Thus, he resolved to appreciate every moment shared by bringing a smile on to your face. It wasn’t much, but at least he could color your otherwise dull life however little and transient the happiness he gave.

“She... looks so happy today, and Bunbun seems joyful too. I’m glad...” he mused with a contented smile and stroked his pet cat, enjoying the view of you playing with the frisky bunny from above. “I hope it stays until tomorrow.”

The feline meowed, nudging its small head against his palm. Koda nodded in agreement.

“You’re right. I wonder how she’ll react when she sees my surprise later. I do hope she'll be happier than she is right now.”

[bathunterofdevon]

Update

So I might as well give some commentary on my cryptic last post. Basically, I have had to fly back to the UK immediately due to the coronavirus - cutting my Canada trip short. I have had a wonderful time living and working in Collingwood, Ontario, and I made plenty of good friends. But after getting laid off, due to the place closing down, and being unable to pay the rent, I was actually pretty lucky to get back here when I did. I have heard stories of family friends being stranded in many far away places unable to get back, due to airport closures.  I am a little upset that I had to leave Canada - there was so much I wanted to do there. But in all honesty, working the minimum wage job I had, much though I enjoyed it, I never would have been in any position to do anything else beyond that point. It sure is expensive being an immigrant. When I came over to Canada, I have over £3,000 in life savings that I had stashed away. But in the very first month, I lost all of it; just by looking for a place to live. (This was when I was in Toronto). Toronto is a pretty expensive place to live. It's so expensive - I swear there is a tax on the oxygen you breathe over there. I worked a shitty job over there for the first three months, as a server... except, not quite. What I did was basically like serving food, except I only did menial tasks that that were beneath the main service staff, like cleaning tables, and the floor. I didn't even get to collect tip money. And three months later, I was suddenly fired for some minor indiscretion. I won't talk about it here, because I'm a little worried that if I tell you, you might not take my side.  But basically, if you have a job in Canada (and I found this out the hard way) for the first three months, you are on a kind of probationary period. You can be terminated immediately during that time with no notice whatsoever. That devastated me more than a little, because I had never been fired before. It ate into my psyche and made me wonder if I would ever really amount to anything, and whether I would have to give up and fly back early.  Fortunately, after that, it turned out that I had a contact, who was a friend of a friend of my mother, who worked further up north, in this little resort by the Blue Mountain Ski Range, in Collingwood, Ontario, who managed to get me a referral for working at the front desk over there. I did a FaceTime interview, and accepted the position.  Working at the resort was wonderful. Not only did I get given accommodation, but I had staff lunches, and basically all of my immediate needs were seen to. Best of all, my staff accommodation was ten times better than the last place, where I lived. I had a room all to myself, with a desk and everything. I had the resources and time schedule I needed to work on my Youtube videos all the while I was having off time from working at the front desk. After 11 whole months, I finally finished Dirty Danganronpa, while out there and breathed a sigh of relief. That sure took a lot of energy out of me.  I had some troublesome flatmates though. I say troublesome, because they were difficult and unreasonable at times. They could be really unreasonable when it came to cleaning the dishes... and I later discovered that they were not equally unreasonable when it was THEIR turn to clean up after themselves. While I was initially friendly towards them, in the months gone by, I was avoid them as much as possible, because it was tricky talking to them. It was for the best that we became isolated from each other. They were nice to me at times, and I was grateful for their company at times - but their moods were often unpredictable and transient, which made me feel unsafe and unsure as to whether I could trust them.  The whole time, I reflected on my status as a foreigner, and how much more useful it would be if I had a skill of some kind, and if only I had finished my driving test before I came there. Thinking about my real life situation was enough to drive me into a deep despair and self-pitying fest that would leave me feeling too exhausted and miserable to produce anything. But it wasn't all bad. I still have some positive memories of that place. I did leave a good lasting impression with my employer. And while I did eventually lose my job, unlike last time this one was not my own fault. Everybody was getting laid off, left, right and centre. And the resort itself, incidentally has closed down indefinitely. It is astonishing how far-reaching the effects of the virus have proved. I never would have predicted this level of hysteria before - I'm old enough to remember the Bird Flu, the Swine Flu, the Zika Virus, and Ebola... all I remember of those, was nothing more than there being a huge media craze; even some Youtube stars talking about them, besides a couple hundred thousands of deaths too far away for any of us to know or care.  But... this was different. To be honest, though it may sound heartless of me to say this, part of me is actually excited at all the chaos that's happening. The world is in full-blown panic mode. And now government and health ministers are advising everyone to self-isolate. I just want to let these government officials and everybody else know, that I had been self-isolating long before it was fashionable. Else I would not have found the time to make these.  Anyway, the day finally came when we all heard the announcement - the owner of the resort was laying off virtually everyone in the housekeeping/maintenance/front desk department, and we were being faced with a choice - either I would have to work in a different (less glamorous) department, like maintenance, or cleaning, or I would choose voluntary redundancy, and claim unemployment benefits. For me, it was a no brainer. I don't have the brain, nor the mentality to do menial, repetitive tasks like painting, and cleaning. In spite of the fact that I have worked for years in MacDonalds, and in restaurants doing tasks like that. But considering everything that was going on, I had a chat with my Mum and Dad, and they insisted that I fly back home as quickly as possible. I was reluctant to do so at first. I didn't want to throw away everything for which I'd worked so hard to achieve. It was meaningful that I was living entirely by my own means, and providing for myself. I basically wasn't a kid anymore. And I didn't want to put an abrupt end to that. But then, everything changed. Dominic Raab (The UK Government's Foreign Secretary) basically told all Brits abroad to return home as soon as possible. By then, I figured I ought to get back as soon as possible, so that I didn't end up stranded with nowhere to live.  Officially, the UK is under lockdown due to the virus. But honestly, based on what I've seen, it does not feel like we are under a lockdown at all. Most of the local shops down my road are still open. Even some of the restaurants are still open - except they only do takeouts instead. I have not seen any police roadblocks, nor checkpoints of any kind.  In fact, I've seen quite a few people out cycling, walking their dogs, basically just life as normal. I have to wonder how they are going to enforce this lockdown, seeing as so many people are ignoring it? Not like I care either way. If we are officially under lockdown, then I have a better reason to stay indoors, and work more on my computer. :D  Now, it is estimated that we will remain under lockdown for approximately 3 months - although I don't know the actual figure. Everybody fails at predicting the future. What am I going to do in that three months time? Well, the only thing I can do at this point. If there are things that my Canada trip have taught me, it's that I have a Creative disease. I have to find ways to satisfy my urges and channel my creative instincts effectively. One of those channels is through this - my Youtube Channel. But there are three others.  Another one for me is voice acting. I've mentioned earlier that I have another account where I take part in voice acting, except I'm not sure if I'm ready to introduce you to my real voice and real self yet. The third one is music. Not a lot of you may know this, but I actually have a background in music. My grandmother on my mother's side was a concert pianist (Just like another girl we all know, hmmm?) I am also an alumnus of the Academy of Contemporary Music, in Guildford, Surrey, UK. There are three videos dated about 5-7 years ago on this channel which I had to make private, because they all feature me, singing and playing guitar in them. One of them is me playing a guitar cover of the Hollyoaks Theme Tune (God - what a loser I was. So desperate for validation I would actually cover the Hollyoaks Theme tune) I don't even like Hollyoaks. I hate it with a burning passion - like every other Godawful soap opera on British Television. In fact, TV in general is just so depression and despair inducing that I refuse to watch it. Anime/Video games and Music is my escape from all that. I despise pretty much anything that depicts the real world in a realistic life setting.    But to give you an idea of what else I sometimes do in my time, there is an old video - 6 years old - of a remix I did of the Allegro Cross Examination theme tune for Ace Attorney, which I made on Garageband. I make quite a lot of music using Garageband. Music is actually an even bigger part of me, than Danganronpa is - well in any case, it goes back way further than my interest in Danganronpa, that's for certain. At some point, maybe when I reach a certain point in terms of how many subscribers I have, I would love to introduce you all to my real self. It would be a rewarding experience to have all of you get to know me, and all of my facets. ...Oh, and before we all forget: 

Happy Kayay-day, everybody! Let's all give a show of appreciation to Best Girl, and wish her love and happiness in Heaven. Happy Birthday, Kaede Akamatsu. - Bat Hunter

[praggya1993]

It's easy to buy sumptuous delicacies

Golden and silver rings

Rooms worth billions of currency,

Not difficult to pull the trigger

And disperse seeds of unity,

So addicting to follow the path

Where malice stomps upon morality,

No big deal to sever

Those fondly nurtured bonds

In search of a wealthy entity,

Or sway like a pendulum

To and fro in search of a transient elation.

But so taxing, tiring and paralysing

To win back the golden breaths

Of peace and tranquility,

That wander away so far away

From the rhythms of gentle harmony

Whose beats once resided within

Your heart with glee.

[tokensfortalkers]

Professor's Message

a system-agnostic adventure

Overview

All players advance 1 Trainer from Lvl 0 to 9 using Milestones. Milestones advance Trainer 1 level. Here is an example professor's Milestones (your professor's Milestones will differ):

Milestones – Live Oak 0 inherit animals (Player Creation) - Mom's about to lose the house 1 Press Badge (1): collect signature for universal animal healthcare 2 PC index (50): citizen scientist w/patrons (Mom's home safe 1 yr) 3 Document crimes (fossil theft, house break, etc.): freelance journalist (Mom's home safe 1 yr/per crime documented) 4 Press Badges (4): Employed as reporter - Earn a house 5 Local Events (5): report on five big stories - Earn a non-profit 6 Bring down cartel: Break big pharma crime ring insider story 7 Press Badges (8): Employed as lobbyist - Earn a retirement 8 Champion: Organize activism (health centers free for all) 9 Become mayor (run a gov't gym) - ensure centers stay free

Player Section:

Players collect xp and evolve, or they change their level and what their abilities are completely by having the trainer catch a wild character. Once the player's hp reaches 0, the character they are playing passes on. Player then picks either a caught character or a local wild character other players may get hurt trying to catch. Bring passed characters to Wisteria Town and pay for services (1st burial is a Local Event – see Milestone 5 above). Or bring them to any health center's incinerator (Trainer "box").

GM Section:

As the Trainer, you are the player whisperer -- you seem to understand everything your Players say! You also want to do anything to make them happy (within reason). Make the players feel great about story progressions (it's a bleak story -- they're going to need lots of praise to see this through) and talk freely about distant milestones -- call the Trainer's mom and tell her how happy you are and tell the players how proud the mom sounds. Note: poorly-treated players might eat their trainer!

Setting – Live Oak

You’re watching a documentary at the beginning of the game. Your local professor has produced it. Iø’s lent you a copy to ask for input. It’s about the transients of the region and their animals suffering from sickness and death since they can’t afford healthcare. It ends asking the audience to talk to local representatives to make healthcare free for all people and animals of the region no matter who they are or where they’re from. You go back to the professor to tell iør you got the importance of the message, but the film itself could use some narrative work, has pacing issues and needs more interviews. Instead when you get there, you see lab assistants sobbing and in iør office a hologram recording of iør pops out of an aniball and begins playing.

The recording tells you, if you are seeing this message, it means iø has been taken into custody, iør research related to transients probably destroyed iør funding cancelled and iør lab animals confiscated for a crime iø didn’t commit, if iør sources are correct.

Iør message goes on to say iø had created a security feature to protect what little iø could and leaves for the three people in town iø trusts some endangered animals illegally shipped to iør by an acquaintance from another region. The message asks to help iør spread iør vision of healthcare now that iø is gone, and to touch one of the aniballs; a security feature will then unlock it from the table. Iø trusts you, succeed or fail, to do what is right. The message begins to repeat. Your rival says iø has iør own ideas for iør animal and tells you not to bother leaving town. When you challenge iør on iør decision he gets offended and tells you you don’t know what iø’s been through and it���s none of your business. You two argue so much, your animal come out of their aniballs and your rival orders theirs to kill your animals.

Iø tells you it’s for your own protection and not to struggle. Iø tells you like iø’s been told these words iørself before. The animals engage, fighting to the death and eventually you best iør with a final strike, or else your animal dies on the floor by your feet and the game ends with you waking up in your house years later with no word from anyone, more railroads getting laid on the television, the war continues and the transients begin rioting and getting jailed or exported to other regions. Otherwise, you win, your rival scurries off and says iør mom will pay for iør animal’s treatment, but the damage done to yours will be there forever because you’re poor.

You collect a map from your rival’s sister, who tells you to take it easy on iør. That a lot has happened to iør since their dad left to fight in the war. You ask her why she won't go on a journey with you, that there's an animal waiting for her at the lab. She tells you, if she leaves her mom, but then she chokes up, trails off and smiles, changing the subject. You fill your backpack with camping supplies, kiss your mom, who says you look tired and wishes she knew how to heal animals, and you tell her not to worry before heading out. That night, you kill wild animals for food, something the professor’s documentary showed transients do.

You cage fight for winnings to buy aniballs and potions. You finally make it to town, and there's the animal center. Inside, they tell you all deceased animals may be dumped free of charge in the magmaincinerator to your right and any checkups have an up front co-pay of $1,000,000 for all transients.

Oh yeah. You can't use animal centers.

You dump your dead pidgittats. You leave. You take new moves because you used up all PP and healing struggle with potions is too expensive. If an animal gets sick, you usually have sold all your antidotes to buy potions--slang shorthand for Rocket brand “ANimals performance-enhancing prescripTIONS”. You cannot afford medicine.

You race to the animart as ratteys wheezes and the game UI jitters as though to ask you why humans don't exterminate all animalaria-carrying weedles, why health care has to cost so much, why it has to cost anything but a wealth tax. You take notes on different animals not because a professor asked you, but because you need to know how animals strengthen and plan your route accordingly.

If you restart the game because you're out of money, your animals are too weak to continue, you can’t find enough trash on the ground to sell in town for more aniballs or potions and you can't continue your journey, your knowledge of movesets and evolution training is passed on to the new save file's character, an offspring of the last playthrough.

Instead of a useless adventure book on your desk in your starting room, it's an anidex journal of the information and traning tactics collected by the family so far.

So eventually you gain the trust of enough gym leader governors campaigning against your goal and eventually you put an end to the team rocket big pharma suppressing your message. And eventually you defeat the elite four secretaries of the region interested only in power. And the president tells you health care cannot matter nearly as much as warfare. And your hometown rival tells you if iø can get the public to use Lapios and Lapias to fight wars, then iør dad can come home and beat up iør fiscally supporting uncle for molesting iør. You tell iør to just call the freaking cops, lose the uncle, be poor and come live with you and your mom, and to get out of the way. Iø tells you to leave or perish. You want free health care. You've come this far. With the professor's words echoing in your head and last max revive in hand, a final battle ensues and, with a final strike, it concludes.

Then, and only then, do you walk into the president's office and get iør to sign into effect the law that anicenters everywhere will be open to all travellers and the needy free of charge forever. edit: Later, when you hear the words of joyful nurses say we hope to see you again, you know the hidden meaning and dark threat their kind words betray: they always hope to be there for you whenever you need them, forever, but people change, and laws change with them. Failing vigilance in its message, this victory--and the rights it has won--may be short-lived, indeed.

The End.

Oh hey, you say in an optional epilogue as you hand the president a parcel of evidence inside of a nugget you may or may not have taken from a desk while in the rocket pharma headquarters. It clears the professor of all charges!

Setting originally published 25Jul2018: redd.it/91o6u3

[deceiver-a-day]

Deceiver-A-Day List of Deceivers (as of Nov. 5, 2019)

* Pseudo-Estate name only

! Art

(Behind a cut because it’s long)

Rorich Bizka: “Those Who Reach for Rorich Bizka’s Hand” *

Hosius Aprusa: “Trying to Forgive Hosius Aprusa for His Crimes”

Rixa Sraiptine: “Mysteries Solved by Rixa Sraiptine” *

Abdallo Benessovy: “The Fireflies in Abdallo Benessovy’s Jar“ *

Tetrada Salian: “The Lost Cat of Tetrada Salian”

Heriward Epsom: “The View From Heriward Epsom’s Mountain” *

Sheshan Ambry: “Sheshan Ambry’s Shortcut” *

Vuldetrada Pauillac: “The Wilted Houseplants of Vuldetrada Pauillac”

Laodice Mataplana: “Laodice Mataplana’s Pizza Order” *

Pellehen Nevers: “The Negligence of Pellehen Nevers” *

Mahaut Angevin: “The Nocturnal Activities of Mahaut Angevin”

Milouziana Garlot: “Milouziana Garlot’s Pageant Sash” *

Ermenaud Lothary: “Roads Named After Ermenaud Lothary”

Gospatrick Mailmuir: “The Deep, Narrative Voice of Gospatrick Mailmuir” *

Taio Chándax: “The Egg-Laying Hens of Taio Chándax”

Terpander Saian: “Opinions About Terpander Saian”

Budoc Dimine: “Game Night at Budoc Dimine’s House” *

Eilika Tollensian: “Those Who Call Eilika Tollensian a Good Dog” !

Nicandra Saránt: “New Species Discovered by Nicandra Saránt“ *

Creirvy Obotrite: “The Voices on Creirvy Obotrite’s Radio” *

Philtis Orab: “The Photos Philtis Orab Never Deletes From Her Smartphone”

Frimutel Grannus: “Taxes Owed by Frimutel Grannus”

Nebe Arbem: “Those Tapped for Nebe Arbem’s Secret Council”

Blithilde Teck: “The Finesse of Blithilde Teck”

Rivallon Tarbat: “Flying Object Rivallon Tarbat Has Yet to Identify”

Helaine Nivernais: “The Fairy Ring of Helaine Nivernais” *

Bethoc Atholl: “Those Who Live Next Door to Bethoc Atholl”

Naime Cubetta: “Venues That Host Naime Cubetta’s Concert”

Narduin Quiansia: “The Microchip Under Narduin Quiansia’s Skin” *

Wichburg Baloch: “The Spider That Fightened Wichburg Baloch”

Elergia Koptos: “Clones of Elergia Koptos”

Jesca Widonen: “Things Jesca Widonen Can Make With a Lime and a Coconut”

Valamir Tintignac: “The Centipedes in Valamir Tintignac’s Sleeves”

Xystus Thélèmite: “The Glitter Sparkling in Xystus Thélèmite’s Wake”

Bertrant Ilerda: “The Dreadful Necktie of Bertrant Ilerda”

Oskitel Anfa: “The Angry Mob Outside Oskitel Anfa’s Door”

Mitrena Liberec: “The Cherry on Mitrena Liberec’s Ice Cream Sundae”

Nicorontes Rhône: “Nicorontes Rhône’s Road Rage”

Verena Boldon: “Snowflakes That Melt on Verena Boldon’s Tongue”

Brioc Erebuni: “The Malfunctioning Treadmill of Brioc Erebuni”

Damya Croton: “Ideas Involving Damya Croton”

Alstan Hazdor: “The Reflection of Alstan Hazdor in Your Eyes”

Hersende Quillebœuf: “Snowmen Built by Hersende Quillebœuf”

Sissinio Ivrean: “The Hidden Guilt of Sissinio Ivrean”

Herilde Boston: “The Scattered Sheep of Herilde Boston”

Tatwine Greco: “The Dark Alleys Where Tatwine Greco Lurks”

Muderic Baltheim: “The White Roses Painted Red by Muderic Baltheim”

Ermengilde Siling: “The Shattered Vase of Ermengilde Siling”

Azalea Envermeu: “Mimicking Azalea Envermeu”

Dragobodo Sequanian: “Dragobodo Sequanian’s Hangover Cure”

Mandisma Feyzin: “The Roots That Grow Through Mandisma Feyzin’s Dead Bones”

Statira Pantheon: “Those Who Say ‘Polo!’ When Statira Pantheon Says ‘Marco!’“

Marcoat Oenipons: “Counting to Ten With Marcoat Oenipons”

Dorabella Nidrosian: “Those Who Look Into a Mirror in a Darkened Room and Call Dorabella Nidrosian’s Name Three Times”

Sherimon Gyrwas: “The Damp Dwelling of Sherimon Gyrwas”

Argotta Niniane: “The Pain in Argotta Niniane’s Shoulder”

Saxford Lychnidos: “The Light Radiating From Saxford Lychnidos”

Erchamilde Parnassus: “Clouds That Resemble Erchamilde Parnassus”

Framengilde Thespis: “Weddings Planned by Framengilde Thespis”

Anaweten Sosol: “The Pebble in Anaweten Sosol’s Shoe”

Taxilas Kiovian: “The Iceberg Taxilas Kiovian is Trapped On”

Zokhrouf Huesca: “Motherly Hugs From Zokhrouf Huesca”

Hamilcar Grimaud: “Hamilcar Grimaud’s Bucket List”

Anund Mosella: “Those Who Wear Friendship Bracelets Made by Anund Mosella”

Farnace Platanus: “The Somersaults of Farnace Platanus”

Tryphosa Kremmen: “Those Who Have Drowned in the Waters of Tryphosa Kremmen”

Célèrine Mälaren: “The Magnanimity of Célèrine Mälaren”

Viola Sémillon: “Things Viola Sémillon’s Parrot Says”

Valash Arsida: “Valash Arsida’s Getaway Car”

Bethulia Rosacena: “Casting a Hex on Bethulia Rosacena”

Floribert Jutriboc: “Debates Moderated by Floribert Jutriboc”

Safiye Malaita: “The Star Safiye Malaita Wished Upon” !

Vortigern Cedd: “The Ice Cubes in Vortigern Cedd’s Drink”

Marcswith Sérézin: “Stripping Marcswith Sérézin of All Her Ranks and Titles”

Ermengon Torreya: “Those Waiting in the Checkout Lane of Ermengon Torreya”

Helie Scaldis: “The Statue Towering Over the Village of Helie Scaldis”

Mauro Chaponnay: “The Carnation in Mauro Chaponnay’s Lapel”

Sarolt Klysion: “The Echoing Sobs of Sarolt Klysion”

Utel Pamlico: “The Sign Taped to Utel Pamlic’s Back”

Royse Pistoia: “Skipping Royse Pistoia’s Lectures”

Tagliaferro Cork: “Those Who Skip School to Smoke With Tagliaferro Cork”

Menwreda Gath: “Ducks That Follow Menwreda Gath”

Alverard Napata: “The Zombies on Alverard Napata’s Favorite Television Show”

Kösem Aibonitone: “That One Song Kösem Aibonitone Always Listens to, Over and Over”

Arbace Sudetica: “Those Who Volunteer for Arbace Sudetica’s Fire Department”

Alleaume Napoli: “The Many Pieces of Alleaume Napoli”

Gyrid Tangonis: “The 3-D Glasses of Gyrid Tangonis”

Jonilde Melburnian: “Jonilde Melburnian’s Lazy Turtle"

Salocon Ugandy: “The Fruit Ripening on Salocon Ugandy’s Tree”

Feolaga Eperiessine: “Those Who Take Medicine Given by Feolage Eperiessine”

Carshena Damask: “Those Carshena Damask Can Contact on His CB Radio”

Mabilia Hanaph: “The Mist From Which Mabilia Hanaph Emerges” !

Cotys Embothrium: “The Many Wigs of Cotys Embothrium”

Saliha Pinet: “Condolences for Saliha Pinet’s Loss”

Osmer Beç: “The Insomnia of Osmer Beç”

Herzenleid Akampsis: “Those Who Grow Impatient With Herzenleid Akampsis”

Wandrille Thourion: “The Stagecoach Driven by Wandrille Thourion”

Sprota Ramsey: “Blood Shed by Sprota Ramsey”

Premysl Champlain: “Premysl Champlain’s Lab Partner”

Madalhilde Beersheban: “The Twilit Tower of Madalhilde Beersheban”

Actard Rennes: “Things Too Heavy For Actard Rennes to Lift”

Protasia Nightshade: “The Moonlight Illuminating Protasia Nightshade”

Gaius Goldenrod: “The Burning Theater of Gaius Goldenrod”

Aulazia Barion: “Aulazia Barion’s Ghostwriter”

Ithamar Perico: “The Spicy Chicken Wings ihamar Perico Ate Last Night”

Rikkisa Allebrogic: “Looking Back and Seeing Rikkisa Allebrogic Standing There” !

Chromatius Dirge: “The Wicked Windmill of Chromatius Dirge”

Fleurie Kanesh: “Public Readings of Fleurie Kanesh’s Poetry”

Fanurie Sepphoris: “Patting Fanurie Sepphoris on the Back and Telling Him He Did Well” !

Oreguen Orcadie: “Oreguen Orcadie’s Hopes for a Better Tomorrow” !

Hipponax Dropice: “Those Who Romance Hipponax Dropice”

Doctramna Nedao: “The Candles on Doctramna Nedao’s Birthday Cake”

Cuthwulf Odessa: “The Buried Treasure of Cuthwulf Odessa” !

Austrigusa Monthelie: “The Haunting Gaze of Austrigusa Monthelie” !

Eudes Dolency: “The Cowardice of Eudes Dolency”

Wivina Nicives: “‘Beware of Wivina Nicives’ Signs”

Nominoe Carolsruha: “The Falsified Documents of Nominoe Carolsruha” !

Halime Richterian: “The Time When Halime Richterian Gets Off Work” !

Alvas Teschen: “Alvas Teschen’s Transient Lifestyle”

Barbarina Gotho: “The Light in Barbarina Gotho’s Window”

Mauger Meyzieu: “The Megaphone of Mauger Meyzieu”

Odilia Burgundar: “Odilia Burgundar’s Terrible Fangs”

Ocran Tekoa: “News Media That Mention Ocran Tekoa’s Crime”

Dalphon Kemuel: “Dalphon Kemuel’s Halloween Candy Haul” !

Jerioth Idumaean: “Taking Refuge in the Branches of Jerioth Idumaean” !

Súphis Tirlemont: “Súphis Tirlemont’s Favorite Sitting Rock”

Fressenda Koine: “The Sounds Fressenda Koine Heard From the Other Room on That Fateful Day”

Wandrigisel Nola: “Wandrigisel Nola’s Glass Eye” !

Alde Vestine: “The Magical Mojo of Alde Vestine”

[xylune]

Pfft...

Update on my living situation below. Beware; thar be monsters here!

Okay. People have sometimes asked me what inspires some of the situations in my stories, and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say: “my fucked up life, that’s what!”

When I got home from work today, I found a notice of non-renewal nailed to my front door. They’re giving me until the end of this month to get out or they will charge me $25 per day after the 31st, and they (not so subtly) threatened to take me to court and force me to pay double the rent if I don’t comply.

Thing is, I was already packing before even informing these gentrifying fucks that I wouldn’t be renewing my lease and couldn’t justify paying a grand per month for what is essentially a rotting closet with a broken toilet seat, no stove, moth infestations and termites. Not to mention the ants. I have to feed my cat in a chair because if I leave her food on the floor, ants swarm it after about an hour no matter what I do.

So these greedy property grabbers actually think that I can pay double rent when I’m moving out because I couldn’t afford an extra hundred-fifty per month? Fucking assholes. You can’t sue the poor; we have nothing to give to you.

Anyway, my car broke down right after I paid my final month’s rent. I really should have just refused to pay that and kept it for my moving expenses, because they are required by law to give me 30 days to leave. In fact I think their threat to charge 25 a day is bullshit and all I really have to do is report them for collecting rent on a property without a stove. Yeah, fine me, bitch. Or try to. If you want to be slapped with the title of “Slum Lord” and sued by the fucking state for illegally collecting rent from me, you do that.

Oh, right. The car. It required a new radiator, two new fans, two new hoses. All up it came to $800. Fortunately, I’ve been going to my regular mechanic for two years and he’s letting me pay it off in increments. What’s fucked up is that I could have paid the whole thing UP FRONT if it weren’t for the fact that I decided to take the high road and pay my rent.

That cuntwaffle landlord has cost me way too much. Why did I have to be such an idiot and pay, just to have the same number of days I would have gotten for free to get out of here? Ugh! So much for humanity. They’ve shown me none in return...but my mechanic certainly has in his generosity, and my friend is saving me from homelessness so I should count my blessings.

One other (very important) point I want to make that does tie into my personal situation and millions of others, folks: Gentrification. It’s predominant here in Florida, as well as other states attractive to wealthy people looking to retire or just live in warmer climates. They price out the low income people, the struggling poor, the families. The population of transients in St. Petersburg FL is rising each year. Yes, there are plenty of job opportunities--which is what drew me here--but the cost of rent is beyond absurd.

There are more working homeless people here than some people can even imagine, and I’m a hair’s breath away from joining their ranks. I’ve spoken to some of them at the shelter down the block from the place I’m now vacating. They had homes. Most of them do have jobs. They aren’t just “leeches”. They work hard, and they lost their homes because the cost of having a roof over your head to call your own in this shithole sucks up more than 70% of the average person’s wages.

It’s also a “right to work” state, which basically means “right to fire for whatever the fuck reason the employer wants to make up”. People that used to be high on the totem pole got canned for no bloody reason except that their wages became too high to suit the company, so they booted them to train another unfortunate to take their place...until that person too gets promoted enough for it to be too much of a drain on corporate finances.

Do Not Move To Florida unless you are rich or 55+ in age. This place will lure you in with promises of jobs and beaches and sun and surf, only to suck up everything you earn with rent costs and property taxes. By the time you realize the problem, you’re stuck here. You can’t afford to save money to get out, because everything you earn is going into survival. Eventually, you might end up being one of the backpackers drifting from shelter to shelter.

Just some advice. Be careful of states with “high employment” because lots of job opportunities doesn’t mean affordable housing, health care or high enough wages to cover the cost of living. Visit Florida on vacation, but don’t move here unless you have a sizeable inheritance, job security that guarantees at least 2k a month in wages, or the means to buy your own home. Even if you can buy your own home, the property taxes here will murder you.

Florida is the retirement state for a reason. All affordable mobile home parks and apartments here are for ages 55+. Anyone younger than that is screwed. That’s why I’m moving in with someone who happens to live in a 55+ community, as are a LOT of younger people here in Florida. Three of my friends have had to do the same; rent a room from someone in a 55+ community because everywhere else is too fucking expensive.

[madscientistjournal]

Handling the Contents of Consciousness

A case study by Goire Zatla, as provided by Soramimi Hanarejima Art by Ariel Alian Wilson

Keeping this secret from you has become so taxing that I have to use the venom of sleep bugs to tame the eagerness to divulge it.

In the mornings, I apply this toxin to the region of my memory where the secret resides. A little dab of it spreads easily from my fingertip across that part of my mind, cool and thick, greasy until it dries to leave only a minty, vaporous sensation. It’s marvelously effective. This insect secretion from the local apothecary preemptively soothes the itch, which will otherwise inevitably flare up by the middle of breakfast, and the relief it provides lasts well into the evening. After a few days of performing this practice, it is assimilated into my morning bathroom routine, tucked cozily between washing my face and brushing my teeth. Like I’ve been doing this for years.

But after a week, I find that this use of sleep bug venom does have at least one side effect. It is numbing me to beauty. When I see a meteor shower or moonbow or quadrilateral triangle or northern pygmy owl, I merely note it as an exceptional phenomenon. No longer am I enthralled by that sense of ethereal, transient joy.

While this is concerning, the numbness to beauty does present one benefit: I will be able to converse with Qalixy without being in awe of her gorgeous personality.

So I arrange to meet her in conference room R, to provide critical, candid project feedback with a state of mind undistracted by her psychological splendor.

And indeed, within minutes of sitting down at the conference table, I’ve delivered all my comments on her work with pithy honesty. This leaves her plenty of time to ask follow-up questions, most of which are concerned with my emotional responses to key facets of her project, particularly metaphor repurposing and thought nucleation catalysis.

“But how does that make you feel?” she keeps asking.

Unable to experience the inflections of her voice as aurally aesthetic, I can answer all her questions immediately and succinctly.

We move quickly through her concerns and curiosities, and soon, our discussion is metamorphosing into genial conversation. So much so that we end up talking about emotional dexterity. And were I not in the beauty-impervious state that I’m in, I would no doubt be hung up on how uncommonly pretty her ideas on this subject are. Their arcs and colors and twirls verge on–almost veer into–the eccentric, yet remain firmly masterful in the domain of the articulate and cogent. They convince me to try the training routines she recommends and to take her up on her offer of going to emotional workout sessions with her.

The regimen starts with works of art that are unyieldingly evocative, literature and film that cover varied psychological ground at breakneck speeds, full of dynamic characters in ever-evolving situations that evoke one emotion after another for me to handle in unabating succession.

From there, I move on to paintings and photographs that are dense with emotional content ranging from overt sentiment to nuanced suggestion. The most confounding of these is of a teenage boy happening upon a man watering his melon patch as hulking monsters duke it out in the hills behind him. With a backpack purposefully shouldered, the boy appears to have somewhere he’s headed but is now thrust into a moment of reconsideration by this encounter, which has resulted in a posture of puzzlement, a countenance of consternation. The man’s expression seems to be one of calm worry, of anxieties reconciled enough to be only mildly troubling in this moment. Is it the menacing clash of beasts behind him that stirs the agitation he has quieted? Or is it something else entirely?

Another painting unnerves me with its incongruous elements–an understated goodbye, a butterfly in a jar, looming jealousy and tufts of harvested wheat–all coexisting placidly, as if in a carefully balanced state.

Steadily, I work my way through the assortment of visual works she has curated for me, each one pushing me to grapple with an ever-bulkier load of emotional material. Then I graduate into the echelon of theatrical productions, poetry slams, sketch comedy shows and other narrative forms that present numerous emotions nearly simultaneously. Each forces me to manage my psychological responses, holding some to the side while new ones enter. I am challenged to unfold sympathy while clutching outrage, put longing at arm’s length so appreciation can be brought closer, embrace humor one moment and in the next cast it to the edges of my attention to wrangle heartache and compassion. Typically, I must do all this from the confines of a narrow theater seat, amidst the exuberance of a boisterous audience, without the benefit of even a notepad to shelve a feeling or thought. And there, pushed to the brink of my capacities to experience and handle emotions, I become a blossoming of the human potential to be emotionally limber and active with audacious tenacity.

The emotional vigor of the artistic worlds she’s brought me into astounds me relentlessly.

“Aren’t you a fast learner,” she says two weeks into this.

We’ve just finished a workout–a rambunctious, entrepreneurship-themed musical this time–and I’m catching my breath.

“I’m impressed,” she adds with a smile.

“Yes … well … I do feel like … I’ve got a bit of a … knack for this,” I answer, still winded. “And it probably helps that … I’m not distracted by beauty.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, smile fading.

I briefly explain my use of sleep bug venom.

“Oh no, no, no, no,” she says, shaking her head. “That won’t do at all. Beauty is a deep part of all this. I can’t believe you’ve been missing out on that.”

“Missing out on what?” I ask in earnest; it didn’t seem like I was missing out on anything.

That won’t do at all. Beauty is a deep part of all this. I can’t believe you’ve been missing out on that.

“It’s hard to explain, but basically, beauty is one of those things you have to juggle along with everything else, and also, the whole act of juggling is itself beautiful. That’s a drastic oversimplification. You need to experience it. You cannot truly know emotional dexterity while you’re untouchable by beauty.”

I worry about spilling the secret to you or someone else if I lay off the venom, but she is very clear on this point.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” I assure her.

She smiles again. I try to figure out if this one is wider than the last.

The next morning, I embark upon a hiatus from the daily application of insect-derived sedative. Cutting this activity from my morning makes my wake-up bathroom routine feel incomplete–wrongly abbreviated. But as I have breakfast and get ready for the day, I feel delightfully normal and become optimistic that the secret has lost its potency, its power subdued by repeated use of the toxin. But this is of course too good to be true.

While walking my customary path along the riverbank, I feel the desire to reveal the secret coming on. It’s faint but growing steadily. I pick up the pace, hoping that moving faster will divert energy from the rising compulsion.

But the urge only gains urgency. I become concerned that I’ll shout out the secret, yell like I’m trying to tell it to someone across the river. Anxious, I reach for the vial of sleep bug secretion I’ve kept in my bag all these weeks, just in case.

Then the morning sunlight on the river catches my attention. It sparkles like it’s flecks of luminous, filmy material floating out there, following every fluctuation of the water’s surface.

As I pause to admire the interplay of light and liquid, my hand falls away from my bag. The beauty of this sight has displaced the urge to divulge. That fact is itself beautiful.

Feeling at ease now, I conclude that when the secret threatens to burst out, I just need to have something beautiful to direct my attention to. Fortunately, you’ve supplied me with just that. In my bag, there’s a postcard from you, a mesmerizingly colorful scene of a mountainside covered in wildflowers from your recent trip to Nolinga Canyon.

As soon as I arrive at work, I place the postcard in the lower right corner of my desk, for easy glanceability. I feel as though I’m back in kindergarten, with my security blanket kept close at hand. Every few minutes, my head turns for a look at the postcard, like I’m afraid someone will swipe it from my desk. These frequent, small doses of the floral landscape seem to ward off the symptoms of secret bearing and keep me feeling almost normal, which delights me.

When it’s time to assemble for the team meeting, I pluck the postcard from my desk and tuck it in the back of my notebook before heading to the conference room. Briefly I muse that to some onlooker, it could appear that I can’t bear to leave the postcard behind, that it’s some vital memento of you.

As fellow members of Team Snurgler get settled around the conference table, I open my notebook. Then I place the postcard on the left page the notebook is open to. Wernt’s gaze is immediately drawn to it, probably because the postcard is the most colorful thing on the conference table. I become self-conscious about having it out, and when he’s not looking, I discreetly put the postcard among the unused pages toward the end of the notebook. When needed, I can sneak a glance at it back there during the meeting.

But when Qalixy enters the conference room a minute later, I know that won’t be necessary. I can admire her personality from across the room when in need of beauty.

And that’s exactly what I do 17 minutes into the meeting. I fixate on her elegant integrity and splendid insightfulness, the prettiness of her lightly prissy conduct. Her qualities easily hold at bay the pressures exerted by the secret. I settle comfortably into her sheer magnificence for wondrous, pacifying minutes, until her eyes flit up and meet mine. We regard each other for some very long seconds. Then she smiles at me.

Abruptly she rises from her seat and leaves the conference room.

My eyes widen as I begin to fret. The deprivation of her beauty leaves me feeling as if the secret is with tremendous force pushing its way out of its confinement in my memory. I might have to step out of the meeting myself. Or flip to the back pages of my notebook, to look at the postcard at the risk of piquing the curiosity of the team members near me.

In the midst of my mini-anxiety attack, I hear Bonrol say, “It may seem harsh, but we must be anti-mediocrean on this.”

“Exactly right,” Kierce joins in. “We have our potentialist values to uphold.”

These words resonate with me, despite my confusion about what exactly they refer to. I’ve lost track of the discussion while lost in Qalixy’s beautiful qualities, but hearing Bonrol and Kierce take this stand, feeling the unmistakable passion in their voices, roused within me is a keen sense of camaraderie, my long reticent aspirations of living the tenets of potentialism stirring to life.

Amid this, a quiet awe suffuses me.

My admiration for my peers, a consternation over what has evoked their vehemence, the trying nature of this secret, the knowingness in Qalixy’s smile, the reassuring brightness of the sky outside–it’s all strikingly beautiful.

And I can juggle them adeptly as I re-engage myself in the proceedings of the meeting, handling these feelings just like so many others I have during my training.

And that is unmistakably beautiful.

Having forsaken aspirations to join the intelligentsia, Goire Zatla is a metaphysiologist whose research focuses on memory, emotion, and consciousness. Goire’s recent studies have examined the properties possessed by a shard of shattered attention and responses to immoderate chronesthesia.

Soramimi Hanarejima is a writer of innovative fiction and the author of Visits to the Confabulatorium, a fanciful story collection that Jack Cheng said “captures moonlight in Ziploc bags.” Soramimi’s recent work has appeared in various literary magazines, including Panoply, Pulp Literature, and The Absurdist.

Ariel Alian Wilson is a few things: artist, writer, gamer, and role-player. Having dabbled in a few different art mediums, Ariel has been drawing since she was small, having always held a passion for it. She’s always juggling numerous projects. She currently lives in Seattle with her cat, Persephone. You can find doodles, sketches, and more at her blog www.winndycakesart.tumblr.com.

“Handling the Contents of Consciousness” is © 2018 Soramimi Hanarejima Art accompanying story is © 2018 Ariel Alian Wilson

Handling the Contents of Consciousness was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal