#and then being seen by mother goose as the only other ‘real adult’ in the party

[perdamian]

thinking about how gerard said that during the siege he went to hide with the children which was seen as a cowardly thing to do but upon seeing him interact with ylfa/pinocchio/miss muffet i have to wonder if he comforted the children in his kingdom as he did with those in his party.

i think that (especially with the fighter class) gerard is often seen as weak and afraid due to his reluctance to get involved with war but we have to acknowledge that his own childhood was spent in complete misery. he truly never had the opportunity to grow up due to his being turned into a frog and then immediate thrust into princehood, but in seeing him comfort the children he’s with shows that his true strength comes from his compassion and desire to prevent other kids from having the same experience that he did at their age

[dweemeister]

The Daydreamer (1966)

By the 1960s, Christmas television specials were in vogue in the United States. Yet this recent phenomenon had yet to yield a true cultural touchstone. On December 6, 1964, the first Christmas special mainstay aired on NBC. Produced by a fledgling animation studio, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer put Rankin/Bass, named after co-founders Arthur Rankin, Jr. and Jules Bass, into the public consciousness. Rankin/Bass’ brand of stop-motion animation (“Animagic”) was mostly outsourced to Japanese studio MOM Productions in Tokyo, under the direction of Tadahito Mochinaga. With the windfall of Rudolph, Rankin/Bass and MOM Productions delved into the realm of feature theatrical films. This review concerns their second feature film, The Daydreamer – a stop motion animation/live-action hybrid based on Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. The Daydreamer has starpower in its cast that no Rankin/Bass production had yet matched. But as one might expect from a Rankin/Bass film, there are narrative flaws abound. The Daydreamer, episodic in nature and alternating between live-action and animation scenes, suffers due to the inconsistent quality of the handful of Hans Christian Andersen adaptations it has and the kitschy live-action acting.

The young Hans Christian Andersen (“Chris”; Paul O’Keefe) is the son of a cobbler (Jack Gilford). Papa Andersen often has to face the verbal tirades of frequent customer Mrs. Klopplebobbler (Margaret Hamilton; it is difficult not to think of Hamilton’s portrayal of the Wicked Witch here). His struggling business often means he cannot pay the gangling Pie Man (Ray Bolger; yet another Wizard of Oz star). To take him away from these troubles, Chris will let his imagine run wild while napping. If he can only just find the mythical Garden of Paradise, all these troubles might vanish. One evening, the Sandman (voiced by Cyril Ritchard) promises him to guide him there. Along the way, Chris is subject to dreams that may seem familiar to the viewer. These dreams shift away from live-action into the signature Rankin/Bass animation – adapting “The Little Mermaid”, “The Emperor’s New Clothes”*, “Thumbelina”, and “The Garden of Paradise”. Elements of “The Ugly Duckling” and “Little Claus and Big Claus” also appear.

Among the many voice actors during these animation sequences are Hayley Mills (The Little Mermaid); Burl Ives (Neptune – I have never heard Ives’ voice so devoid of jaunt before); Tallulah Bankhead (the sea witch); Terry-Thomas (the first tailor); Victor Borge (the second tailor); Ed Wynn (the Emperor); Patty Duke (Thumbelina); and Boris Karloff (the Rat).

The film’s adaptations of Andersen’s tales differ in that Andersen himself becomes a character in each of the stories. The Daydreamer approaches the stories as if the ideas are only just forming in the young Chris’ head, to be written and published when he is an adult. Within these dreams-someday-to-be-stories, Chris is largely a passive character. He takes instruction from the central figures of his future tales, never really asserting himself or asking basic questions about the misadventures he goes through. Chris acts as if lost in his own imagination – which fits the conceit of the film. So when he awakens into the real world, the film’s pacing slams the brakes. In the real world, everyone except Chris is a caricature, somehow less realistic than the individuals appearing in the daydreams. The transitions between animation and live-action will take the viewer out of the film because of the unceasing manic acting in the latter, as opposed to the charming puppetry of the former. As such, The Daydreamer’s weaknesses lie almost entirely with the live-action scenes – too consciously playing to the audience and over-the-top in their absurdity.

In an era of American animation defined by Disney on the screen and Hanna-Barbera on television, Rankin/Bass carves out its own niche in how it tells its stories. The meta humor and fourth wall breaking of Hanna-Barbera’s works (a legacy of the duo’s work at MGM) makes no appearances here. Disney’s clean-cut fairytale endings also do not apply. The Daydreamer’s adaptation of “The Little Mermaid” does not have the gruesome premise as Andersen’s original fairytale, but it retains the ending’s heartbreak. There appears to be no alterations to “The Emperor’s New Clothes” – which includes Chris, but he just feels superfluous to the plot and to the tale’s keen comedy. Each of the film’s segments bring Chris closer to the final animated sequence, “The Garden of Paradise”. The adaptation of that tale sanitizes its deathly overtures for a devil-like creature, but keeps the ambiguous, open-ended conclusion. By maintaining the original conclusion, “The Garden of Paradise” is a curious coda for The Daydreamer – a film that ends as abruptly as its several transitions, like a daydream.

The Daydreamer’s live-action sets benefit, however, due to the fact many of its scenes were shot at the 1964 New York World’s Fair. The World’s Fair pavilions used in this film mimic a feel of small-town, nineteenth century Europe more realistically than a Hollywood soundstage might. The production design for the animated dream sequences, too, are mesmerizing. Perhaps this is best exemplified in “The Little Mermaid”. There, the special effects work make it appear as if the whole sequence was shot underwater, rather than a room that contained blue lights streaming into Neptune’s palace. Where are the strings and wires suspending the puppets in mid-air while they “swim”? To the animators’ credit, there are none to be found. Neptune’s palace is one of the grander sets constructed for a Rankin/Bass production; its imposing walls and generous empty spaces reflect a sense of regal grandeur. That royal otherworldliness does not extend to “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, but many of the same production design decisions carry over. Rankin/Bass and MOM Productions are obviously working with more money and manpower for these animated scenes than in the likes of Rudolph or their many holiday television specials. The sense of scale and grandiosity seen here in The Daydreamer and Mad Monster Party? (1967) would rarely, if ever, be replicated for television. And it is also obvious that the filmmakers put the money into the animation and for paying headline-worthy actors, rather than for any writers able to string the animated and live-action halves together.

Seven songs comprise The Daydreamer’s musical soundtrack. Composed by Maury Laws and Jules Bass, most of the songs are forgettable once your viewing is done (including Robert Goulet singing the title song over the opening credits, despite the fact I admire Goulet’s voice). But there are notable exceptions. Sung by Hayley Mills at the end of “The Little Mermaid”, “Wishes and Teardrops” brings the segment to a worthy close. Her loved ignored, the Little Mermaid sings this lament – backed with percussion straight from a ‘60s love ballad and timeless swelling strings – for herself:

Wishes and teardrops Won’t make him love me. He’s gone and he’ll never return. Does he know how teardrops can burn, When they fall for a wish That can never come true?

In the film’s final third, “Luck to Sell” injects a jolt of energy sorely missing from many of the other live-action scenes. The song itself is simple and the singing just avoids being flat, but when paired with the energetic choreography from Paul O’Keefe and company, it elevates itself from the rest of the soundtrack (save “Wishes and Teardrops”).

Not often will a viewer encounter a film with two sets of opening credits. I’m not writing about films that have an overture that transition to opening credits (an entirely different approach that modern filmmakers should utilize more), but two sets of opening credits that list the names of the actors involved. For the first set of credits, caricaturist Al Hirschfeld (uncredited) was hired to draw caricatures of the various actors and actresses appearing in, or lending their voices to, The Daydreamer. The Daydreamer is the second of three films that Hirschfeld was involved in. The first, appearing as himself uncredited, was in Main Street to Broadway (1953); his third and final film was as an artistic consultant on the “Rhapsody in Blue” segment (which was influenced by his caricatures) in Fantasia 2000.

Rankin/Bass’ ventures into feature film animation peaked several months later with Mad Monster Party? After that and the unfortunate production of The Wacky World of Mother Goose (1967; a traditionally animated eyesore), Rankin/Bass almost completely dedicated itself to its animated television specials. The Daydreamer, distributed by the now-defunct Embassy Pictures and currently owned by Sony Pictures Television (the ownership of the rights to Rankin/Bass’ features are exasperatingly scattered), has not been widely seen when compared to Mad Monster Party?, let alone Rankin/Bass’ television specials. If one can find a serviceable print of The Daydreamer, the viewing experience will be a valuable glimpse into the studio’s collaboration with MOM Productions. A Rankin/Bass fan that has only known the studio through its television specials will see their work operating with higher production values; Rankin/Bass novices can experience a dimension of animated filmmaking too often considered an afterthought.

My rating: 6/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* “The Emperor’s New Clothes” was adapted twice by Rankin/Bass. The second adaptation is the heart of the television special The Enchanted World of Danny Kaye (1972), starring Danny Kaye. That adaptation of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” is distinct from the one that appears in The Daydreamer. The Danny Kaye special’s adaptation has a more developed storyline, completely different voice cast, and completely different soundtrack.

[the-greatest-tumbleweed]

Well, I did it. Here’s the Rivers of London, Nightingale Is A Goose AU. It’s the 20s, things are getting weird again.

Quick disclaimer: this is a mashup of the story of Thomas Nightingale, the fictional RoL character, and Thomas the Blind Bisexual Goose, a real goose that lived in New Zealand and died in 2018. It is based on a previous post I made literally just being like “there was a bisexual goose named Thomas and I feel like that has fic potential”; I originally tried to post this on there, but the cut kept disappearing so here we are. I have taken a few artistic liberties; the start is based mostly on Nightingale’s life, the latter part of the story almost entirely on the actual goose. I changed the names of Henry and Henrietta the black swans to Peter and Beverly. I also needed to make a goose equivalent of WW2, but please don’t think that it is in any way meant to make light of the actual, human WW2; it isn’t, I just needed it for the story. Final point: this is an absurd concept and therefore an absurd story, which I wrote quickly while procrastinating my schoolwork. Don’t expect it to be anything it’s not.

The Untitled Nightingale Game

Thomas was born in Waikinae, around the turn of the decade – the decade being 1980. He would be known for many things over the course of his abnormally long life: he was a soldier, a leader, a lover, and a doting father. Among humans, he was a legend. But most importantly, he was a goose.

Thomas grew up with the other big, white geese of Waimanu Lagoon, and had a relatively uneventful childhood. He made some trouble, as one does when one is a young goose.

One sunny morning, a young human couple took a stroll by the lake. Thomas and his friend, Rupert, sidled up to the couple together, and just as the young man was fiddling with a diamond ring, they honked in perfect unison. The young man dropped the ring, and the couple spent a good long while looking for it in the grass.

Another, cloudier day, he and Horace covered themselves in mud and jumped out at a group of children, hissing and honking and flapping about. The children ran away, screaming. Thomas and Horace were delighted.

The fun stopped when a man with dark hair and angry eyes came to their lake. The older geese said he had been there before, but Thomas had been young then. The man’s name was William, and he collected eggs. William would visit the lake, sneaking about, and he would steal any egg he came across. The first time he came, William took a whole generation of goose eggs for his collection, and a whole generation of duck eggs, and a great many water bird families lost eggs to him as well.

The second time he came, he began to steal eggs again. He came in with his big green wader boots, early in the mornings, and took whatever he found. It was devastating. It was infuriating. It was known in the goose community the second William War.

One day, the geese and ducks and other fowl came together, and the elders said they must form a front, they must fight back. Thomas led the charge. He would hide in the rushes and jump out at humans if they got too close – after all, you never knew which of them would turn out to be William. He would hiss and nip at their ankles when they stomped around the nesting area.

The elders sent along a group of young ducks to help him; they would quack angrily as he hissed, and were brave enough follow him into any confrontation.

One day, an old man got startled by them, and kicked one of the ducks as hard as he could. From then on, Thomas fought twice as hard, and made sure he was the first in line whenever a human was involved. Nobody was allowed to hurt his ducklings.

Over time, the humans got a little nervous around Thomas, and started to recognise him among other geese. They called him The Goose, and told their children to watch out for him.

It was several months before they achieved their final goal: William was sneaking about in the rushes, looking for eggs to steal, when Thomas jumped out at him and honked. William was startled, and fell into the water with an enormous splash. Another human heard the splash, and came running, and saw that William was holding a bag full of eggs.

“Hey! Are you nicking their eggs!?” shouted the other human, and that was the end of that.

After William had been dealt with, the elders suggested they try and steal back their eggs.

“They’ll already be damaged, surely it isn’t worth the danger?” asked Thomas, but the elders insisted, and so he lead his ducklings in through the window that William had been seen in. They were noticed, and they got in trouble, and some of the ducklings were caught and taken away by the humans. Thomas never forgave himself.

For many years after that defeat, Thomas was sad. He felt guilty about the pain he had lead his ducklings into, and he missed the friends that were no longer with him. He grew apart from the other geese, segregated himself from the group, and took to wondering about, alone, lost in his thoughts. His only friend was a nightingale named Molly, who would sing to him on occasion, and cheer him up a little.

One chilly winter evening, Thomas was out for a lonely walk by the lake, when he came across a swan. He was a black swan, and he was young, and beautiful, and looked at the world with a curiosity Thomas had long forgotten.

Thomas waddled over to the black swan.

“Hello, what are you up to?” he asked the swan.

“I’m ghost hunting,” replied the swan, jokingly.

“Interesting,” said Thomas with a smile, “Any particular ghost?”

“You would do just fine,” said the swan. Ah, this was a cheeky swan.

“What’s your name?” asked Thomas.

“Peter,” said the swan, and smiled at him.

“I’m Thomas,” said Thomas, and smiled back.

The relationships of birds are not as complex as those of humans. Had Thomas and Peter been humans, their courtship may have taken days, months, or years. They may have had enough unromantic conversations to fill a series of novels. They may have never fallen in love. But they were a goose and a swan, so it only took them one conversation.

Thomas and Peter could be seen waddling about together, cleaning each other’s feathers, swimming about in the sun. They became inseparable.

The humans that walked around the area often – the ones making sick birds better and counting the numbers of each species – often wondered when Thomas and Peter would have their first child.

After a while, they became worried one of them was ill, but then one thought to check their sexes, and they all laughed.

“We’ve got a gay goose!” they exclaimed, and for a few years, other humans would come to see Thomas and Peter swanning about. Thomas and Peter quite liked the attention, and so they would happily come and see the humans, giving them a gently honked “hello”, and they became rather popular.

Thomas and Peter lived this blissful, loving life for a wonderful eighteen years, without a hiccup. Thomas made Peter smile, and Peter made Thomas laugh. Thomas told all the funny goose stories, and Peter told all the funny swan stories, and they never tired of them. They reminded each other that the world was a wonderful place.

There came a time, however, when a potential flaw in their relationship became apparent: Thomas had no desire to have any children, lest he should lose them again. Peter had no such worries.

One day, while they were out for a stroll, another black swan sidled up to them. She was glossy and beautiful, and disarmingly charming.

“Hello, I’m Beverley, fancy making some babies?” she asked, because, as established, swans are rather more direct than humans.

Peter and Thomas had a chat about this.

“I quite fancy making myself some babies, to be honest,” Peter confessed.

“Ah, right, of course,” said Thomas, sadly.

And so Peter and Beverley made themselves a batch of cygnets, and were very happy together, for a while.

Thomas was, understandably, rather upset. He returned to his old haunts, moping about in silence. The humans got a little worried about him.

One fine day, Beverley the Swan found him sitting in a puddle, feeling sorry for himself.

“Hi Thomas,” she said cheerfully, “Have a moment?”

“I have a few,” he answered.

“I see you’re moping too,” she said.

“Peter’s moping? That’s unlike him,” said Thomas, worried.

“He misses having you around,” she told him, “And I’d quite like you around, too.”

“But he’s chosen you!” exclaimed Thomas.

“He’s chosen both of us, you silly goose!” she exclaimed back.

She poked him in the side and waddled him over to their nest, and soon the humans could stop worrying again: Thomas, and Peter, and Beverley, and several batches of babies made their home together by the lake. The three adults happily shared their nest, and the cygnets were just as likely to waddle after Thomas as either of their parents.

“There goes Uncle Thomas with his little swans!” the humans would exclaim, and Thomas couldn’t have been happier.

The years went by, and everybody was surprised that Uncle Thomas was still so well.

“You know, sometimes it seems to me that I stopped ageing years ago. In fact, I almost feel as if I’m getting younger. Do I look younger to you?“

Peter laughed at him “I don’t know if you feel younger, but you haven’t changed a bit in all the time I’ve known you!”

“You’re a goose, Thomas,” said Beverley, “You’ve looked the same since you were four, and you’ll look the same when you’re forty.”

And that was the last time they spoke of that.

However, not all of them were immune to the passing of the years. Thomas reached his early thirties, and, indeed, felt as young as in his teens. Peter, on the other hand, began to slow down, and tire faster, and gave Beverly fewer children. Thomas and Beverly both noticed, but there was nothing they could do but enjoy the time they had.

“It’s been a great life, with you two,” Peter told them one day, and then fell asleep between them a final time.

Days passed, the two of them wept, and their last children left the nest.

“I’m not finished, as a mother,” Beverley told him, and wished him well. She flew to another area, where the landscape didn’t hold Peter’s memory, and life went on.

Thomas was sad anew, but a quieter, more mature sadness – the sadness of one who has lost something beautiful, but enjoyed it while it lasted. Alone again, he began to feel the weight of his years. His wings weren’t as strong as they once were, and his eyes began to falter.

He met a younger goose, and loved her, but not as he had loved Peter. They had some goslings – what an odd thing to make children of his own! – but they soon flew away, and he was alone again.

Soon, his sight was so poor he could barely make his way about the lake. The humans noticed and decided that wouldn’t do, so they picked him up and took him to bird sanctuary – though, as a goose, he did not know that it was a bird sanctuary.

“He’s a bit of a mother goose,” the humans told the keepers at the sanctuary, and the keepers listened. When the sanctuary was brought an orphan gosling, they gave it to Thomas, hoping he could look after it. He, quite literally, took it under his wing.

Happy with this successful adoption, the humans brought a few orphaned cygnets to him, as well, and he treated them as he had treated his own little cygnets, years before. More and more little birds were brought to Thomas, and he loved them all, and mothered them and fathered them and, indeed, became good old Uncle Thomas once more.

Thomas grew older, and blinder, and more tired by the day, but still he would walk about the sanctuary with his multitude of children in tow, happy as could be. Sometimes, Beverley would fly to visit him, bringing along children old and new, and the whole extended family would take a gander around the pond.

The day came when a new group joined the sanctuary: the humans came in one morning with a cardboard box of ducklings. They were young and scared, and all alone. The humans put the box where Thomas could hear them quack, and he called them, and they came and found safety and love under his old, feathered wings.

Thomas had his ducklings and he kept them safe, and he cried with joy at his wonderful luck.

Thomas the Goose spent the last of his years at the sanctuary, raising birds of all shapes and sizes. By the time he died – aged 38, which is a ripe old age, for a goose – the humans from both his places of residence reckoned he had adopted at least sixty eight baby birds of various species, mostly swan.

When he did die, happy as a goose could be, the humans wrote about it in their papers. Thomas the blind bisexual goose to be buried beside his male partner of 30 years in the greatest love story told said Pink News, and A tiny coffin, a mayoral eulogy and a bagpipe procession: Thomas the blind, bisexual goose memorialised with touching funeral as he is laid to rest next to his lover, said the Daily Mail.

And indeed, they held a funeral, and laid him to rest with the love of his life, and wondered at the marvels of nature, and when all was quiet and everybody had gone away, a nightingale perched on their tombstone, and sang.

[dulcis-pythonissam]

The dog that build my story: 

Perhaps a little early for me to write this down, but I felt like I needed to do so in order to remember that life will go on even if we are not really paying it any mind. Perhaps the title of this story has spoiled it a bit. This story is about my loyal friend, who has stood by my side since I was just a young girl, and has seen me grow in the woman I am today. I will try to keep the story short but no promises. Since this loyal canine of mine simply meant that much to me. 

This all started by the time I was a mere little girl, feeling the loss of a pet is never fun for a kid, it takes them a while before they could feel like they could let go. Or what most of us do. Is to buy a new pet.  This was the case for me and my mother. 

In the year of 2006, a young pup was born in the Northern region of the country I live in. Since the internet was yet a big thing in our household. So it was hard to look around for a new pet. Yet we kept on searching, well mom did, and it was one week of my life I doubt I will ever forget, as mom had told me we were going to get a puppy. a puppy meant that in my child like mind back in the day, meant a companion for life. A companion that was loyal and trustworthy, a playmate, and a comforter for those lonely days that always seemed like they would come back. 

It meant I was going to have a friend.

As sad as it sounds, to me this puppy was going to be my best friend for as long as I thought he was going to be alive. For his life at least. Later, as I grew older, I came to understand that was not going to be the case. Later I understood dogs did not live as long as humans did, which greatly upset me, it meant that after who knows how long we would have him for, he would stay by our sides. I can still hear my fourteen year old self say: “He is going to be eighteen, no twenty years old, this dog will be by our side for as long as he can”. He did. While I am writing this story, he is still by our side. Only for a few more hours. But I had to write this in his honor. So once the pain has healed, the memories, the loss subsided to simple memories of him, I can read this back and smile about it, Perhaps show it to others and wonder if they too shared something similar. As losing a pet is like losing a part of you you never get returned, there is no refund, no take backs. But all jokes aside. Since I could probably go on about that for hours. This is about the most loyal dog I have owned so far. Be it for the fact to keep his memory alive, or simply because this is my way of accepting and letting go of the sweet pet that has stayed by my mother and mine’s side for almost fourteen years. I say almost since he was supposed to turn fourteen in a little over a month from now. 

Now before I will make this sad, let me remind myself what my dog meant to me. What he did to me those almost fourteen years of his life, and remember how grateful I will be for the rest of my own years alive on this weird living planet we call earth:

This dog, meant the world to me, as a kid, he was my playmate, my buddy, and forever friend that I would never have to worry about losing, I remember a time, all the way back in sixth grade. Where I was playing with the kids on school grounds.Now mind you, my school was not big or anything, enough for a kid like me to actually enjoy their time, yet learn in a great way, But I would have never guessed my dog, somehow had made its way all the way to my school, My mom had brought him when he had just bought him, to show my class. But I doubt he could have remembered the way since he was super small as a pup(and we kind of came by car). He stood there on the streets all mighty and proud as I called his name to check if it really was my dog. I guess upon hearing and recognizing my voice, and the fact that he was in such a proud mood, made him come over to me, tail wagging, as both my fellow classmates and a teacher came over to check out what the ruckus I made was all about, Until they saw a young dog by my side. After telling the teacher that this was my dog. I was allowed to carry. him home. Mind you if I did not, he probably would have ran off in some other direction, The jerk. So my kid self did what was best, and carried a not so big dog. but quite heavy for someone who was not used to carrying anything bigger than my school bag at the time. I remember seeing my aunt’s face as she saw me carrying my dog all the way home, scolded him for running off at the speed of light. But I think this little adventurer had enough for the day, as he willingly followed my aunt into her home, where he would spend the rest of the day, until I came home from school and my mom would come to pick us up. My mom laughed so hard upon hearing this story, until somewhere later in the year, when it had happened to her too, you could say, the dog we own had been quite a houdini at his young age. 

This sweet dog liked his long long long walks, the further we walked, the happier he was, and we often during summer times would visit the forests around us. I say forests because they are all pretty small, yet large enough to keep on walking for a few hours, and one of them is on Our Northern end of town, and you guessed it, the other one is on the South end, well more South-East. but still south. 

I always believed that the both of us could relax in the surrounding of trees, the lakes or rivers near it, and often we walked and played ahead of my mother and my aunt. My aunt’s dog always near to keep a watchful eye of strangers or animals, you never know if a random goose or swan would attack you. Or so I would like to think he used to think. There were moments in the park next to my house, where: mind you our dogs usually would walk without a leash on. Would go running for a good half hour. with a big sparrow family nearby, who seemed to have loved the dogs who came to play with them, flying over their heads and have them chase behind them. I remember staring at it for hours on end if could. My dog always right on their tails, as his little legs carried him as fast as they could. It made me: as a kid, Wonder of perhaps my dog had befriended the sparrow family who residented there. So whenever we would come over, they would come out to play too. 

Many winters, and summers passed, with a lot of crazy things happening, like the divorce of my parents, me growing into a teenager and discovering the adult world later on, my aunt’s dog passed away. for my loyal friend, that had grown older and grumpier, this was a lot to take it, his mentor and best dog companion now gone, he went into a depressed state himself. We tried all we could to make him happy again, even considering going to a dgo school so he were to meet new buddies. But the loss of my aunt’s dog was simply too much for him. It had been for all of us. But my dog simply couldn’t stand it. It was heartbreaking to see my dog like that, and I always made sure that whenever I was home, to give him extra cuddles and play time. But he too was growing older, so taking into consideration that he didn’t want to play, I left him be and simply snuggled up to him. Of course he still made it past that ordeal or I wouldn’t be typing anymore. 

So my Aunt had adopted a new dog. Well it was more rodent sized, so if someone had called it a rat, rabbit, Guinea pig or anything rodent like, I would not have been surprised. But it had lifted his mood, a lot. Signs of the dog I came to know and love came back. Making both me and my mom pretty relieved and happy, since he was merely ten years old at the time, he started to play again, wanting to go on long walks and for the first time in a long time had started to bark again. Aka, he was his old self again. A year later, my depression had taken over most of my life, and like many times in my life when this happened. He had stayed by my side, and was the core reason I wouldn’t stay in bed all day, or when the few times I grew sick during those times, I could hear the pitter-patter of his paws on the other side of my door, since I have a pretty bad cough when I get sick. He would jump of my mom’s bed, in the middle of the night, climbing my stairs and scratch on my door to open up, if I didn’t, he simply would stay there for a little while, wondering if I had gone back to sleep, and went down again, jumping on the bed, so he too could return to sleep. I came to know this the next day with a cranky mom who told me he had done so for the enter night, or at least whenever I would cough so bad, you’d think I would cough my lungs out. It made me both laugh real hard, I started to cough again, and extremely happy that he would care so much for me. 

There had been many moments where I perhaps had taken his life granted, to where my brain told me he would not have long to live, but my heart hoping he would at least be of age to even consider putting him down. the fact that I thought of that had driven me mad with anxiety, the fact that my buddy for life, would not be long in my life had always had me to tears. But this time I might actually had a reason to. Two years ago, he started to walk a little funny. He had been dragging his left hind leg more and more, and we did not know why. So mom did what was best to do for a dog of age. Which was to visit a vet, the news that followed wasn’t the best, as it came to be that he had spondylosis. 

If I had to explain spondylosis in my own words, it would be that it is an incurable bone disease, to where the bone and cartilage keep on growing in place they are not supposed to.  So simply put, we were going to lose our family member sooner than we anticipated. Struck by the news, mom and I had gotten him medicine, and special food, so he would not have as much pain, so he could continue being the best dog there ever was in my life. 

Only to find out that the special food was not working for him, nor were the medicine, I will not go into details, because for me, it was hard to listen to, and I am used to the most gory movies since I was a child. But hearing this about my dog, it had simply broken my heart for him, so we had to switch foods and medicine again. This time somehow it caught on, letting him walk better without pain, but also not to cause him to have too much tummy aches. 

Somehow he has made it two years with all his pains and aches, and now here we are, at the end of his journey, and I can’t help but wonder if I did at least one thing to make him the happiest dog in the universe. This dog has been my forever friend, my buddy in a time of need, but most importantly, he has been my soulmate, my family. A part of me that I secretly don’t want to let go. Since it will  hurt too much to even think of forgetting all the great times we spend together. the amount of hours we had walked and played in the forests, or in general. The many naps and cuddles whenever the other wasn’t feeling too well. 

Thursday January 23rd, 2020, with great sadness and pain, we will say our farewell to Mike. To me, the best dog that has ever crossed my life, and I would not have had it any other way. 

If I could I would have taken all his pains and aches away, but I can’t, and so with pain in my heart, today, as I am writing this at 3AM my time. Will have to hold strong, and smile as he will be put into an eternal sleep. I simply wanted to write this down, in the hope it would become easier over time. 

I hope he will be with my aunt’s late dog, where they both can run as fast as their legs can carry them, finally without pain and aches. Like the young pup he once was. And forever will be. 

I love him with all of my heart. As there might never be a dog who has been such a big part of who I am and have become as he. 

Goodbye my sweet grumpy soulmate. May you rest in peace and I hope our paths will cross again. 

[incognitowetrust]

a random ramble about Kung Fu Panda related shit

I’m putting this under the “read more” thing because it’s long and kinda unrelated about what I usually do. However, I find myself doing long rambly brain train spills to myself about random topics, and this is one. I wrote this whole thing out, so sure, I’ll post it here. 

I never watched Kung Fu Panda 3 because I loved the second one so much, I wasn't willing to be let down. 

I'm sure a lot of folks are aware of how when it comes to movies getting sequels, it seems like the third one is where things kinda fall apart a bit. I think I kinda call it... a case of the Shreks. Shrek one, iconic, Shrek 2, friggin' amazing... Shrek 3? Hnnn... nnno. And then by the time Shrek 4 came around I don't think most people were particularly hyped. 

Though, to be honest, I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy KFP3 more than Shrek 3. However, I don't think I'd enjoy it as much as How To Train Your Dragon 3... which I certainly liked but I'm mixed as to whether or not it's "better" or "worse" than HTTYD 2, I think when it comes to HTTYD2 and 3 some aspects are kind a trade off, like I liked the villain in 3 more than 2. 

Anyway... Kung Fu Panda... the first movie I think was a bit of a shock to everyone, whether they realized it or not. I mean, KUNG FU PANDA, with JACK BLACK, everyone went in expecting to have an amusing time, but if you're like me, you may not have expected to have a certain respect for the movie later on, in regards to it being more than just a animated kids movie about a funny panda way in over his head. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if that movie was a lot more "respectful" and "accurate" of Chinese culture/martial arts stuff than a lot of  media over the years has been, I mean, at the very least it's certainly gorgeous visually. Now that I think about it, it was a damn body-positive movie in a weird way, because not only is there a chubby protagonist, but because all of the martial arts masters are different animals (based off of the different Kung Fu styles of course), you get a cast of characters who greatly vary in body types and appearances. And they didn't do anything weird with the female designs either, they didn't feel the need to give Tigress long eyelashes or whatever. My favorite observation was a thread I read where people agreed "thank goodness they spared us from sniddies (snake tiddies)". Anyway, the first movie's characters were likable, the movie is visually appealing, the audio is appealing, character motivations were decent, yeah it was just pretty heckin' solid at being both smart, and a "kid" movie. 

And then Kung Fu Panda 2 happened, and I went and saw it like "Yeah, what the heck, should be fun", you know, as you do when there's a fun movie that gets a sequel. While my appreciation for the first movie has increased due to artistic observations that come with a growing mind, even at the time when I saw KFP2, I could easily point out how the movie was OOF THERE'S SOME FEELS. They kinda upped the ante in many aspects, but one thing that I'm grateful I got to see in the theaters for was the use of more 2D type animation, for flashbacky bits. That was gorgeous. Oh yeah, and the villain is a white Peacock, which is pretty great. Like, you don't expect a peacock to be a villain, do ya? But it really worked for a royal character. In hindsight, I've thought about how in the past Chinese upper class folks would do things like grow their fingernails out really long as a status symbol showing they didn't have to do manual labor, and a male peacock is a good animal equivalent, because as impressive as their tails are, they can actually be cumbersome (though it sure as hell doesn't stop this one from fighting with the grace and skill of an elf). Though, whether that in itself was done on purpose or not, I dunno, a peacock is still a good choice considering how ornamental and visually stunning designs could fit real nice with it. Oh, and there was at least one part where ya get to hear him do the famous peacock call, which is a very specific and surprising sound to anyone who ain't used to it. This is, all and all, how you do good character design, m'dudes. I know, I know, how a character LOOKS may not SEEM so important compared to the story, but any good storymaker using a visual medium knows the importance of character design, because in itself it can tell a lot about a character. However, aside from looks alone, Lord Shen (I was reminded of his name when looking for gifs) is a good character on the basis of, well, character. I don't wanna really give any big spoilers in case I convince someone who hasn't seen the second movie to see it, but I think it's fair to say that the story overall has more of an emotional weight to it. Tai Lung wasn't a bad villain, but I do say with confidence that Lord Shen was a GREAT villain (He also has a damn good array of facial expressions), there are more complexities, like how he's tied into Po's past. 

SPEAKING of Po, I'm a sucker for some feels, and this movie delivers. Honestly one of the BIGGEST reasons I didn't see the third movie, was because of the introduction of the other pandas, including Po's birth father. One of the greatest things about the second movie was the stuff around Po and his father... because, yeah, a lot of people watching the first movie were probably questioning "wait, he's a panda, and he's a goose... what exactly are we dealing with here?" and the second movie waves a finger like "Ah HA, see, we weren't just being weird to be amusing and confusing, GET A LOAD OF THIS-" And they give ya the FEEEELS, m'dudes. I think that it hits especially hard, because really there are a lot of family dynamics that are similar to Po's and his dad's that exist in real life all the time. I wonder how many young adults might have gone to see the movie, and then sat there in the theater tearing up like "Oh my god, that's my dad". Or, if you're like me, who can find relatability in a lot of things anyway regardless, but didn't need to even compare them to their own family to see and feel the message. 

But then KFP3 happened, and it's like "Ha ha, look, it's Po's dad!" and meanwhile I'm over here like BUT HE HAD A DAD!!! ... I understand it, but at the same time, it's just a bit awkward, and I feel like it might undermine that whole important family arc in the 2nd movie. Yeah, there's an ending shot that shows Po's biological father is alive, realizing his son is alive, but sometimes it's okay for birth parents and kids to not always meet/ get to know each other and  "WOW, I'M SO HAPPY I FOUND MY REEEAAALLL DAD"... that's just what seeing the trailer for KFP3 felt like to me. And, I mean... kinda spoilers for the 2nd movie I guess, but... like... either the mother did in fact die, or they completely glaze over her. Das sum bullshit. 

Look, I ain't advocating total Panda genocide, it was cool to get that glance and the end of KFP2 that showed there were survivors, but, come on man, don't give me a sequel that's problematic to holding true some of the emotions I went through from the other works of art. YA CAN'T DO MEH LIKE DAT, BRUH. Ya gotta keep your messages intact. 

I refuse to ever watch the third movie. I don't trust it to handle the parent/family stuff right. Goose Dad isn't perfect, but Goose Dad is real dad.  

[kirain]

More kids movies! More kids movies! These are my childhood!!!!

How about a top ten list of animated non-Disney films, since I tend to enjoy them more?

1. The Iron Giant

This was one of my favourite movies as a kid, and nothing about it is dated. No matter how advanced we get in animation and story-telling, I can’t imagine The Iron Giant ever losing its relevancy. The story follows a young boy named Hogarth, who lives with his single mother in 1957 America during the height of the Cold War. As Hogarth is a bit of a nerd and “poindexter”, he’s often bullied at school and doesn’t have any friends. That is, not until a giant robot seemingly falls out of space. Hogarth becomes its first human contact and comes to rely on him in order to survive. While Hogarth works to keep the giant’s existence a secret from the government, their bond strengthens as they experience life through childish innocence.

2. The Secret of NIMH

I think I mentioned before that I don’t like movies with anthropomorphic animals, but there are always exceptions. NIMH is one of those exceptions, and is in fact one of my favourite children’s movies/books ever made. The story follows a common field mouse named Mrs. Brisby, who’s only goal is to protect her beloved children. As she lives on a farm, she must soon move her children to avoid plowing season; however, her youngest son becomes bedridden with pneumonia. Her family friend and doctor, Mr. Ages, tells her that her son must stay inside or risk death– but if she can’t move they will all be in danger. As such, Mr. Ages tells her to seek out the rats of NIMH, a pack of escaped genetically mutated lab rats who live in a nearby rosebush. He explains that with their heightened intelligence, they might be able to devise a way to move her whole house, and that since her late husband Johnathan was one of them, they’ll likely feel obligated. When she seeks them out, however, she stumbles onto a mess of conspiracies, power struggles, and murder most foul.

3. The Pagemaster

Definitely dated and not the nicest animation, but an amazing children’s story nonetheless. The Pagemaster is a movie about a young boy named Richard Tyler who lives his life based on statistics and fears literally everything. One night, during a thunderstorm, he wanders into a huge library where he meets a strange librarian. While the man tries to figure out what kind of books Richard likes, all Richard can think about is getting home. When the librarian fails to trigger Richard’s basically nonexistent imagination, he sends the boy on a wild goose-chase through the massive bookshelves to find a phone so he can call his parents. While searching, he slips and hits his head, then wakes up in the form of an illustration. In this new world, he befriends three living books, Horror, Adventure, and Fantasy, whom he works with to face several trials before he can return home. The overall message of this movie teaches children to face their fears, believe in themselves, and enjoy their childhood while they have it.

4. The Road to El Dorado

My favourite unlikely tale of two Spaniards who set out to find the lost city of El Dorado. One craves adventure, the other craves gold. This fun little travel-comedy shows children the consequences of lying and greed. When Miguel and Tulio manage to traverse a dangerous jungle and find the great City of Gold, they pose as Gods to trick the natives into forgiving their trespass. Spoiled, pampered, worshipped, all seems to be going well for our “heroes”, until a real threat emerges and they struggle to save face. How long until their farce is discovered, and how many people will they hurt along the way?

5. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron

Essentially, Spirit is a movie about severe animal cruelty and how horses were treated during the construction of the railroad in the middle of the grisly Indian Wars. A nameless horse, dubbed “Spirit” by a Lakota boy, is captured by some American wranglers in an attempt to be domesticated. Strong-willed and stubborn, Spirit does whatever he can to defy his captors, eventually escaping with the help of the aforementioned Lakota boy, Little Creek. His newfound freedom is short-lived, however, because the boy’s tribesmen appear, tie him up, and take him to their camp. There he meets a beautiful mare named Rain, who attempts to show him how well animals are treated among the natives. Despite the softer and kinder approaches, however, Spirit refuses to be ridden and only longs for his freedom. It just goes to show that no matter how tame a creature may become, it deserves to run wild.

6. Little Nemo: Adventures in Slumberland

Looking back on this movie, I admit that the plot is somewhat messy, but it’s still a solid children’s movie that’s sure to bolster their imagination. Little Nemo is a story about a young boy who experiences bizarre dreams. It’s never known why, until one night he’s taken to a magical kingdom called Slumber Land. It’s here that he meets King Morpheus and Princess Camille, who tell him that he is ordained to become the new prince. Without much explanation, Nemo is entrusted with a key that keeps the evil Lord of Nightmares sealed behind a giant, mystical door and told to protect it. Unfortunately, a local troublemaker named Flip convinces Nemo to open the door, and the nightmares spill out, shrouding Slumber Land in darkness. Determined to fix his mistake, Nemo and friends set out to Nightmare Land to find the evil king and put a stop to him forever. The animation, colours, music, and visuals make this movie quite compelling, and I’d recommend watching it at least once.

7. Balto

Balto is a wonderful tale based on a true story. Balto is a shunned half-breed from the small Alaskan town of Nome, where no one (man or dog) is willing to trust him because they believe his wolf blood makes him dangerous. One day, however, a little girl named Rosie shows him kindness when he prevents her new hat from being squished during a sled race. He leaps in the way and grabs it just in time. In thanks, Rosie pets him, compliments him, and lets him pull her sled– until her father kicks him away. Sadly, a few days later, Rosie is hospitalised with diphtheria, a horrible disease that killed many children in the winter of 1925. Due to severe whirling snowstorms, the train carrying the antitoxin to save Rosie, and countless other children, is halted. It cannot be transported by air or vehicle either. As such, the people of Nome devise a race to find the fastest dogs, which will join the sled team that will risk everything to retrieve the medicine on foot. Balto wins, but is once again shunned when the musher realises he’s part wolf. Balto is left behind, but soon gets word that the sled team fell off the grid, taking the serum with them. Determined to save Rosie and the other innocent children, Balto sets out to find the team and bring them home. Naturally, this movie is about prejudice, and not judging people based on their heritage.

8. FernGully: The Last Rainforest

Definitely one for the environmentalists, FernGully is a movie about a young fairy name Crysta who lives in a stunning rain forest that’s been untouched by man for centuries. Naive and curious about humans, Crysta flies off and encounters a vile construction zone where a young city boy named Zak is cutting down trees. When he sees her, he attempts to catch her, thinking she’s some bizarre bug he’s never seen, but in doing so gets distracted. A large tree begins to fall, and in order to save him from getting crushed, Crysta shrinks him down to her size and flies him out of the way. Soon, Zak gets pulled into her world, where he learns the value of nature– but by the time he figures it out it’s too late. His employers cut down a sacred tree and release Hexxus, a man-made embodiment of pollution whom the fairies locked away centuries ago. In order to save the forest, Crysta and Zak must work together to stop Hexxus and the lumberjacks before there’s nothing left.

9. A Troll In Central Park

A Troll in Central Park is one of those rare gems that few people seem to have heard of, but it’s a fantastic children’s movie nonetheless. The story focuses on Stanley, a troll with a green thumb who’s been driven underground because humans have ruined the surface with buildings and bridges and roads. Fearful of humans, he tries to avoid them at all costs, until one day an infant named Rosie falls into his hidey-hole. Desperate to stop her crying, he shares his magic and begins to sprout colourful plants left and right. Just when Stanley begins to think he may have judged humans too harshly, Rosie’s older brother Gus tracks them down and begins to destroy the place. Seeing how angry Gus is at his parents (who are often away at work), Stanley instead decides to teach Gus the importance of happiness, forgiveness, and beauty. The story does take a very dark turn, hoever, when Gnorga, Queen of the Trolls, attempts to kill Stanley, as she believes trolls are meant to be crude and callous. I don’t want to spoil too much, but I honestly can’t do this movie justice. I highly recommended it to anyone and especially to anyone with children. They’ll love it.

10. We’re Back! A Dinosaur’s Story

This movie is weird. Even when I was a child I thought it was weird, and as an adult … I still can’t come up with a better word to describe it. It’s a weird blend of magic and science, past and future, dinosaurs and humans. It’s just weird. But it was also one of my favourite movies as a kid, and one that I watched over and over with no regrets. The plot follows a group of four dinosaurs who are brought back from the past by a crazy scientist who invented time travel. With a special cereal, he domesticates these otherwise murderous giants and gives them human-like features. When he releases them into the streets of New York, they quickly become the talk of the town, and befriend a lonely young urchin boy named Louie and a neglected rich girl named Cecilia. Joy abounds, until the children run into a creepy old man named Professor Screweyes, who seeks to revert the dinosaurs back to their prehistoric form and use them to terrify others. To be completely honest, there could be countless meanings to this movie, or really none at all. Either way, it’s a movie I highly recommend to anyone who might be looking for a little something extra in their kid’s movies. After all, it’s really weird.

[ayearofpike]

The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst

Pocket Books, 1996 179 pages, 18 chapters ISBN 0-671-55050-0 LOC: CPB Box no. 654 vol. 9 OCLC: 34952388 Released June 4, 1996 (per B&N)

Sita has not heard from her new friend and her baby, and is worried that her daughter might have already carried out her evil scheme. There is a way she can find out, though: a local anthropologist claims to have a document written by a teacher in ancient Egypt that foretold the next coming of a Christ figure, to be born on the day that Sita’s friend had her baby. It adds fuel to the fire that this might be for real when Sita realizes the teacher was her friend, back when she first left India, and Sita knows of her abilities. Maybe together, Sita and the group that has formed around this ancient text can save the baby. Or maybe not.

For what should have been a straight-up  sequel, this book certainly throws in a new story all of a sudden. We’re following Kalika, we’re wondering what’s going to happen to this immaculate conception baby, and now there’s Egyptians. As per usual, it seems that Pike can’t ever leave a thread of research unexplored in multiple books. We got the Egypt thing in The Visitor and The Lost Mind, so I guess it was just something he was learning about and excited to share.

I remember, at the time, being excited that these last three Sita books were coming out in such quick succession. Finally, I said to myself, he’s got a plan of where to take this story and will finish it up and get on with his other work. And TLV4 certainly lived up to that promise. But I got to the end of this one and thought: OK, that’s wrapped this up. Where could he possibly take it from here? (Answer: we’ll find out next time.) Unpopular opinion: I thought The Hunger Games could have been done (and stronger) in one book. So I wasn’t super thrilled when Pike all but closed the story here and BUT WAIT there’s one more coming this fall!

That’s not to say that this was a bad story, necessarily. We start with Sita and Seymour (who of course isn’t leaving her again) in line for a lecture on this ancient text, three months after the confrontation with Kalika on the pier. You might remember that Sita had told her friend to call in a month, so naturally she’s upset and anxious that she hasn’t heard from her. She hasn’t told Seymour how she brought him back to life — as far as he’s concerned, he passed out in the cold water and woke up in the mountains. But they go in to the lecture, pausing to meet the anthropologist’s adult son, who gives Sita a ladyboner for only the second time in recent memory. 

The lecture is a lot like stuff we’ve seen. The anthropologist (whose last name is Seter; this will be important later) talks a little bit about how he found the document and what it says in regards to a messiah, but mostly he answers questions. Sita has a couple of pointed questions about the calendar system and the gods mentioned in the text, which has her intended effect of getting Doc and Son to meet with her after the lecture. She says she wants to see the whole thing, and to convince them to let her into its presence she claims to have another document written by this ancient teacher. Of course there is no such thing; Sita didn’t even know this one existed, and she hung out with the teacher literally the whole time she was a teacher. But she’s still a vampire, and so she’s able to hypnotize the boys into believing her and letting her follow them to their facility in Palm Springs, where the scroll is kept.

There are like 20 True Believers at the place, and Sita’s been eavesdropping across the traffic and knows they have weapons to protect the Next Coming from the Dark Mother. She also knows they are suspicious of her, so she tries not to alarm them. Though she does touch a five-thousand-year-old papyrus scroll with her bare hands while she reads her teacher’s handwriting. Yes, it looks real. She promises to show them her imaginary scroll later, then goes out to the desert and meditates on what she saw. This allows for a nifty device where Sita can remember how she met her teacher, some hundred years after she was turned, and how even before she started having visions and healing people Sita knew she was special.

She goes home in the morning and immediately the phone rings. Of course it’s Kalika, taunting Sita about her wild goose chase after this scroll and warning again that she won’t be stopped in her search for the baby. Sita picks up enough background audio to get an idea of where Kalika might be staying, and Seymour thinks maybe this was intentional. He saw Kalika open up B-Baller and wants to get the fuck out, but Sita knows that this might be an opportunity to get rid of her, if she can get the True Believer Militia to take her out. To get Seymour on board, she finally tells him the truth of his death and rebirth. But before they call in the heavy artillery, they have to find Kalika, so they track down buildings that match Sita’s audio clues and find Kalika living in the first one they check. Lucky? Or on purpose?

Sita and Seymour take off for San Francisco to corner Doc and Son after another lecture, with articles that show the danger of the Dark Mother. OK, so a lot of them are murders caused by Eddie, and there’s also the Matrix/Blade chase and the nuclear explosion. The only thing she has in her file that Kalika actually did is a story about a dead b-baller who had his throat ripped apart. Still, it’s enough for Doc and Son to believe that there’s a dangerous force in Los Angeles and they’d better try to take it out. They send a strike force into Kalika’s apartment, twenty people with assault rifles and body armor, in a pincer formation through the door and both balconies, but she murders them like so many ants. Sita races over to try and stop the carnage, but Kalika hits her with a still-dying body and chucks her off the eighteenth-story balcony into the pool, because Pike.

By the time she gets back to the observation window, it’s too late. Kalika has killed the snipers posted there, and basically made Doc shit his pants and give up everything about the ancient Egyptian document. (Lucky for Son, he wasn’t in the room.) They blast back to the True Believer facility, and sure enough the basement is a wreck and there are scraps of parchment everywhere. Sita reads about the coming strife in the early months of the Next Coming and where he’ll encounter it, about war between worshippers of Set and worshippers of Isis, and on a separate piece of papyrus (of a different texture) about the coming of the Dark Mother, Kali Ma. So everything she understands is true.

But she still doesn’t understand where this document came from. She meditates on her relationship with the teacher some more, and remembers how she didn’t cast Sita out upon discovering her vampiric nature. She thinks about how the teacher slowly turned into a miracle healer, with herbal remedies and some kind of auric repair service, before being discovered by the region’s queen and being asked to interpret a dream. The teacher interprets it to the queen’s satisfaction (and her high priest’s consternation) and is then kept on to work in the palace. Surely there will be no conflict of interest.

Sita next finds herself in B-Baller’s mom’s house again, where she learns that he was diagnosed with end-stage leukemia and given three months to live. New information that might change how she views her daughter’s nature. She still doesn’t know where to look for the next step, though, so she decides to check back at the ice-cream truck where she found Book 4′s deus ex machina, just in case there’s another one. And sure enough, the homeless dude is there, and he wants to play blackjack, which gives Sita just enough clues to go along with the ancient document and realize: New Friend and Baby are at Lake Tahoe. Yes, somehow this ancient Egyptian was able to predict that there would be a casino there, where you could play blackjack, and the storage and dealing device they’d use to hold cards at the tables would be called a “shoe.” Shhh, just go with it.

We get another flashback chapter, where Sita tells us about the queen going whole-hog in reversing the state religion from Set-worship to Isis-worship (as alluded to in the document), and Sita having to protect her teacher friend from countless assassination attempts. They happen as the high priest of Set is a master of Seedling, forcing others to do his will, and his will is to have minions go kill the usurper. (Which ... I fuckin’ told you, this is Cold One II.) This ultimately leads to Sita facing off against the high priest out in the desert. She feels like, hey, no sweat, I’ve been a vampire at least as long as Edward Cullen, I can take this dude. But what she didn’t realize is that the high priest has invoked an ancient lizard through the use of mind-melding and identical twins (which, like ... you know) and is stronger than she realizes. Plus he has power over the elements. He melts her sword, stabs her with a poisoned dagger, and manipulates the sand to lock around her limbs, then leaves her in the desert to be eaten by flies while he returns to town and takes over. At high noon, sure enough, there’s a massive earthquake that knocks Sita free of her bonds, and when she gets back to town ... there is no town. There’s just a hole. So she figured the high priest lost control and ended up killing everyone, including himself.

The remaining four Freedom Fighters drive to Tahoe and quickly triangulate on the house where New Friend is hiding. But they’re too late — Kalika has been there, and grabbed the baby, and is boating out across the lake with him. Sita manages to sink the boat, but Kalika and the baby make it to an island. She swims out there and corners them, but before she can make Kalika do anything Doc’s Son arrives to help. Or does he? Quick as anything he’s got a knife to Sita’s throat ... a knife that looks oddly familiar. 

Remember the last name and how I said it would be important? Seter. Set-er. Set worshipper. Now, I’ve left out the part about how this dude was adopted by Doc as an older teenager, which might throw a wrench into the foreshadowing of the name. Like, would a high school senior really change his name even if he was taken in by a caring old man? I’m not sure I’m all the way on board with this, even if it was needed to make him seem more connected to the cause by giving him the same name up front.

So he takes Sita’s gun and blasts the unholy fuck out of Kalika, then cuts Sita’s throat with the poisoned dagger and stabs it into her back, and then he boats off with the baby, who only now starts crying. Sita figures it’s all over, she misread the scroll and now humanity is totally fucked. Only Kalika works her way over to Sita and feeds her the blood pouring from her exposed heart, giving enough to heal her mother before she dies. When Sita makes it back to shore, she finds Doc dying of heart failure, unable to believe that his adopted son would have betrayed him so hard to the point of having a heart attack. She also finds Seymour bleeding out from a shotgun blast to the stomach. (I really don’t know if Pike knows how a shotgun works, if he thinks you can shoot one nine or ten times without reloading.) There’s no more Jeebus Baby blood, so she has to turn him. And that’s the last we hear from Seymour in this book.

Sita has more important things to do, like finding Jeebus Baby and Lizard Priest. And she thinks she knows where they’ll be: at the place where New Friend had relations with a giant blue star. She starts thinking about New Friend, which makes the star show up, and once more Sita is floating as a transparent ghost vampire or whatever the hell. She spots Lizard Priest below, and he’s waiting for someone: a spaceship full of lizards that is made of some kind of ethereal stuff. Sita realizes that her only chance is to go into the spaceship and possess one of the lizard aliens. She’s in the strongest and ugliest one when the ship lands and the aliens start taunting the baby. But Sita forces the alien to look into the baby’s eyes, and the mesmer of the baby protects her from being subjugated by Seedling, and she grabs the lizard’s knife and stabs Lizard Priest in the eye. And suddenly the spectral aliens disappear, and Sita has Lizard Priest’s knife embedded in his eye. She does the other one and grabs the baby, and then slits his throat for good measure. There’s a whoosh as the spectral aliens take off, and Sita and the baby start back to the car.

And that’s the end of The Last Vampire 5: Evil Thirst! So you see what I mean by ending the story? Sure, they have to drive back to Lake Tahoe or whatever and return the baby to his mom, and Seymour’s a vampire now at long last, but ... is any of it necessary? Is it even germane to the part of the story that will come next? I honestly don’t remember, but I think probably not? We’ll find out next time, as the Pocket editions of the Sita stories come to a close.

[shatner-the-catner]

And the last thing he heard, before he was so violently thrust into the pits of insanity, was a terrible honking sound from that feathered demon.

HONK

PART I

Perhaps it wasn’t too soon, Olly thought to himself as he parked his Kia in the Taco Bell parking lot. He was meeting a girl he had been speaking to fairly regularly, and with increasing warm affections, both online and via texts, occasionally on the phone, frequently on video chat. It was Olly’s first genuine attempt at a romance after withstanding several storms of mental illness, culminating into a final involuntary commitment that lasted for ten months. Ever the late bloomer at twenty eight, he figured now that he had better control of his mental health than ever before, he might finally be ready for a companion. And even though the two had only been speaking for about a month, they decided that it was time to finally meet in person. After days of thinking perhaps it might be too soon, he finally decided that it wasn’t.

He saw her approaching. He knew it was her because he recognized her dark hair, styled vaguely into a messy Bob, and the red Italian leather jacket she said she would wear. When he first saw her in the distance, his heart swelled with joy as it said things like “There she is, that’s my girl, my new favorite friend.” However, as the distance between them narrowed, he was troubled by a few things.

Firstly, Olly was well aware that his new romantic interest wasn’t what would be known as traditionally beautiful. Of course, it had always been her charm, her kindness, the things that they shared in common that drew him to her. He was by no means fixated on appearances, and he would never tell her this, but by conventional standards, she would rank at about a six out of ten.

Of course, she wasn’t unattractive. She did proudly sport some of the best features of Asian beauty, her mother being Korean, but she was also very close to leaving cute chubby-ness and going right into sloppy fat-hood. Her online pictures were mildly misleading, it seemed.

But Olly knew he was in no such position to judge anyone about their weight. One of the more irritating side effects of his medication was weight gain, and this past year he had gained almost eighty pounds. With that, he enthusiastically exited his car and greeted her.

“Hello Sandra, good to finally meet you,” he declared.

“Hey Olly,” was the first thing she said, followed by “Nice Kia”.

“Yeah...” he looked at his feet for a moment, “It’s a Twenty Twelve.”

The second thing that troubled him, upon getting a closer look at her face and the expression she was making, was harder to pin down. Something vaguely unsettling. Her features weren’t exactly misshapen or asymmetric, but there was something strange and otherworldly about her face. It felt somewhat out of place, from another dimension, perhaps assembled by a false God who was only reading the real God’s blueprints on how to design a human face. There really isn’t any other way to put it. She just looked a bit...odd.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just nervous,” Olly said calmly, while brushing the back on his neck with his fingers. “I told you I’ve never been on a ‘date’ before.”

Sandra chuckled softly, “This isn’t a real date, it’s a goose date. Did you bring the bread?”

“I did.”

And soon the two companions were tearing up the stale bread into little tiny bill-sized bits, “You have to make smaller pieces, see, like this” Sandra demonstrated. She balled up a dime sized piece of bread and tossed it into the air, so that it could fall and catch the eye of three geese, sitting perched comfortably at the other end of the parking lot.

It did catch the eye of the one goose who wasn’t sleeping, who began a series of deep honking sounds that awoke the other two. They slowly rose up and began a casual stroll in the direction of the couple.

“See how that one wasn’t sleeping? There’s always at least one ‘Watch Goose’. While the others eat and nap, one will take guard duty and keep and eye out for aerial predators. If there’s a big enough flock grazing, sometimes there’s two Watch Geese. And they take turns, but it’s mostly the top ganders that take guard duty.”

“Wow, you sure know a lot about Canadian Geese,” Olly replied.

Sandra looked over at Olly and smiled at him in a way that set his boyish heart a-flutter, “It’s CANADA geese, actually,” she finished with a wink.

Olly turned forward and noticed the three geese, standing firmly at attention, like little Soviets, almost confronting him. Their gaze was deliberate, precise, and oddly impressive. After all, they were just geese. Still, there they stood, motionless but their eyes never once leaving his face. Olly started to feel, to a certain degree, a bit nervous, but that broke when he heard the calming voice of his friend by his side.

“Give them some bread,” she suggested.

Olly broke off a piece and casually tossed it towards the biggest one, who gobbled it up happily, then raised it’s head as if suggesting a second helping. Olly tossed a couple more small pieces and the three waterfowl greedily snarfed them down. They would periodically emit a low honk-grunt sound at each other, occasionally followed by a quick bite to the neck feathers.

“They do that sometimes, don’t worry,” she said, idly dropping some bread by her feet, “Siblings, you know?”

“How can you tell that?”

“Can you hear that noise they’re making?”

Olly strained his ears to drown out the ambient road noise and did indeed hear some quiet squeaking voices coming from the two smaller ones.

“Yeah that means they’re still juveniles, and since these guys walk in family units, you can see that the big one is the dad and the smaller two are his sons.”

“Wait a minute…” Olly chucked for the first time in weeks, “You can tell the difference between the boys and girls?”

Sandra let out a delightfully charming, but down to earth and genuine laugh that made him feel all flippity-floppity in his stomach. An involuntary smile emerged from him. Well, how do you like that.

“Yes, I can tell them apart by gander,” she said coyly.

Okay, she made a clever pun. It had only just occurred to him how darling he found that. Still all he could manage to say was, “Haha, that’s pretty punny.”

As the geese hurriedly gobbled down the bread, the two young adults regarded each other, standing about five feet apart. She must have noticed this discrepancy and narrowed it by three feet. They were now standing right next to one another, and the emotional response Olly got from that mere action sent him to another plane of euphoria. He had no idea how good romance could feel. And being close to a girl you like. Yes. Olly decided that this was so much better than playing video games all afternoon.

“There’s a few ways you can tell the difference. The first one is the honk. The males make a deeper, two-syllable honk that sounds like ‘Ba-HONK’. They are also generally noisier. The females will make shorter, higher pitched honks that sound like ‘hink!’”

“I cannot believe how much you know about gee - uh, CANADA geese.”

“Well I spend a lot of time just sitting and watching them. And you pick up a thing or two, it’s only natural,” she said.

Olly kicked the ground at his feet, an act that should have startled the geese, but they held their own. Olly decided these particular geese must be used to interacting with humans.

“How often do you feed them?”

“I don’t always feed them bread,” she said, tossing some more bread. A very gentle breeze came flowing in that whisked her hair in a way that almost made it seem befuddled. Olly decided it was cute.

“But I usually just sit and watch them after work. My therapist once told me that if I feel like I can’t deal with people, then I should interact with animals. And gaining the trust of a wild animal?”, she looked as she knelt down, allowing the top gander to eat from her hand, a feat he hadn’t seen in person before. “It’s a greater thrill than firing a weapon.”

“You never told me that you have a therapist,” it had occurred to Olly that, in all the talks they’d had about his own mental health issues, she never brought up that she might be dealing with similar issues.

“Yeah, I’ve struggled with depression in the past. You know how it is,” she finished with a shrug. Apparently, not feeling the need to elaborate further. All in due time, he thought.

The two had finished off the bread and now just watched the three ganders munch on the last bits, periodically honking and murmuring to each other. The big one, the one he privately referred to as ‘the Leader’, began tossing his head back and forth, methodically. Curiously, the other two stood at attention and regarded his authoritarian communication.

“What’s he doing? With his head?”

“He’s talking to his sons,” she answered.

“What’s he saying?”

Sandra then laughed that humble, girl next door laugh again and Olly was fairly sure that he was falling for this odd girl, to a certain degree. Of that which, he was sure.

“I don’t know. I don’t speak goose,” she smiled.

Olly laughed and looked at his feet again, a habit he had when he felt nervous, “Could’ve fooled me,” he remarked jovially.

The three ganders stared at him. With their black, prehistoric eyes that have likely stared down dangerous predators with such regularity, they may as well regard confrontation as a sport. A curiosity occurred during this encounter, he began to feel paranoid. Paranoid like how he used to feel before he discovered the benefits of atypical antipsychotics. He wasn’t sure where exactly the danger was, but it was somewhere. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones, and he began to feel genuinely frightened.

Something was wrong. It WAS too soon for dating. He knew that now, and started trying to think of an excuse to cut the date short, when Sandra’s humble voice cut to the quick.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“N-nothing…”, his voice trembled in a way he hadn’t wanted it to, “I just think I might be having a panic attack for some reason.”

“Oh my gosh, what should I do?”

“I don’t know…”, he trailed off, only able to think about how safe he would feel once he got home, “I should probably just head out.”

“I don’t understand, did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s not you” he panted, “I’m just feeling very nervous. I need to take one of my anxiety pills.”

“Oh, okay,” she calmly replied.

Before Olly knew it, they were exchanging goodbyes and he fled to his Kia. He sat in the driver’s seat and tried to catch his breath. He had no conceivable idea what was making him so frightened. By all accounts, Sandra had shown him a lovely time, and because of his neuroticism, he had to go an ruin it. From across the parking lot, he could see her sitting down next to the ganders, enjoying their company, since he had apparently left hers. This is what you do, he thought. You try your best to act normally and you fail miserably.

Cursing his pathological neurodivergence, he drove off. Perhaps, he would send her flowers as an apology.

PART II

“You are so sweet. And thank you for the flowers,” she said over the phone.

Olly had called a local flower shop and had them send their Sunrise Bouquet to Sandra’s house. All in all, it cost him fifty five dollars, but it was money well spent in his mind.

“No problem. Sorry I was so weird last time.”

“You weren’t weird at all,” she assured, “You just had a panic attack, that’s it.”

“Still embarrassing. Can we try again?”

Sandra paused for a moment, and the silence made Olly feel an uneasiness in his stomach. Indeed, it started flip-flopping like there was a small circus in there.

“Are you sure? The geese freaked you out last time,” she said.

Olly thought for a hurried moment. He hadn’t yet tried to figure out what it was that caused his panicky need to retreat. Was it the geese? He didn’t think so. That would be ridiculous, his mind declared. However, he did find the way they stared at him to be unsettling. In that way, he felt they were watching him quite intensely with chronic purpose. And it made the fires of his paranoia stoke and spark new life.

Olly pushed the thought out of the recesses of his mind. They were, after all, just geese.

“It wasn’t them. I’m not sure what it was. But I’d love to have another goose date. I promise I won’t freak out,” he said.

Sandra made another pause, “Okay, but can you do one thing for me?”

“Anything!”, that sounded far more desperate than he intended it to. A personal flaw that he was always trying to work on.

Sandra giggled over the phone, “Can you bring some bread? Preferably the whole wheat stuff.”

Olly laughed, lightly and with an airy quality. It was not forced at all, “Sure I can bring some white - I mean, WHEAT bread.” He found himself smiling against the screen of his phone. How heavenly this conversation felt. And oh my, how kind and understanding Sandra was. Olly was now becoming quite convinced that this girl might be the girl of his dreams.

They arraigned to meet at the same spot the following morning. The weather was so pleasantly agreeable that day. About seventy degrees, some mild scattering of clouds, with the flamboyant morning sun bashfully peeking from behind. There were more geese this time, five to be exact. There were other birds in the parking lot, some pigeons and a few mallards, but they seemed to want to steer clear of the Canada geese. So they looked onward, from across the parking lot, to the pair of friends sitting on the ground, feeding the geese pieces of bread.

“Isn’t it bad to feed them bread?” Olly asked, while idly tossing pieces. He was sitting with his legs bent to his chest, while Sandra sat hippie style with her legs crossed. Today she was wearing a very flattering red blouse that highlighted her curves in a very charming way. That may have been the first time he realized how attracted to her he truly was.

“Not these guys,” she responded.

“What do you mean?”

She paused again briefly, “Just that they don’t get bread very often, so it’s fine. They mostly eat grass, actually. And there’s a lot of it around here.”

“Yeah…,” he began, “They seem to really like this area.”

“Oh yes,” Sandra tossed more bread, “There’s almost no natural predators, there’s lots of grass for them to eat, there’s a pond for them to swim in. They didn’t use to like the area though. These geese only started coming around here about five years ago.

Olly thought about where he was five years ago. Pre-diagnosis and pre-medication, he was practically stewing in his own fear and paranoia, and constantly terrorized that demons were everywhere. He was so glad those days were over, but it wasn’t without many years of struggle. He must have tried half a dozen different medications before he finally found one that worked. And except for the random occasion where he needed to flee to his safe space, like that first date with Sandra, it generally worked.

“Yeah…I know the feeling,” he said passively. His mind was starting to fill with many thoughts as he lazily fed the geese.

“What feeling?” she asked.

“Oh you know,” he began to put his musings together, “Like…not liking something at first but then it grows on you. I don’t know.”

“Such as?”

“What do you mean?”

Sandra giggled towards him and gave him a slight shoulder nudge, “What’s something you didn’t like at first but now you do?”

“Oh! Okay…”, and then Olly began saying something that he would come to regret quite sincerely. A series of statements that were not falsehoods, but perhaps shouldn’t have been uttered out loud nonetheless. Olly had this almost inhuman quirk in that he was incapable of lying to another person. Most of the time, it served him well. But here was a moment in which, it decidedly did not.

“You.”

“What?”, she asked. “What do you mean?”

Olly began to feel the tiny bee sting-like notions that he shouldn’t have said what he did cover him all over. But he couldn’t stop himself now.

“Just…” interesting choice of words, he thought, considering everything to follow was a justification. “I wasn’t really attracted to you at first, but you totally grew on me.” He said that last part in a tone that was supposed to sound uplifting. The look on Sandra’s face suggested that it most certainly was not.

“Are you being serious?” she finally asked.

He looked at her, he could see that she was crushed. Her stunning eyes began to subtly well up with a tear or two. It was impossible not to notice. Impossible to not know that he caused it. And absolutely impossible for him to stop. With a deep breath, he dug himself deeper.

“It’s okay, I mean, I know I’m nothing to write to Mom about. But that’s okay. And it’s really your wonderful personality and sunny disposition that I’m attracted to. All of our talks, and we just have SO much in common, it’s crazy. There are times when it’s like I feel like you could be the one I’ve been waiting for.”

His words were supposed to make her feel better, but clearly they didn’t. She looked down at her hands, like she was studying them. She didn’t speak. She was too focused on that first part. The part where he said she had to ‘grow on him’. Obviously, it didn’t sit right with her. Olly could see that he very likely broke her heart.

She looked up at him, her eyes big and shiny with fresh tears, “Olly, that really hurt my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please, can we forget I said anything?”

“I don’t know,” she sniffed, “For future reference, when you’re on a date with a woman, it’s never a good idea to insinuate that she’s anything other than beautiful.”

He felt that in the bends of his spine. It was true. Everything she was saying was true. Here you go again, he thought, ruining another good time because you’re basically socially retarded. There were plenty of times in his life that he hated himself, but perhaps, none as much as he did in that moment.

“I should probably go,” she said, hoisting herself up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve just got a bit of a headache right now.”

“Okay,” he replied, knowing full well that wasn’t the reason she was leaving. You dipshit, he thought. You could have said you didn’t like broccoli at first, or the moon, or The Godfather, ANYTHING other than her. She’s great. Why’d you have to go and say she’s not? You stupid son of a bitch, you’re pathetic.

“Bye Olly,” she said, making a hasty retreat, and with a tone that felt cold and intensely impersonal. For the next few minutes, Olly sat on the ground, wondering why he had to say what he did, and further pondering what he could do to make it better. She’s never going to talk to you again, he thought.

As he sat, he noticed that the geese had increased in numbers by three, and they were all staring at him. Perhaps they knew. They seemed to glare at him like they were outraged that he could insult their queen. The biggest one in the front, likely the leader, in particular focused on him. The stare was long, but not in the least bit vacant. He could tell this gander was trying to convey a message, and it wasn’t one of peace and goodwill. It made his heart race.

Then, the gander did something that Olly would never forget. It stepped forward, one, two, three steps forward to be exact. It lowered it’s head, and bellowed a noise that sounded only merely goose-like. It was a honk for sure, but a terribly low, unadulterated one that sounded like it was filtered through pure madness. It sounded like an amalgamation of sixty six million years of evolution. It was only a suggestion of a honk. The sound shook Olly to his very core, and he found himself quite alarmed. He wasn’t sure if there really were demons out there, lurking in the dark places, but if there were, perhaps he was faced with a demonic goose. He was certain that only a creature from hell could possibly make such a horrid, spine-tapping noise.

And with that, Olly got up slowly, his movements being carefully tracked by the keen eyesight of the flock, and left. Quite speedily, in fact. To tell the honest truth, he probably left skid marks in the parking lot.

PART III

Olly had no idea what he was doing in the parking lot so late in the night. It was rather dark considering there was a full moon out. He originally thought perhaps Sandra might be there, however there was something else that was pulling him back to that empty parking lot. It was something he could not quite identify with. What are you doing, he asked himself as he exited his car. His eyes scanned the area, straining in the darkness to try and find the figure of a human. To his regret, there was no one.

Gloomily, he strolled forward about thirteen feet until he stood under a street lamp that clearly wasn’t working. That’s weird, he thought. The street lamps are always functioning this late at night.

“Why isn’t this on?”, he questioned out loud, palming the length of the post. It should have felt cold, and maybe a little damp. Instead, the skin on his hand seemed to labor to feel much of anything. At any other time, he would have noticed this, but that night he felt unmistakably numb.

A soft, low breeze whisked by and made him shiver. He could see that Sandra was not here, so he began measures to walk back to the car.

Then he heard it.

That noise again. The dreadful, resonating goose-shriek he was introduced to just hours earlier. This time, the sound seemed to rip up his spine with all the subtlety of a chainsaw. There is no earthly way to describe how startled he was, any more and he might have overdosed on the fight or flight response. That sound could make Stanley Kubrick shit himself.

[blogs-of-our-lives]

Season 53 Episode 95: Lani Has A Secret

           I like to describe my relationship with Beth as ‘friends with benefits,’ only instead of sex the benefits are that we get drunk and watch Scooby-doo. Off the top of my head, we’ve watched the entire original series, the majority of What’s New Scooby Doo, Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost, Scooby Doo and the Loch Ness Monster, Scooby Doo and KISS: Rock and Roll Mystery (yes, that KISS), and a pretty big portion of Scooby Doo and the Reluctant Werewolf. That’s a lot of Scooby Doo. So when we hit rock bottom (Reluctant Werewolf), we kind of silently agreed to find a new hobby. I suggested Mothman Prophecies, starring Richard Gere (who should have known better than to be in the movie). For whatever reason, Beth wasn’t interested. Killing time one night, we discovered Days of Our Lives. All the most recent episodes are available on the NBC website, dating back about a month or two, if anyone is interested in watching them. Otherwise it’s on at two in the afternoon most days.

           Now, Days has been out since 1965. By the time we landed on the moon, the United States had been enjoying a solid four seasons of Days of Our Lives. Martin Luther King Jr. might have seen a couple of seasons. And I’m willing to bet that someone at Woodstock had enjoyed a few episodes. So naturally I was unwilling and unable to start from the beginning of the series. If I watched an episode a day every day, I wouldn’t be caught up for over 30 years, and that’s not counting the fact that they’re still producing episodes. If I watched Days of Our Lives all day every day, it would take me 418 days to catch up.

           I started with Episode 95… of Season 53. Holy shit.

           This might help put into context how old this show is. There’s a character in this episode named JJ. It’s hard to guess his age, but I’m going to say that he’s – at the youngest – only in his mid-twenties. He’s the child of Jack and Jennifer, two characters of the show. Jack and Jennifer started dating, got married, had a child, and that child was JJ. He then grew up as the show went on, until he is old enough now to consider marriage. There are characters that are born into the show, and the show begins to follow them after they age to an adult. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like the children are born into a nightmarish hell of being forced to continue where their parents left off. This show has outlived many. People have been born into the shadow of Days of Our Lives and have died under its inky wings of death.  

           The description of the episode I watched is “Gabi is booked on murder charges; Brady and Eve go on their first real date; Lani makes a confession to Eli; Claire realizes Ciara and Tripp are keeping a secret.”

           I admit, the murder charges bit caught my eye. I like a little bit of mystery, especially when I expect the rest of the show is filled with love triangles and comparatively boring day to day minutiae. I was terribly wrong with that assumption, but I’ll get to that later.

           Now, Days is pretty self-aware. It knows that nobody cares enough to watch each episode. So the characters use names enough for the casual viewer to catch on quickly. I learned who Gabi, Lani, and JJ were pretty quickly. Ciara, Claire, and Tripp don’t make an appearance until the end, which I didn’t mind, because his name is Tripp. Anybody who names their child Tripp doesn’t deserve to have a child.

           Gabi seems to be a person of interest in some kind of investigation. At first, I suspected some kind of white collar crime, but I was wrong. They’re reviewing security footage. A character named Rafe tells Gabi that she may be a suspect.

           And all of a sudden we’re with Lani and JJ, who are eating together at some kind of café. Wait, what? Mid conversation, after just a brief lull, the viewer is immediately taken to a different set with different characters and a different plot. There was no segue, nor even a real stopping point. It may have been mid-sentence for all the sense it made. It was about as jarring as if the whole episode was just a long and complex intro to a Scooby Doo movie I was tricked into watching. You quickly get used to the storyline jumping, however.

           JJ is without a doubt my favorite character, because in the few episodes I’ve seen of him. He doesn’t really do anything. When he speaks with Lani, she goes on a long rant about how difficult being pregnant is, despite the fact that she’s about two weeks pregnant. Note the word choice I used. She ranted to him. They didn’t have a conversation, because that implies he participated. She spoke at him. There’s only one circumstance that makes it okay for someone to talk to you like that, and usually you call the other person “professor.” But that’s not why I like him. I like him because it happened to him with another character. This poor guy’s luck, that he just happens to run into the two most narcissistic and talkative people alive. The guy probably hasn’t been home in three days, his boss is calling him wondering why he hasn’t shown up for work, his family is texting him worried sick, the police are starting a missing person report because these two people just have to have JJ be the one sitting across the table as they talk pretty much to themselves.  Meanwhile, JJ nods.

           In a flashback, Lani is speaking to an older woman, possibly her mother. Lani’s character is keeping some kind of secret, though it’s unclear from whom. Her father? JJ? Any of the other male characters? “If you don’t tell him, I will,” her mother ominously warns.

           After there’s a pause in the baby conversation, we’re back to Gabi and her investigation. Apparently she’s suspected of murder. “I can’t go back to prison,” she said.

           Did you say back? You’ve been to prison before? Honestly it doesn’t even matter at this point. We’ve burned through about half a bottle of Grey Goose between the two of us, and I don’t even care if Gabi goes to prison anyway. I’m all about JJ and Lani, and whatever secret she’s keeping from him right now. Beth, if you’re reading this, martinis are gross, and I wish you liked tequila so I could make a better mixed drink. If anyone has any good vodka drinks, for the love of god let me know.

           Throughout all this there’s a date between Brady and Eve in the background. Apparently they used to have a no strings attached type arrangement. Neither are particularly interesting characters and the date is terrible. At some point they turn it into a business meeting and start brainstorming ways for their magazine to reach out to the young white woman demographic. Their waitress (who happens to be Claire) is a young white woman, so they ask her what product would interest her. She answers, “Um… a time machine. Definitely. Yeah my boyfriend and I are in the ultimate long distance relationship.” This is really interesting for several reasons, one of them being that a few episodes later the thumbnail is her, naked in bed with Tripp. I don’t have a good feeling about their relationship.

           “Poor girl,” Eve said afterwards. “Probably thinks that she’s the only person in the world right now that’s alone.” I’m noticing that about once an episode there will be a really well written quote. Every so often they’ll strike gold, then go back to their usual writing quality.

           The best part of the date is that Eve has a glass of wine in front of her, without any condensation on the glass. Which makes sense, because as time goes on, the condensation will change, and the viewer can tell when different takes are being used in the final cut. For the same reason, movie studios have employees making sure that costumes and props stay consistent from scene to scene (making sure a watch doesn’t switch hands, for example, or that the actors don’t move their silverware). So Eve’s glass of wine is probably just a glass of apple juice at room temperature. Brady, on the other hand, has a mixed drink filled with ice, which he frequently drinks from. In conclusion, I’m pretty sure the actor who plays Brady had actual alcohol in his glass. I can’t say I blame him.

So now we move onto Tripp, Ciara, and Claire. Ciara is Claire’s aunt (they’re the same age, both mid-twenties), and for some reason they both live in an apartment together. That’s fine. Tripp also lives there. Also fine. Claire looks like Elsa Jean. Like, a spitting image. If you don’t recognize the name, don’t bother googling it. She just has light blonde hair and a VERY strong jawline.

           Ciara and Claire get an invitation for Rafe’s wedding to… Gabi I think? Ciara invites Tripp to be her plus one. “Too bad Theo isn’t going to be there,” she said, looking Claire dead in the eyes. “You’ll have to sit all on your lonesome.”

           Wow. That’s a real bitch move, Ciara. Capital B. Worse, that was a binch move.

           Not much interesting happens in the Claire, Ciara, and Tripp storyline. Tripp seems to like Claire. Ciara seems to like Theo. Judging from his body language I get the sense that Tripp is into Ciara as well. There’s nothing else worth noting, which is perfect because the next (and final) 5 minutes are the most exciting.

           Lani’s father, Abe, is walking down the street with Lani’s mother. Back in the 1980s, Abe was murdered by a character known as “The Salem Stalker.” I’m not making that up. Abe was killed thirty years ago. He’s alive now. I’ll explain why some other time.

           JJ stops him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wedding ring. “I’d like to have your blessing to marry Lani.” Dun dun duuuuun.

Gabi is arrested on suspicion of murder. She’s led away by Rafe, while Eli watches from his office. Lani comes in, teary eyed. Every time we’ve seen her character, she looks like she’s on the brink of crying. Her hand on her stomach (which isn’t showing because, as I mentioned before, she’s like two weeks pregnant), she tells Eli it’s his baby. GASP.

           He has a terrifying series of emotions over the next couple moments, ranging from excited, guilty, and furious. Eli seems like an okay dude, but he doesn’t seem to be the most emotionally stable. The episode ends before he can say anything.

           Just like that, I was hooked. Up until that point, it was just a mediocre show. It was no Scooby Doo, and it was no Mothman Prophecies. But then in those last five minutes, a character gets arrested (again) for murder, Lani reveals she’s pregnant with Eli’s baby, and JJ asks Abe for his blessing. What a way to close out an episode.

           Next episode has spies in it. It’s up to you to figure out if I’m joking or not.

[xfilesnews]

Recap and Review: ‘The X-Files: Stolen Lives’

Another audiobook has joined The X-Files library shelf. "The X-Files: Stolen Lives" was released by Audible on October 3rd. Based on the Season 10 comics from IDW, this continues the adventures of Mulder and Scully from "Cold Cases." The stories are written by Joe Harris, executive produced by Chris Carter, and produced for audible by Dirk Maggs. Gillian Anderson, David Duchovny, and Mitch Pileggi return to their roles, and other fan favorites lend their voices as well. As with the first audiobook, you don't need to be familiar with the comics to enjoy this audio version, but it does help. If you haven't yet listened to "Cold Cases" I'd suggest trying that first. The audio series does not follow the timeline established in the TV version of Season 10 so there are events and characters that would seem out of place to new listeners. "Stolen Lives" has some solid scares so if you're a monster of the week fan you're in luck. But it also dives into some mythology, though not quite as heavily as "Cold Cases."

Does "Stolen Lives" pass the bar set by "Cold Cases?"  Hit the jump for our recap and review.

We again start with Chapter 2, as Chapter 1 is opening credits. Chapter 2 is called "Immaculate" and follows Season 10 issues 16 and 17. The story begins outside an abortion clinic in North Carolina. A young woman is hassled by protesters and makes her way inside. As she approaches the woman is also hearing a voice in her head. She seems familiar to the clinic staff but before they recognize her she detonates a bomb she smuggled inside. The girl survives and convinces the protesters to follow her.

When looking over the evidence, the girl whose name is Joni Cartwright, apparently has a halo and that's how Mulder and Scully end up on the case. After interviewing a nurse who was burned in the explosion, Mulder and Scully decide to split up and investigate more of Joni's backstory. Joni's family is religious and Scully finds Joni's mother along with a creepy pastor. Being sensitive to cases involving religion has never been Mulder's strong suit, and we see that again when Mulder questions his first suspect. The mystery of the case leads us from victims who look like they died of fright, to a cliff in the woods where the possessed townspeople meet a tragic end. The good pastor is not exactly who he seems and we learn who Joni's baby-daddy really was through Scully's investigative tactics. And as usual, it's Mulder who sees the monster for what it really is. “Stolen Lives” starts with a much more "monster of the week" tone than "Cold Cases" did, but there's no lack of controversy here. The X-Files has never shied away from religion or difficult subject matter and this is no different. "Cold Cases" featured a school shooting so tackling an abortion clinic bombing seems on par with the tone set there. The chapter reminds me a bit of Season 7's "Signs and Wonders" in that we're dealing with a pastor who is not what he seems. But "Immaculate" is much more violent than I remember that episode being. Listening to Scully dress down the pastor was one of my favorite parts of the chapter, with Mulder's interaction with a scared Sarabeth a close second. I appreciated the Frank Black joke, as I'm sure other "Millennium" fans did. I was also glad to hear them reference the missing Agents Doggett and Reyes at the beginning. We haven't heard much about them since the beginning of "Cold Cases" so it was a good reminder that part of the team is still missing. Mulder's sarcasm was about what you'd expect for any faith-based episode and I cracked up at the "moderately godless heathen requesting permission to enter." I wasn't crazy about the fact that once again, Scully being a mother and how that might affect her was brought up at the beginning of the case. This story was written in 2014, and William would be 13 by then. He's been away from Mulder and Scully for a long time now and it just seemed weird to me to have Morales say "I hope this doesn't affect you." You notice no one ever asks Mulder that same question?

Chapter 3, called "Chitter" follows Issue 9 of the comics. This was Joe Harris' first original monster-of-the-week. And if you don't like bugs, I'm sorry. At the start, we're introduced to the "Chittering God" and a gross sounding swarm. Mulder and Scully are soon on the scene in Pennsylvania but the investigation doesn't start well for Scully. After some joking with Mulder and comments about a funny smell, she passes out. But Scully being Scully, when she recovers she insists on investigating the house anyway. They find a switch that leads them to the killing room.

As always with the X-Files, things are not what the seem and the initial suspect, Mr. Keansey, isn't the only guilty party. Once again Mulder and Scully's investigations take different directions with Mulder interrogating the suspect and Scully out in the field. The first suspect, and his bug friends, indicate the Chittering God is after Scully. Scully cases the neighborhood and visits with an old woman named Mrs. Hoynes who reads her tea leaves. Mrs. Hoynes tells Scully she knows she lost a child "recently." And that the chittering god feeds on that sorrow and "both grow stronger." As Scully tries to escape it seems the woman, or the god, is trying to get her to hurt herself. Mulder arrives in the nick of time and keeps any more violence from happening.

The chapter gets points for the gross-out factor. The roaches in "War of the Coprophages" were bad enough but hearing the scratching on the headphones left me wanting to take a shower. The thought of being able to sic bugs on someone and call on a swarm makes me shiver. The story is definitely creepy and it's interesting that Keansey was just as much a victim of this crazy old lady and her "god" as Scully almost was. That Mulder and Scully were sharing a hotel room and discussing the case warmed my little shipper heart.

While I liked the story, I was again frustrated with the "Scully Mom Pain" angle. In the comics chronology, this issue is further removed from "Immaculate" so it might not have seemed as repetitive. I'd also like to point out that Scully has technically lost two children. Emily seems to be forgotten a lot. I do think it's fair that Scully is a person who has faced a lot of despair, but Mulder has too, so why wasn't he a target as well? Perhaps in the off years, he's had a little more therapy? I thought Mulder seemed like a bigger jerk than usual in this episode too. We know he can be a jerk and love that about him at times, but he's usually not mean. And there was something about the way Mulder said "you think this is all about you?" that rubbed me the wrong way.

We return to our missing federal agents in Chapter 4, aptly titled "Monica and John." This mirrors Season 10 Issue 18. Our first glimpse of Monica Reyes shows she's been in captivity for a year. Held in a tiny cell, she describes the events that lead to her abduction. She was in Wyoming paying a visit to William's adoptive parents when she was taken. She believes she's being held by John Doggett, who leaves to go to a post office. That trip triggers the FBI and Skinner and Scully get involved. Mulder is apparently off testifying to keep Monty Props locked up so he misses the action.

Of course, the Doggett holding Monica captive isn't really Doggett all. The real Doggett is also being held captive. He manages to escape from his cell and goes to free Monica. Their captor returns and seems to be one of the Acolytes we met in "Cold Cases." In a twist, he asks Monica and John to kill him. Doggett resists because he wants evidence of what has happened to them, but Monica stabs him with the stiletto anyway because she believes the FBI has forgotten them. Just as the alien melts away Skinner and Scully arrive.

This was the shortest chapter of the book and one I'd like to have seen in more detail. I was so glad to see Doggett and Reyes again and the refresher on the "new" mythology was helpful. I can't imagine what it was like to have been held like that for so long. I would have liked to have heard more of their story. And we're left hanging about what's next for the two. Do they get to go back to the FBI? Does Monica quit and record her own best selling whale song album? I found this a good chapter, just too short! I also really missed Robert Patrick and Annabeth Gish voicing their characters. The woman doing Reyes was close at points, but Doggett's actor wasn't even close to Robert Patrick's memorable style.

Get ready for a little time travel in Chapter 5. G-23 follows comics issues 19 and 20. We dig up a few ghosts and Mulder gets sent on a wild trip that doesn't involve line dancing. The story begins in 1966 in Nevada at a military installation. Two young adults are smoking a cigarette laced with something called G-23 and they're getting progressively more freaked out. The young woman starts thinking she sees aliens. Shadowy men are observing the teens, none other than a young CGB Spender and Bill Mulder. In the present day, Mulder is waiting in D.C. to meet Scully for lunch but before she arrives the CSM crashes his party. After a round of 'who is my real dad?' with Mulder, the CSM presents him with a poster of the Nevada desert and a camper van with a G-23 plate. After a meeting with Scully and later the Lone Gunmen, this sends Mulder off on a wild goose chase into the desert.

Langly follows Mulder to what starts as a party in the desert but turns into a bad G-23-induced trip. In his hallucination, there’s a vamped up version of Scully in fishnets, heels, and Spender's trench coat. This vision calls herself "Red" and sounds more Spender than Scully.  She leads Mulder through the remains of the old G-23 complex and on a trip down memory lane. They talk about what was the G-23 substance was really made of and of Bill Mulder's work fighting the alien colonists. In the end, the real Scully rescues Mulder but whatever proof he thought he had of the incident is gone.

I wasn't sure what to think of this chapter on first listen, and may give it another try. Anything that involves the Lone Gunmen makes me happy, and the actors always sound really in character. I laughed at Langly calling Frohike 'Jump Street' because Tom Braidwood was a first assistant director on that show back in the day. One has to feel for Mulder at the beginning that he keeps getting haunted by this zombie ghost from his past. And I thought it was interesting to dive more into Bill Mulder's background. It makes him out to be a slightly more sympathetic character that he was in the TV series. I felt like they were trying to redeem him a bit. Whether that succeeded, I'm not sure.

I also wasn't particularly thrilled with the "Scully as vixen" bit. If Scully herself makes the choice to don that outfit and say "sweet dreams baby" I'm all for it if it's her idea. But for that to be a fantasy and not her personal choice gets old. In this version, at least, it's insinuated at the very end that CSM was dressed that way himself all along, but that's not the case in the comic. There's no doubt Scully is a beautiful woman but we love her for her intelligence and what her brains bring to the case. This struck me as more of an excuse for the guys to write her as sexy than as something meaningful to the plot. It also strikes me as funny that once again Mulder gets himself into trouble because he runs off on his own.

It's back to the mytharc in Chapter 6 with 'Elders." This is the longest of the chapters and covers issues and ground from New York to D.C. to Cuba and finds Mulder in a whole new mess of trouble. We start with Prime Elder talking to the CSM about the ability to read minds and the scars on his head. If that doesn't tip you off to who he is, it should have. He meets with the Syndicate group who are all clones like the CSM. Elsewhere in Virginia, Scully and Mulder are playing hooky at a county fair that turns tragic. A woman claiming to be someone from Mulder's past shoots three people and turns the gun on herself. This launches an investigation of Mulder that digs deep into his past involving something called the Chilmark Project.

As part of the Chilmark project, Mulder spoke with a woman named Caroline Ross who looked oddly similar to the woman who attacked him at the fair. But it's not possible because Ross hanged herself in 1991. As they leave the FBI Mulder is hounded by reporters. Scully stays behind to defend him but as soon as Mulder clears the pack he's abducted by another group of men.

Mulder ends up a prisoner in a cloning facility hidden in the Guantanamo Bay prison in Cuba where Prime Elder reveals himself as Gibson. While he's at the facility Scully is working with the CSM who hints to her that Gibson is the one who has taken Mulder. But he's not the only CSM in this episode. Another version is helping Mulder at the base in Cuba. Skinner also finds himself in the crosshairs of the Syndicate, who kidnap him and torch his apartment.

Back in Cuba, the CSM helps Mulder escape and gives him a memory stick with evidence of Gibson's treachery. Not only has Gibson created this facility but he's been working to frame Mulder as well. No sooner does Mulder escape than Scully ends up in Gibson's clutches herself. With some help from the Lone Gunmen, we learn more about what exactly Gibson was up to and how he plans to move his creepy clone creating operation back to the U.S. Yet another CSM clone this time helps Scully escape. A quick meeting between her and Mulder sends Mulder looking for a way to escape and Scully heading back to deal with Gibson once and for all.

Gibson claims he was only protecting Mulder and that he will only be hunted further even after the allegations are cleared. Scully fears Gibson continued to do to himself what the Syndicate had in the past. While they argue Gibson tries to lead a ship into port using telekinesis. That's the ship he will use to move his cloning operation and continue the project. Scully dispatches the threat and races off to find Mulder.

Mulder and Scully reunite just as he's about to board a smuggling ship. Scully is rattled by her encounter with Gibson but Mulder reminds her they will get through whatever Gibson did together. Scully encourages Mulder to leave with the smugglers and that she'll go back to the FBI to clear things up. And just when Scully thinks she can get a drink to clear her head, she realizes she's surrounded by multiples of the person she thought she killed just moments ago. And there, we end. This also marks the end of the Season 10 comics series.

I love mytharc eps and was glad to see it back in this new form again. And poor Gibson Praise makes for a great villain. It was interesting to see how they expanded on what was done to him, and the flashbacks of the time he and Mulder spent together back in 2001. I also loved how often we got to see Scully fiercely defending Mulder. After all this time she knows him like no one else does. I got a particular thrill watching her tell off A.D. Morales at the beginning. I would have loved to see Skinner more in on the action instead of being pushed around by the Syndicate or Morales. But I'm glad he was included in a smaller way at least.  

A few overall thoughts now that we've finished the series:  I feel like Mulder and Scully spend way too much time apart in this series. I know they split up a lot in the TV show but it felt like they were working without each other most of the time. I did enjoy that Scully got to be more of an active investigator than in "Cold Cases." She wasn’t stuck doing autopsies as much. And clearly, Mulder has never learned that when he runs off on his own bad things are going to happen. Mulder’s dry humor is captured well and the banter when Mulder and Scully are together is pretty funny in parts. As far as the stories themselves, if you find them hard to follow at times, paging through the comics again can help with that. The audio version does work to flesh them out a little more but they're close to what we saw on the page. I made the comment after finishing "Cold Cases" that the acting can come across as a little wooden at times and that's also the case here. Though I do think it was a bit better this time.

Overall, I do think the series is worth your time and an interesting listen. There's no perfect substitute for the TV show but these audio adventures are entertaining and make the wait for a new season a little easier. While we've now made our way through the Season 10 comics, we don't yet know if they'll continue the audiobooks with the Season 11 series from IDW, which is also different from the upcoming TV series. We'll keep you posted as soon as we hear something!

[aspelladay]

Introduction

One thousand spells. Are any of them real?

What is magic anyway?

What a question. Rational people know how to define magic—magic is illusion, sleight of hand, at best the fine art of tricks, at worst fraudulence—or so goes the definition usually taught to schoolchildren. Another interpretation dismisses magic as supernatural fantasy and wishful thinking—the stuff of fairy tales, Mother Goose, and mythology; tales for children and hence of little value; its only purpose entertainment; its only possible truth metaphoric. A third interpretation is more malevolent, with occult masters—the proverbial evil wizards and wicked sorceresses—attempting to maintain control over gullible and innocent plain folk, their tools fear and superstition, not true magic, which, of course, rationalists argue, doesn’t exist anyway. Yet another explanation suggests that magic works solely by psychological means, a sort of self-hypnosis. According to this theory, usually offered by old-school anthropologists and psychologists, the poor benighted native’s very belief in something, such as a death curse or a traditional healing, is what causes it to come true. Magic happens because you believe in the system not because the system works or even exists, although explanations for why, if their powers of belief are so all-powerful, the natives remain poor and benighted, and forced to tolerate outside observers, are rarely offered.

“Occult” is a word commonly misinterpreted. It doesn’t mean evil or satanic. It has no moral connotations whatsoever. Occult really means “secret” or “hidden.” Secrets may be kept hidden for a host of valid reasons. In many cultures and at many times, the definition of real true working magic wasn’t a hidden secret, subject to false interpretation, but a normal fact of life. In other cultures and at different times, however, real true working magical practitioners have been subject to torture, persecution, and oppression. Magic’s very survival has often depended upon secrecy and a willingness to tolerate patronizing, false definitions.

True magical practitioners, of whom there remain many, would reject the definitions of magic given above, although there are vestiges of truths in all of them. Real magical practitioners consider themselves guardians, preservers, and (sometimes) revivers of Earth’s forgotten, besieged, and suppressed occult truths and traditions.

Magic, at its most basic, is the science of Earth’s hidden powers. For the true practitioner, there’s nothing supernatural about magic. Natural is just a lot more complex than conventional modern wisdom allows.

Although there are many ways to practice magic, many schools, philosophies, methods, and traditions, the bottomline definition of what actually constitutes real magic, and why and how it works, is amazingly consistent throughout the world.

According to general worldwide metaphysical wisdom, common to all magical understanding and tradition, there is an inherent energy radiating from Earth and all living things. Analytical traditions and cultures have studied this energy in depth; others simply accept its existence and work with it. Many languages have specific names for this energy. English does not. This increases the confusion when discussing magic—an already vast and confusing topic. In the same manner that English, a language so rich in descriptive adjectives, has but one word for snow, while Inuit has many, one word for love, while Sanskrit has many, so English has but one word, magic, to define its various aspects. Harry Houdini, Harry Potter, Helena Blavatsky, Aleister Crowley, and countless anonymous village wise-women are all lumped together as masters of magic, as if it were a monolithic art.

English also lacks a specific word to name that power that radiates from all life.

The ancient Egyptians called it heka; on the other side of Africa, the Yoruba, parent culture of myriad spiritual and magical traditions, call it ashé. The most familiar word may be the Polynesian mana. In Morocco, this radiant energy is known as baraka. For lack of a better word, let’s just call it magic power.

This magic power, this capacity for magic, radiates from all living beings to a greater or lesser extent. In fact, it is the existence of this power that defines what, in magical terms, is considered “alive,” a very different criterion than that required by a coroner’s report. (In magical terms, death is not the absence of life. Absence of power equals absence of life. A corpse, although no one denies the person is dead in the conventional sense, is still very much alive, as is the pine box and, most especially, the iron coffin nails. The average plastic bottle, however, lacks life. Confused? More about this crucial concept later.)

This magical life-power is formless: you can’t see it, hear it or touch it. So how do you know it exists? How is it quantified and measured? By its effects upon you.

Baraka, the Moroccan term for this power, contains significant implications. The root word can be recognized in another Semitic language, Hebrew, where it translates as “blessing.” To be in the presence of this power is to receive blessings. Although people have learned to manipulate magic powers for malevolent purposes and ill intent, it is intrinsically a positive, benevolent, and sacred energy. According to an Egyptian legend, having contemplated creation, the Creator foresaw that all would not be good and felt pangs of remorse. He therefore imbued Earth with heka as a gift to people, so that they might use it to ward off the harsh blows of fate. Magic is the system that attempts to harness this energy.

The closest comparison one might make is to radioactive energy. That, too, is formless, cannot be seen, touched, or smelled. Yet its impact is profound and cannot be denied. Because nuclear radiation has had such a devastating impact on our world, it’s difficult to recall how recent a discovery it truly is. Marie and Pierre Curie, and the other early scholars of radioactive energy, were visionaries. They recognized the existence of something that others did not. Not everyone believed in their theories, including many very educated people, in much the same way that people say they don’t believe in magic. Many thought the Curies deluded, crazy or just incorrect, at least until the power they sought had been unleashed with too much force to ever be denied.

If one tells the story of Marie Curie’s quest in simple terms, it resembles a modern-day fairy tale. Marie, laboring obsessively in her laboratory/shack resembles the quintessential alchemist feverishly attempting to extract and develop the philosopher’s stone, that legendary substance reputed to bestow eternal youth, health, and life.

In a sense, Marie Curie extracted the anti-philosopher’s stone. Modern fairy tales are sanitized for children; today’s adults are uncomfortable transmitting the truths contained in them. Real fairy tales—the original versions—don’t always have happy endings, just like the tale of Marie Curie doesn’t. Marie’s quest ultimately led her to death; many of her surviving books, materials, and tools are so packed with the deadly power into which she tapped that even today they remain too radioactive to handle.

The goal of magic is to tap into a different energy, an energy so powerful and benevolent that all aspects of life improve. The most potent magical books, tools, and materials (just like those books and papers of Marie Curie) hold, retain, and radiate their power and energy infinitely.

How do you measure exposure to nuclear radiation? While scientific tools of measurement have been developed, ultimate, undeniable proof comes in its effects on the body. Similar scientific tools to quantify, measure, and identify magic power have not been invented, yet (to the magical practitioner) its effect upon the individual is equally clear. The term, a person of power, is meant literally. People who possess magical power in substantial quantities, who live in close proximity to it, are magnetic and charismatic personalities. They radiate personal power. Other people find merely being in their presence invigorating and empowering. Although into every life some rain must fall, for the person with strong reserves of magic power, the world exists as a place of possibility. If, on the other hand, you feel consistently drained or frustrated, if your libido and life-force are chronically diminished, if you foresee nothing ahead of you but monotony or gloom, if life lacks joy, if your goals seem so out of reach that it’s pointless to try, and it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for anything, then it’s very likely that you suffer from a serious deficiency of this life-power. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle, although these power reserves are continually shifting. Like a gas tank, magical life-power needs to be replenished as you use it, and acquired if you lack it.

This power is contagious. It can be transferred, transmitted, increased, decreased, or lost. These power-exchanges occur continuously, with or without human participation. The power is contained within a botanical plant or crystal, for instance, whether or not a human taps into it. You can ignore this power and these energy transactions, although their effects upon you continue and remain, for good or ill. You can also attempt to harness this power for your own benefit and the benefit of your loved ones.

Perhaps magic may best be understood by considering one of its branches: the school of magical arrangement, feng shui. Once obscure outside China, the art of feng shui is now discussed and debated worldwide; it has even grown suffi- ciently commonplace to merit, for a time, a newspaper column in the Sunday Los Angeles Times’ real estate section! (Although apparently there were enough complaints about the intrusion of magic into real life for the column to eventu- ally disappear.)

Feng shui’s literal translation, “wind and water,” implies that this is a natural art, not a manufactured one. According to feng shui, objects are manipulated to create good fortune, minimize hardship, and (hopefully) eliminate disaster. Likewise, one must pay attention to natural earth formations (mountains, valleys, waterways) in order to harmonize one’s own energies and desires with them for your maximum benefit. This conscious manipulation and harmonizing of energies and forces is the basis of all magic. By manipulating various magical powers, goals are achieved, success attained, and misfortune prevented. For instance, the presence of lavender theoretically empowers any other spell or materials. Powdered vinca, the sorcerer’s violet, transforms any bouquet of flowers into a tool of seduction, although some flowers (roses, orchids, tuberoses) are powerful enough not to require any assistance.

Of course, rationalists refute all of this as nonsense. It can’t be proven scientifically—therefore it doesn’t exist.

Magical practitioners are either gullible idiots or outright charlatans.

The magical practitioners’ response to this criticism is that rationalists have invented and are clinging to a very limited notion of a world that really doesn’t exist. Practitioners would say that scientific method, as well as so-called logic, are unrealistic, artificial human-created constructs designed to deny and place limits on Earth’s true mystery and grandeur. According to magical theory, some sacred mysteries cannot be explained, defined, or controlled, although one can attempt to use them for one’s benefit. Ultimately, one could say, magic is another way of looking at and understanding the world. If you are not yet initiated into this magical world, then be prepared: once you’ve learned some real magic and successfully cast some spells, you will see the world in a different way than you did before. Will you trust your own experiences and insights? Or will you be among the many who say, “I can’t believe what just happened to me?”

Although modern science is the child of the magical arts, most especially alchemy, its world vision and goals are diametrically opposed to its parents’. To enter into the magical world is to be a willing, conscious participant in a dream landscape. One accesses power by surrendering control over boundaries. The magical world is a huge, unruly, fluid, dream-like place filled with invisible powers, psychic debris, positive and negative forces, guardian spirits, and radiant beings existing on all sorts of planes of energy that defy human definition, domination, and control. Everything pulsates with vibrant, potentially powerful life, including you.

Magic is a partnership between powers, human and otherwise. The question of whether magic is used for good or ill depends upon the practitioner’s intentions, not the inherent nature of the system. Every interaction is an energy transaction of some kind, although, obviously, some are more significant than others.

Scientific method demands consistent, predictable replication of results. Magic revels in the unique, the unusual, the individual, and the exception. Magic refutes the entire concept of coincidence. Anything that appears coincidental possesses some magical significance; the more unusual and freakish the coincidence, the more worthy of attention and analysis. Anything too easily replicated is either a very basic natural law (stick your finger into fire and it will hurt) or else lacks power and is thus magically worthless (that lifeless plastic bottle).

Confusion derives from a limited word pool, as we have seen. Identical words are used to indicate different meanings. Magic defies boundaries: life doesn’t terminate with death. Death is not the end, nor is it the opposite of life; it’s merely another mysterious stop on the spectrum of existence. Dead as in “Uncle Joe is dead,” may be meant literally, but life, living, or alive usually refer to something very different in magic-speak. Life in magical parlance is a quality, a capacity for power: someone or something has it, in varying quantities, or they don’t. If something is unique, not entirely predictable or reproducible, and also possesses potential for power, it’s alive.

Everything that exists naturally on Earth or is constructed from naturally occurring parts possesses the capacity for power, including you. This magic power, this baraka, is what ultimately fuels Earth. Fans of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy may recognize parallels to those novels’ controversial power, dust. Without it, existence is drained, lifeless, frustrating, joyless, and bereft.

This holistic power expresses itself on all planes simultaneously: physical, spiritual, mental, sexual, and emotional. This power is not generic. Every plant, every stone, every species of living creature radiates a specific type of power, although the most powerful are incredibly versatile. Roses seduce, but they also heal, comfort, and summon benevolent spirits. Individual members of a species radiate these powers to varying degrees, depending upon circumstances and personal power.

That’s a lot of powers to remember. Luckily practitioners have been contributing to the magical repertoire of materials, the materia magica, since that old, proverbial time immemorial and continue to

By magical definition, anything occurring naturally on Earth, whether plant, animal, element, stone, or metal, is alive

Anything radiating any degree of magical power whatsoever is perceived to be alive, although the manner in which different beings are alive is not identical. A stone may be alive but even the most hard-core practitioner won’t look for a pulse

If something can be recreated so that there are identical, indistinguishable specimens, and if that something is completely predictable and controllable, it lacks life. Lacking life, it contains no power, no innate magic, and is of little value to the magical practitioner do so. It’s not necessary to re-invent the wheel, although experimentation can be fun. A font of established information exists for you to draw upon. The Element Encyclopedia of 1000 Spells merely scratches the surface of world magic.

(from The Element Encyclopedia of 5,000 Spells by Judika Illes)

[cheapggdbonsales-blog]

Golden Goose Sneakers Outlet Passive finances Strategies

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[forbidden-creepypasta]

Moebius

That house used to be red. My mother took great pride in her first-born son. My father, on the other hand, was not so passionate about my birth—I was his 5th child and 2nd son, so the significance of my being brought into existence was a trifle. I was brought home from the hospital, and my mother loved me as best she could. Nothing she would ever do would make up for the lack of love my father experienced toward me, but nothing would stop her from trying, despite the fact that, being the youngest of four children, she was quite selfish and more than a bit vain. I have only fleeting memories now of the house I was raised in for the first few years of my life. I can remember the layout, the strange way my father had cut into the wall under the stairs to install the TV, keeping the screen flush with that same wall. I can see the kitchen, I can remember where the sink was, tucked into a corner. I remember where the table sat, and how the bathroom was adjacent. There was an entryway into the kitchen, coming from the back of the house, where the washing machine and dryer were placed, and that entrance served as the main gateway into the house. The front of the house, which was the living room, certainly had a front-facing door to the outside, but a flimsy addition had been tacked on there. It was not quite a room, but not quite outside, and difficult beyond that to describe properly. It was very much like an enclosed front porch but with no access to the outside. I also remember the basement. It was not accessible from inside the house, but had its own door at the side of the house, built right into the foundation. Inside was very rough, everything feeling as though the cement had just been thrown at the walls and floor, and it didn’t seem to even have a regular shape to it. In many ways, it was as though it were carved out of rock haphazardly and not poured as a normal foundation would be. There was another oddity about it, a sort of back room, the kind with a single dangling light fixture with a pull chain to turn it on and off and a bulb that never seems quite enough to light all the corners of the room. That room was considered to be the cellar, but I cannot recall what we would have ever used it for. The stairs inside the house led to a second floor. At the top of the stairs, turning left or right would lead to bedrooms. Left was the room designated for my sisters, and the right was my parents’ room. My brother actually had the front addition as his bedroom, which didn’t seem at all odd to me at the time but now has me wondering how he managed to keep warm in the winter months. Back upstairs, there was a curious sort of closet space that was more like a cramped hallway that connected the two bedrooms. At the top of the stairs, in the cubby area, was where my bed was. Much of my reconstruction of the house is reliant on the fact that I visited it some years after my parents’ divorced, which allows me such an accurate description of it. There really aren’t a noticeable amount of memories attached to it before my parents split up, due to the fact that I was only 3 when that happened. I do remember that night, however, even though there was no real understanding of what was going on. I can recall my parents yelling at each other across the kitchen and not knowing how to feel. I can recall being in the van afterward, my mother driving, and not remembering the destination. Life, of course, went on for us. My mother married again, we moved from home to home, more siblings were born. There was a strained relationship between me and my stepfather, as I’m sure I had always hoped my “real” parents would get back together. There were many struggles, many more fights, and a good deal of confusion and betrayal in the first twenty years of my life, but none that we will get into here. In my early twenties, I remember taking girlfriends to the old red house. It was in a very secluded suburb, with nary a neighbor to be seen or heard. Directly next door, and with a path connecting them, lived the woman I was forced to call my grandmother, although there was nothing grand nor motherly about her. She lived alone, as my grandfather passed away shortly before my parents’ divorce, alone with two quite nasty-tempered poodles. She had received a substantial payout from an insurance policy my grandfather was wise enough to procure, but none of us ever felt the blessing of that money. She hoarded it, even during the holidays, giving me only a cheaply designed box that contained off-brand hard candies and the occasional dollar bill—this she gave to a 12-year-old boy that was far too old for such cheap gifts. I was never fond of her, nor she of me—she had always resented my mother, and was even more resentful that, out of all my father’s children, none bore his likeness quite as much as I did. At any rate, the houses sat atop a well-shrouded hill and at the end of a cul-de-sac, and so it was a perfect place for making out. I would bring girls there, telling them stories about the old red house, stories that I will share with you now, albeit reluctantly. The first story, and admittedly the only story I can account as experiencing myself, involved the stairs I slept at the precipice of. There was a flat wall in that stairwell, one that I was facing every night that I slept there. My father was a bit of an old horror movie buff, and so he had put a movie poster from the original Frankenstein movie there, with the giant head of Boris Karloff staring at me, night after night. I’m sure that fact alone was discomforting for me, but I recall one night very specifically, and that night was to be the last night I slept at the top of the stairs. The wall with the poster cornered and became ceiling near the bottom of the stairs. Hanging from that little ceiling was a wind chime, placed in such a way that it was quite difficult for any adult to pass it without bumping their head against it. It served as a sort of intruder alert. I can remember lying in my bed, turned so as to not be facing the poster, but not being able to sleep. I was so young, I can’t believe such a memory exists, but I can remember feeling a tingling sensation in my scalp…the sort of feeling that starts in your chest and works its way up, like goose flesh only in wave after wave, keeping you from relaxing for even a moment. I didn’t want to turn over; I knew better, somehow I just knew it was a bad idea to turn over. Then, the silence of the evening was broken, and the sound of the wind chime made itself perfectly clear for my tiny ears to receive. In horror, completely paralyzed with fear, I found myself fighting all my instincts to turn around to look. I had to know, absolutely had to know who was coming up those stairs. I closed my eyes, and turned over as quickly as I could, and saw….no one. No one was there, only the sound of the chimes, chimes that never blew in the breeze because there, in that part of the house, no breeze ever blew. I could see them moving, clanging and banging in my head with their high-pitched noise, but no one was there to move them. I could feel the tingling move all through my body now, wave after terrified wave of complete paralyzing fear coursing through my body. I looked up slightly, slightly enough to see the horrible poster staring back at me, more goose bumps covering my body from head to toe. “Is it moving?” I remember thinking to myself, as the poster itself seemed at that moment to be coming at me, coming off of the wall and moving toward me, more than my young mind could bear. I ran. I ran right into my parents’ room, screaming and crying. They of course jumped up to see what was going on, even though I had so few words at that time to describe what I had seen. It was enough, though, and my father got up to check to see what was happening. The poster was intact, the chimes as quiet as could be. Was it all a dream? I never really knew for certain, but I never really forgot. That story was almost always enough to get emotions running through the girl I brought to that street, and served my purpose well. I had turned a childhood terror into an emotional bait for unsuspecting women, and it was brilliant. Of course, it wasn’t always enough, and I fortunately had other stories to tell. As it turns out, many members of my family experienced such things in that house. My father, in his childhood, recalled a “concrete girl”, a girl he would see standing outside the house in broad daylight, but was completely fixed in position. He saw her several times in his youth, and never told anyone out of fear of reprimand—it’s funny, in hindsight, how much religion can scare us into not accepting the truth of our world. In his case, he didn’t want to be punished for claiming to have seen a ghost, and rightly so. No one would have believed him. Many, many other seemingly unexplainable events were tied to the house over the years. Before I was born, my parents were coming home from the store and approached the back door. From inside the house, they could hear a great deal of banging and slamming, as though someone was having a psychotic fit through the whole house. My father, whether it was bravery or stupidity, planned to open the door, while my mother ran next door to call the police. As soon as he opened the door, the noise stopped dead. My mother left my grandmother to make the phone call and ran back to the house that my father was already inspecting. Doors, cabinets, drawers, so many of them opened, but nothing taken or out of place. An intruder would have had to open a window and jump down, and would not have been able to close the window behind him. One of my sisters recalled hearing singing from behind the house in the darkest parts of the night, only to look out and see no one there. Another time, an empty beer mug that was sitting on the kitchen table crumbled in place, leaving thousands of tiny glass pebbles in a pile. Even years later, after my brother had assumed ownership of the house, he recalled a certain morning that was disconcerting at best. He was walking into the kitchen from the living room, and as he rounded the corner, he could see one of the chairs at the table tilting back, and for a moment he could swear he saw a figure sitting in it before it fell over on its back. There are so many stories to tell about this house, so many events, and yet nothing could ever prepare me…soon, we’ll get there soon. As I was leaving my twenties and moving into my thirties, I no longer had any need for going by the old house. I was married, and had children, and it was easy enough to let the house be forgotten. Eventually, I shared some of the stories with my wife, and she was chilled by them to say the very least. She did not want to see the house, and I never pressed the issue. At some point, I landed a job that required that I go fairly near the old house on my way. Actually, I don’t even think it was a requirement…it was just easier to go that route than to get on the highway and fight rush-hour traffic. The drive was soothing and generally free of other vehicles, which was good therapy for me. It helped keep me from getting angry, which had been a problem ever since I quit smoking and had my third child. I never actually drove past the house, and didn’t even really think about it. That is, until I talked to my father again. I had, very deliberately, fallen out of touch with that entire side of my family, mostly because I felt as though I wasn’t well liked by any of them. My father was a “deadbeat dad” that couldn’t be bothered to support me when I needed him the most. So, when he called me the day after my birthday, I was cordial but not involved in our conversation. However, he did feel the need to tell me, somewhere in the middle of all of his banter about all the things he had been doing, that the old red house had been sold to someone outside of the family. He was clearly heartbroken over that fact, and yet I could have just as easily dismissed it. In fact, I did dismiss it for quite some time. …until that day. I woke up, looked outside, and saw that my little world was covered in snow again. It looked as though the actual snowing had stopped, but there had been a massive amount of accumulation on the roads. I thought about going back to bed, but I knew I couldn’t work from home again. The boss wasn’t fond of that, even though my line of work can be done from just about anywhere. I got up, I got ready, I kissed my wife as I do every morning before going to the office. This time, she slept through it completely, but I’m sure she’d been up late with one of the kids. These things happen. I drove carefully, but it was clear that there weren’t many people crazy enough to try it themselves. The roads hadn’t been scraped at all by the city plows, so going was incredibly slow for me. I don’t even recall seeing any other tire tracks on the route—no, no one had driven on this since before last night. I had to be especially cautious, considering that if something were to happen, I’d undoubtedly be stuck for awhile waiting for emergency road crews to arrive. I drove slowly. As I approached the area near the old house, I noticed that the road wasn’t nearly as packed in with snow. It was almost drivable there, which was a big relief. If that area wasn’t so bad, the rest of the drive might be a piece of cake. My music was interrupted by the sound of an email arriving. My phone was my music player, and it was connected to the audio in my car. No one was around, so I sat at an intersection to check the message. It appeared as though the sender, my boss, might have been having some connectivity issues, as the text in the message had some random characters and line breaks in it, but the overall message was clear—the office would not be open today. “Great”, I thought. Why couldn’t he have sent that a little earlier, so I wouldn’t have to drive in this crap? No matter, I decided to turn at this intersection instead of going straight so that I could use a driveway to get turned around to go back home. What I only then realized is what intersection that was. Making that turn is the first of two turns needed to get to the old red house. Actually, the house wasn’t red anymore, according to what my father had said. The new owners had painted it a light blue, which was difficult to imagine. It really was difficult to imagine, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see the old place. The road leading that direction was almost blissfully clear of snow, with only enough to just barely cover the road. It was pristine, with no tire tracks, so it wasn’t likely that there would be any packed ice underneath it. I moved forward. I made the second turn, and drove up the hill toward the house. The frozen world around me reminded me of my childhood for some reason, leaving me with a mix of emotions. I felt playful, and yet extraordinarily apprehensive, no doubt a remnant from my growing up with the church in my mind. For a moment, a feeling of absolute hatred swept over me, a sort of loathing that I had grown to associate with the church and all of the lies it brought to me. As it passed, I should have thought it strange that I was no longer seeing snow around me, only what appeared to be ice on everything. It looked like all the trees, the street signs, the fences, all had been wrapped in water and frozen on the spot. I should have thought that strange, but my emotions had me distracted. Atop the hill and down a little, and there it was—the old red house. Red? Didn’t my father say it was blue? I thought I had been mistaken, and I quickly dismissed the thought. Surely I had misunderstood, or perhaps it was just a sign of his old age. No matter. There were no cars in the driveway, but I still decided just to drive by and turn around in the cul-de-sac. I had come to see the old house, for whatever reason, and I had done that. No need for me to linger on there. As I started to double back and pass the house, my car’s power seemed to go crazy, the tachometer needle bouncing up and down. The engine heaved, and the wheels lost traction. I panicked, more than I should have, and I jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid sliding the other direction, the direction that would have sent me plummeting down a hill and likely destroyed my car. I was reward for my quick reflexes—the car slid the opposite direction, right into the old driveway, and then the engine heaved one last time before dying. I sat there for a minute, endorphins rushing through me, thankful for not being hurt at the bottom of that hill. Sitting there, thinking on that, I felt so alone, so aware that if something were to have happened, I could have been left there injured for hours, maybe even longer. I tried turning the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. No lights, no sounds, just nothing. I knew my car had been having some electrical trouble, but it had never been this bad before. I just knew that whatever was causing the problem had finally done it’s damage, and I was stuck. I got out of the car. It was strange…I should have been cold, but the air was only cool, like an underground storage cave. There was no breeze, and no precipitation. The sky was cloudy still, and it seemed a bit darker than it had before, but at the same time there was ample light for me to see. I looked once again to the old red house. No lights were on, but it did not appear unkempt. In fact, it was just how I remembered it from so long ago, from the times when I would watch my older brother test out his compound bow in the back yard, shooting through blocks of hay. It was inviting, to say the least, and the waves of nostalgia just kept coming. I almost forgot that I was stuck there. I had grabbed my phone before leaving the car, and in that moment decided to call my wife to let her know what had happened. It rang, and rang, and rang, and then voicemail picked up. I called again, and again, and finally gave up on that. I sent her a text message letting her know what happened, where I was, and that I would be calling a tow truck to come save me. I didn’t keep the number of a towing company in my address book, so I had to use the internet to look one up. At least, I would have, but I couldn’t get it to connect for anything. It just kept coming back with “page cannot be displayed”. This was getting frustrating, fast. The little icon in the corner of the screen indicated there was a wireless network present, so I thought I’d check for open access points. When I opened it up, there was only one listed—“MOEBIUS”, it was called, and it was an open network. I hooked into it and tried my browser searching again, but to no avail. I assumed they had some sort of MAC address blocking on the network, or that perhaps their internet connection was down due to the weather (although after looking around, there really wasn’t even any ice on the house, just on the trees that shrouded over it). Great. Still stuck. I decided to get back in my car to give it another go with the ignition. No love there. I could feel myself getting angry over this, as it’s a very claustrophobic sensation being that cut off and stranded, and I don’t handle my claustrophobia well. I sat back, throwing my head back, just staring up at the ceiling of the car. Moments later, I heard my phone make a message sound. My heart leaped, as I was simultaneously surprised by the sound in the total silence and excited that my wife was returned my text message. There was no text message. There was, however, an email there. I thought that perhaps my connectivity was back and tried the search again, but it failed. I almost forgot to even check the email that arrived. I wish I had forgotten all about it. I wish I had ran, as fast as I could, right then and there. But I didn’t. I checked the email. It had no sender, no subject. Again, another email that was glitchy at best. It was difficult to make out anything discernable, but I tried to sort it out nonetheless. When I finally realized what it said, I nearly dropped the phone right there on the rocks. There, in broken lines and the extra characters, it said: “Come into the house”. There’s really no way to explain the feeling I had in that moment. It was as though I was being hit with an emotional truck, and I couldn’t stop myself from shaking. None of that was rational, none of it made sense. The more I looked around, the more the entire thing made no sense at all. Where were the people, the cars? Where was the internet? The phone showed full bars, it just didn’t make sense. The confusion was wrapping around me like a cold, soggy blanket, forcing me to shake almost uncontrollably. It was then that I saw a light turn on in the old red house. Someone was in there! Right then, I no longer cared about the strangeness of the situation. I ran, ran as fast as I could toward the back door of that house, knocking and knocking and knocking, waiting for someone to come to the door. I was desperate, I needed to connect to another person, just to know I wasn’t losing my mind. I kept knocking, growing impatient, as the world outside seemed to be getting darker and darker. I noticed this, and then the chills ran down my spine. I didn’t know what was going on, but something felt wrong. I stared over at the house that had been my grandmother’s, motionless, for what seemed like an eternity. Somewhere in those moments, I found myself humming some random tune, probably so give myself some subconscious comfort, but to no avail. I turned to the door again and tried the handle…it opened without effort. It seemed to me, at that point, it was a much better idea to go inside than to continue waiting for someone to open the door. I walked in, uttering a questioning “hello” as I did, but no one answered. I walked past the washer and dryer into the kitchen. There was the table, looking a lot like I had remembered it. I grabbed the cordless phone that was sitting on the table and took a seat, trying to call my wife again. There was no connection, the phone line didn’t even sound like it was hooked up. I was starting to get angry again, and this time I just couldn’t control it. I slammed my fist down onto the table, hard. The pain of it was piercing, it was like being cut again and again, but no, my hand was fine. I pushed back to get out of the chair, but it caught on the floor and sent me falling, hitting the back of my head. Now I was really getting angry. The whole thing felt like some sort of practical joke was being played on me, and yet no one was around. I started looking for a hidden camera somewhere, opening cabinets and checking the ceilings and corners, growing ever angrier as my searching returned nothing. I felt like a cyclone of negative emotions, tearing through there, completely oblivious to the fact that these things weren’t mine to destroy. I didn’t care, this was not funny. I stomped through the house, yelling out obscenities, tries to summon out the person (or persons) that were having a go at me. This was not funny. I charged up the stairs, hitting my head on something along the way but just not caring anymore. I checked everywhere in that house, and not a soul could be found. I’d had enough at that point. I slammed, I banged, I made my presence known as I stormed out of that house. I was about to walk to my car to kick the living hell out of it for stranding me there when I just froze up. I stopped, mid-stride, and simply couldn’t move. My head turned, unwillingly, back toward the house. The basement door was open. I don’t know if it was the anger, or the terror, or what felt like madness, but I started charging at door. There was a breeze in there, something that literally chilled to the bone. I was no longer angry…I was petrified. The basement light wasn’t on, but I could see a dim flicker coming from the cellar room. Outside, everything went completely dark. The only light I could see was coming from that room, that useless room, that room that I never understood the purpose of. It was clear that the light was swinging back and forth in the breeze…but where the hell would the breeze come from? There was only the doorway, that was the only way in or out of that room, but the breeze was coming from there! I felt a tear fall down my face—my mind had just broken, I was breaking down and crying like a child, my entire world turned upside down, and in that moment I felt the room get bigger around me. Smaller, smaller I felt, as I bawled and walked toward the cellar, completely unable to tell my feet to just stop right there, don’t go in, don’t do it! I couldn’t control it, I was ready to just close my eyes, I couldn’t rationalize. I did it, I closed my eyes, even though my feet kept moving my tiny body, until they stopped…I couldn’t look, I wouldn’t dare to look…but something, something that felt like a hand on top of my head, with it’s fingertips on my eyelids started pulling up, forcing me to see… I screamed. I screamed so loud that I could feel blood in my throat. There, right in front of me, hovering just behind the weak, swinging light, a figure. The head was so near the light, and the eyes…those horrific eyes, frozen and fixed, staring past me completely…why wouldn’t it look at me? Look at me! The body kept writhing and changing, going from infant, to child, to adult, to old, then decomposing and withering away while that head, that awful, terrible head, with those eyes…this can’t be real, those eyes cannot be real! The body cycled back through the phases, but somehow got confused about the order, and I felt my mind crumbling, collapsing under the weight of this impossible madness. WHY WON’T YOU LOOK AT ME! Suddenly, I felt it. Something was behind me. I could feel it. It was that same feeling I had when I was so very young, that same terrible fear that kept me from turning in my bed to look. At that exact moment, the body stopped changing, and remained locked in some completely nonsensical phase, distorted and impossibly hanging there in midair. The eyes rolled so slowly, so ridiculously slow, to look directly at me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want the eyes to look at me at all. As soon as they locked a gaze with me, the mouth…it had been so twisted, so contorted, I don’t even think I could call it a mouth before that moment…it smiled. That smile stretched literally from ear to ear, like a ravenous animal ready to take its first killing bite of quarry. My entire body was twitching, I just wanted to close my eyes, but they were held there, unblinking, blurry from the tears that wouldn’t and couldn’t stop. What was behind me? I couldn’t know. I just couldn’t look. But the creature, with the eyes, and the staring…it made me look. As my body turned in place, I saw what had been behind me. It had always been there, right behind me, all my life, but I could never see it. I could see absolutely nothing but…darkness. The light behind me was no more, and the silence was like nothing I can explain. There, in that total darkness, my eyes were no longer being held, but what would be the point? My body was as terrified as my mind, and it took my entire strength to simply reach out into that darkness, morbidly afraid of actually touching anything at all, but compelled to be absolutely sure. There was nothing. No walls, no floor, absolutely nothing to feel, nothing to hear, nothing to see. Even my own breathing made no sound. There, in the void, I could do nothing but drown in my madness, laughing maniacally at the dark. * * * * * I found myself lying next to my car, a layer of snow covering my naked body. I could barely move at all. I wasn’t sure if I was frostbitten, and I didn’t care. I looked around and saw the blue house. I saw my car, smashed into a car parked in the driveway. As I stood, I thought the pain would tear me in half. My entire body ached and throbbed with searing pain, and I had no idea why. In my daze, I realized I was so thrilled, so happy to see the light again, I had forgotten to blink. I wish now that I never had to blink again. As my eyes closed, I saw so many things so quickly that I nearly fell back to the ground. I saw the house. I saw myself tearing through it, my anger driving me in extreme fast forward all the way back to that cellar. I saw that face, that face, with those eyes, refusing to look at me, always looking behind me with that wretched smile. I opened my eyes again, and the world was as it should be. But every time I blinked, every time I closed my eyes for even a moment, I saw that same thing, over and over and over again. As I write this, I see it constantly, driving me more and more mad with every blink of the eye, and yet I can take comfort in it now. I know what will happen, in the end. I understand what it all meant, and my purpose in it. And now, I can rest.

Credit to: captainheadache