#honestly that entire review is full of deranged lines

[astranauticus]

ok so i am definitely gonna tryna do everything i can to get my hands on the breaking ice when it gets a theatrical release (seeing as the directors singaporean we might even get a theatrical release here owo) but i just gotta shoutout this absolutely deranged sentence from the indie wire review from the cannes premier

[rhysreece]

Fortified

2/7

When Logan once said he hated being restrained, he had meant it metaphorically. Now, however, he's adding the literal definition to the list, because his wrists have gone numb, and the blood is starting to dry rather uncomfortably. The stone of the cell is cold and too solid to be uncomfortable, just at the right angle to dig into his neck, above the iron shackle choking him slowly. Dirt and blood matt on his skin, as his flesh rots off his chest, the icy breeze from nowhere sending little flashes of pain across his chest. His chest that rattles as he breathes, constricted by so many open wounds, dripping blood onto the floor between his feet, forced into the upright position. Captivity is not where he thought he'd be yesterday.

Perhaps it is prudent to review the events of the past 24 hours, to understand how he was in the position he currently found himself.

This time yesterday, Logan was hunkering down in order to avoid the recurrent event of Patton's personality shift, beginning exactly seven days before midnight on All Hallow's Eve. For those seven days, hell on earth breaks loose, and the others suffer. However, through proper experimentation, he has discovered that he is the only one who remembers. The mirror, that blasted hall, the blood. Thanksgiving.

He shudders at the thought of Virgil, tears and blood mingling into one, sloppy stitchwork pulling at his skin, forcing a wide, eerie smile. Logan had hoped it wouldn't be as bad this year, because he'd prepared, blocking entrances into his room, stockpiling food, setting traps. Clearly, Patton had other ideas.

He'd noticed something was wrong at precisely 12:34 pm yesterday afternoon, when he'd heard Roman talking to himself, which in itself isn't alarming. No, what worried Logan was what was being said.

"Oh Roman you silly silly prince, you're supposed to protect people from threats and now Janus is dead and Logan is missing, and it's all not-"

The sudden, too-sharp silence was almost enough to get him to run out, wielding a weapon in desperation, but he decided against it, silently apologising to Roman as he fortified his defenses and huddled in a tense, paranoid silence. Every little shadow seemed to flicker and move malevolently, every tiny noise seemed to herald his inevitable doom.

Needless to say the overly-happy knocking at his cupboard door, from the inside, sent him screaming. Refusing to question how Patton got into his cupboard, he scrambled out of his bed, legs tangled in the layers of bedding he'd used to protect himself.

This gave Patton time to step out of the cupboard, brush himself off, look around at Logan's attempts to keep him out, and laugh. His cruel, sharp, borderline unhinged laugh that sent shivers down the bravest side's spine.

"Uh oh Logie Bear! Looks like my cutie little baby boy wasn't quite smart enough to keep me out! Tut tut tut, my little brainbox. Ah well, nevermind. You won't need intelligence where you're going. See, you're just a bit too clever for my liking. You're a threat, sweetie! I can't have you running around helping people, so I'm gonna have to put you in time out!"

Either too scared or too confused, Logan was rooted to the spot, and couldn't bring himself to fight back as Patton drew near, lightly kissing his forehead with such tenderness that it was like nothing else mattered in that moment, before hitting him round the head with a baseball bat, and knocking him out cold.

When he'd woken up, he'd thought for a moment that Patton had blinded him, and his blood froze. It took a while to adjust to the dim lighting, but he appeared to be in a cell, under Roman's castle judging by the pseudo-medieval architecture. His wrists were cuffed to the wall, holding him close with its iron grip, cold as death against what little unscarred skin he had left. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.

"Hiya Lo-Lo! That nasty snake is taken care of, so now we get to play a game! Doesn't that sound fun?"

The way he tilted his head so playfully, the excitable, puppy-like expression, it was so close to being Patton. Real, sane, tangible Patton, but that blasted bow tie, stained red in places and dulled by vigorous washing and use, it was a sign that he was not in a safe position, spread open before that false god of a father figure friend.

"Patton, you must let me go, we - we can fix this, I can fix this, just let me go!"

The shackles like skeletal fingers around his wrist and neck didn't shift, as Patton brought down the whip, lashing across his stomach in a flaring, overwhelming line.

"Oopsies! You gotta listen to the rules before you start to play, or else you might get hurt!"

Damage must be kept to a minimum in order to sufficiently escape, which meant complying. Logan's newest hypothesis? His dignity would not survive this experience. Looking back on it, Logan has to agree, his hypothesis is correct. His dignity didn't survive the experience. Neither did he, really.

"Fine. I'll play your game."

"Wonderful! Here are the rules. I'm gonna ask you a question, you're gonna answer me. If I don't like the answer, then I'll beat that into you. If you succeed, we can even have some adult fun times later. So, ready to begin?"

Logan nodded, overwhelmed by the combination of pure fear and pain coursing through his body. It raced along his nerves like lightning, spreading pain and suffering.

"Good. Okay! Question one is this. Do you think of me as a father figure, Lo-Lo?"

An easy enough question, but Logan still hesitated, assessing the situation. If he answered wrong, if he didn't play along with his idealistic delusion, then his chances of survival were sure to plummet.

"I suppose I do, Patton."

"Excellent! Just one issue, Logie!"

"And what would that be?"

"You hesitated."

Logan's stomach dropped, as Patton's tone did, as Roman would put it, a full 180, polarising from his usual happy and somewhat deranged demeanor to entirely lucid and unimpressed, which gave Logan the distinct impression that this was going to hurt.

He heard the whip before he felt it, a deafening crack, followed by that blinding, searing pain in arcing lengths across his body, wet with blood and gore. Specks of blood stained Patton's sleeves and face, but he paid no mind, a look of false sympathy to hide the mocking laugh clearly building.

"This could have been avoided, baby boy. You didn't have to lie. If you'd just told me the truth, the punishment wouldn't have been as bad."

"Yes it would."

Logan had to bite back a screen as the whip came down across his face, knocking his glasses askew and leaving blood to dry across his cheeks, sticky and warm.

"You know I don't like it when you kiddos answer back."

Almost instinctively, not entirely of his own free will, Logan replied.

"Sorry, D-Patton."

Seeing Patton's face light up was somehow more terrifying than his anger, as he was pulled from the wall into a bone crushing hug. The snap and the flaring pain he felt in his rib were honestly not his biggest concern.

"Awww! Lo-Lo, baby boy, you're so cute! Gosh, I could just eat you right up! You're not forgiven, but that has really made my day, kiddo! Now, ready for the next question?"

He pulled away, and grabbed his chin, tilting Logan's face to meet his, inches from that sugar-sweet smile, those rounded glasses, those godforsaken eyes, usually the colour of a sunny day's sky, now red as the setting sun, with flecks of black like stormy clouds. His voice now quiet, soft, and caring, lulling him into a sense of security that he couldn't escape from, no matter how hard he tried.

"If you're good, baby boy, I'll take good care of you, after I give you my little prize."

Those 'questions' went on for hours. 17 hours, 58 minutes and 42 seconds, to be exact, before Patton 'had to go' and left him, sheets of flesh flapping off his body, coated in blood, and barely conscious. And that is where he is. On review, Logan realises he should have covered the mirrors, those blasted, cursed mirrors. He sighs, then goes entirely still as he hears a familiar sound coming down the stairs.

Virgil, hyperventilating and crying, looking for him, with a mock-concerned Patton following behind, a hand on his shoulder. On closer inspection, Virgil's eyes appear to be clouded white, as Patton guides him into the cell across from him, whispering far-from-sweet nothings to him.

Oh. So that's his plan.

Shit.

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: House of Salt and Sorrows by Erin A. Craig

This is one of those saltwater cliff drops, floorboard creaking, cackling from the midnight shadows, icy breath or fingertips dancing along the back of your neck as you dance and dance and dance, trying to turn fast enough to cast a furtive glance at that spectral silhouette by the bannister, nightmare retellings of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Similar to the original Brothers Grimm fairytale, this also leans into grimacing depictions and eeriness. There's no shortage of decay or decomposition, of descriptions which highlight grotesque details that make you squirm to imagine them, unsettling you to the extreme. The entire book pulses with "off-ness" that leaves you tiptoeing through its pages. With your breath held and your eyes narrowed, sharp, squinting into darkness at every creak or shudder of sound, you can't help but feel a ghostly rustle curling around your ankles. Tickling the soles of your feet. Waltzing you into a briny tale where reality blurs into illusion, and wakefulness cannot be separated from dreams. Grimness (see what I did there?) blows through every crevasse of the story from setting to plot, from theme to characterization, and from symbolism to tone. It's impossible not to get lost in the swirl of what's real vs. the swirl of what's illusory. The lonely island where Annaleigh and her seven other "cursed" sisters reside is harsh and melancholy in aspect as well as in atmosphere. Characterized by its deep brackish waters, gray blustering winds, and roaring darkness, Salten is the perfect setting for a family who has been marred by tragedy after tragedy. Or in their case, by mysterious death after mysterious death. That in combination with the mournful air of loss and the sneaking around spectacle that surrounds them all only adds to the gothic feel of the novel. Throw in some "secret" doors, handsome strangers, midnight balls, dreadful paintings and visions, as well as some dream-within-a-dream complexity and the novel tingles with sinister don't-you-dare-look-over-your-shoulder energy. I think what I liked most about this book was how creeping suspicion clung harder and harder to me the further I progressed. Unease prickled with every turn, every twist of the plot, and I can honestly say I side-eyed all of the characters more than once. New questions as well as old popped up in my mind with constant regularity: Why were the Thaumas sisters dying? Who was responsible? Were they being watched? Beguiled? Picked off one-by-one, and for what purpose? How come their shoes were falling apart so quickly? Was there someone to blame for it all, or was it just a delusion of the mind? The fun of this book came from the breakdown of derangement and lucidity. Wakefulness and nightmare. (It reminded me a little of Jorge Luis Borges in that way: "Reality is not always probable, or likely." "We accept reality so readily - perhaps because we sense that nothing is real." "You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity...") The line between these elements was jagged and twisted enough that I found myself bumping back and forth among them, unable to put my finger on what to believe, who to trust, how to tell a real clue from an imagining. That kept the suspense brewing and my attention from straying. The religion bits and romance fell flat in comparison, unfortunately, but not enough to detract from the ice-cubes-down-your-spine mind game of it all. Nevertheless, a riveting, sea-churning, haunting debut! I'd recommend this one if you're looking for a hair-raising read this fall. It's full of spooky autumn vibes. 3.5 stars

*You can follow me on Goodreads

[emeraldtawny]

Why I Love The 7 of Hearts

...I said I would do it. And now that it has officially been one month since his route release, the official banner for spoilers is now lifted! That being said, I’ll put a disclaimer now: I will be talking about key aspects and spoilers from Kyle’s route. Be warned.

Alright, now onto my thesis. Title: Why Kyle Ash Is My Favourite Otome Husband To Date - An Incredibly Biased Review, by Tawny ^w^

Part 1: Before his route

Before we talk about the actual route itself, let me explain to you guys why this man already had my heart before even getting to date him. I’ll be honest; when the game first came out, he was already in my top 3 but he was not the best boi (that went to Fenrir and stayed like that for a bit). That is, until I played through Lancelot’s route. Being able to get more interactions with Kyle gave me more insight into the kind of person he is, and I honestly liked what I saw. He condemned Lancelot for throwing his life away needlessly without concern for his safety (important note to come back to) and made it clear that his affiliation with the Red Army didn’t mean anything when there are lives on the line (another impotant point to revisit). I honestly respected that about him and sure enough, he snuck his way into top spot and has stayed there since. And if I’m being real, his route has completely solidified that. He ain’t moving. Ever.

Personal Rambling #1

Okay, now comes the fun part hehehe >:3

With the question “did you enjoy Kyle’s route?”, is there an option for “everything” and also “yes yes yes, holy shit yes”? Because, Kyle’s route is a big fat YES out of 10 for me, and I say that as unbiasedly as possible. I noticed that there didn’t seem to be any dev notes released before Kyle’s route dropped (my poor boi getting shafted :c), so allow me to give you my own variation:

Kyle

Recommended if you like: Yukimura (brusque yet sweet, kind of an idiot but means well) and Mitsunari (oblivious genius)

Sexy…7

Drama…7

Romance…9

Dev Notes: For a man so smart, he’s awfully clueless when it comes to you. This weirdly approachable doctor may lack tact, but that doesn’t stop the blood pressures rising and the hearts racing - both yours and his. Get ready for an angst road bump at part 20 (as well as his Dramatic Ending), but rest assured that the doctor is here to see you now.

When I say he’s a combo of Yuki and Mitsunari, I’m not kidding. He’s basically Yuki without the full-on tsun tendencies (he has a few, but you could call it more embarrassment and awkwardness compared to being a tsundere) and then a touch of Mitsunari’s infuriating obliviousness and bam, you got Kyle!

I won’t give a synopsis of the route, since you’ve all likely read it or know most of the story (why on earth are you reading this far in otherwise?) so allow me to share with you, my personal favourite chapters/parts of his route!

Chapter 7 - the first (and definitely not last) instance of a blushing Kyle in his natural habitat. Bonus for glasses uwu

Chapter 14 - the introduction of Goo, the new best pet in Cradle (sorry Chutney). Legit, I recorded that entire section where Kyle and MC are naming Goo and I was just squeeing like a deranged lunatic because I loved it so much like bdjxbgdkfnxfkd

Chapter 24 (His POV) - DRUNK KYLE POV. Of course, he’s still cognitive to have proper thoughts, it wasn’t Masamune levels of drunkenness. But...jealous Kyle. That right there is a rarity but WOW, it’s a treat ;3

Towards the end of the route when MC finds Kyle’s confession written on his freaking hand (Kyle you doof) and just...him burying his amused smile into the crook of his elbow when she says she likes someone…..HNNNNNGGGGGGG yes

Part 2: Character Development

This man has such strong convictions to his profession that it’s honestly admirable. He may only have one pillar to stand on, but that pillar is strong and immovable. I’m of course talking about this line: “I absolutely despise people who are ready to throw away their lives”. Sound familiar at all? Remind you of...a certain Red King? Honestly though, this commitment to his work as a doctor when he seems to do nothing else except drink himself into a stupor most nights (if not every night) is awe-inspiring, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.

The MC in Kyle’s route is my new favourite. I love how the romance she develops for Kyle starts off as simple admiration, just her wanting to follow in his footsteps and prove useful to people without provoking the war occurring around her. She’s grounded and has a clear purpose, which is refreshing compared to other iterations of her being more meek and more better categorised as a “damsel in distress”. Don’t get me wrong, I”m not criticising those types of MCs. It’s just nice to see a driven MC with a clear goal and a motive for why she wants to do the things she does, enough for her to stay longer than the allotted month (something NONE OF THE OTHER ROUTES DO, HELL YEAH KYLE!). She actively chose to stay in Cradle - even when her ticket home was right in front of her - because she wanted to help Kyle save lives. It’s refreshing. And it makes for some great interactions between her and Kyle, especially later in the route when they’re more comfortable with each other. Which leads me onto my next point…

It felt like a real relationship. The slow growth and blooming of feelings, the cute interactions they’d share (every time Kyle stroked her hair or bopped her on the head, my heart exploded into confetti), and how awkward they both were with each other. God, if you guys could have seen me reading his route with my dumb dopey grin and squeaking like a lovesick children’s toy every 10 seconds...I was a mess gielkdsnglkd.

I love how they let us see into Kyle’s world. It may be a simple outlook on life, but you can’t fault the man. His strong conviction to save as many lives as he can because he feels it’s what he was made to do, and his importance on smiling and presenting a calm, friendly image of himself as he treats his patients (remember the line “People are like mirrors.”. It’s important.). He’s a very “my pace” kind of person, and it was fun to just kind of...relax a bit. Sure, war preparations were happening but wait one moment, please. I need to educate Jonah on what is needed for a balanced nutritious breakfast. It was refreshing to see a route that was surprisingly chill for most of it until the ending crescendo, and I welcomed it.

Alright….angst time. All of the little hints we were getting, like his role of the 7 of Hearts not being “set in stone”, had me squinting at the screen like “boi, what you hiding?”. When we got to drinking with Kyle, Oliver and Blanc and the conversation of Kyle having a brother came up, I was like “....oh. This is gonna be baaad.”. And this wasn’t even including Colin (because when a character gets named, you know they’re important.). But…..Chapter 20. It actually came out of left field, sucker-punched me in the kidney, cracked my heart and left me crying as I’m just reading this whole thing unfolding. Colin’s heartbroken cries, Kyle’s unmoving unresponsive form as he lets Colin punch him, the symbolism and connection of both Kyle and Colin having lost an older brother because of the war. I’m….. ;~; aaaaaa. And then in the Avatar Challenge following the angst, MC throws the “people are like mirrors” line back at him to get him to break down a bit, to let some emotion out, and I was just a blubbering mess at this point. The route is generous enough to give you a floof and mild spice break, but then if you choose the Dramatic Ending…..you…..you visit...his brother’s grave...and the waterworks begin again.

Continuing on from the point above, this means Kyle also has connections with The Day That Went Dark, along with Fenrir and more importantly, Ray. From the way it was described in Kyle’s route, he himself doesn’t know for certain if Ray used magic or not. He only knows that Ray was there when shit went down. So even after his brother passed from the tragedy, Kyle held no animosity or desire for revenge against Ray; very fitting for his character. This route made me realise just how similar Kyle and Ray are: they’re both very determined in their ways to keep the peace and they both hold strong to their views of freedom and honesty (Ray and Kyle respectively). And you can tell that Kyle doesn’t hold it against Ray for whatever happened on The Day That Went Dark.

I would honestly love to see a scenario of the two of them sitting down together in a room and just awkwardly yet honestly expressing all of their pent-up emotions about that whole ordeal (angst writers, if you’re reading this...only if you want to ofc ^w^).

Personal Rambling #2: Gushing Edition

So those were my structured notes, but now let me indulge you on my messy bullet points that I made throughout reading his route. A lot of these are pointless to character building and things I just thought were cute and needed attention drawn to sooo….ye ^w^

Like the rest of the Red Army, Kyle was born into a family that carries the mantle of 7 of hearts. All of them doctors.

Cute theme of beds??? (his bday story and them sleeping in the same room)

“When he wasn’t talking, he’s actually quite attractive.” (wow, r00d)

His palm notes are work and other things related (and he doesn’t always remember why he wrote it down bgrkdgn)

Not a sweet tooth (dammit Kyle, that’s your only downfall :c)

Easily embarrassed despite his earnest and straightforward mannerisms

Doesn’t dote on MC and teaches her what he can

His importance on smiling and presenting a calm, friendly image of himself as he treats his patients (“People are like mirrors.” - ch 8)

Head pats. Lots of head pats

Awkward sweet love (kill me it’s too adorable)

Edgar’s silent envy yet sweet support of their romance (this boi istg…)

Super proactive MC (she’s my new fave, seriously I love her)

Lots of touching (head pats, forehead bonks), he doesn’t know what personal space is (and I love it)

His pig is the cutest thing in the entire world, I need 20

Really good with kids…...yes.

“I absolutely despise people who are ready to throw away their lives” (incredibly strong convictions - doesn’t have many, but the ones he does have he is incredibly dedicated to)

Stays longer than the allotted month (FUCK YES)

His brother’s death strengthened his convictions to be able to handle being an army doctor (direct and honest, no bs about sacrificing your life etc etc)

The “People are like mirrors” line is tearing my fucking heart apart (makes sense in chapter 20 avatar challenge)

The angst…..his brother...and Colin….I’m rdfkgndkjfnxclk ;-;

His realisation of love….and his confession….lord, IM DROWNING IN UWUS

Saving Amon despite him murdering many innocent people, a big decision that could have changed the tide for the future, but he stuck with his beliefs

MC’s insistence that Kyle doesn’t like her that way, and Kyle’s inability to realise it’s love (help me it’s so fucking cute I’m dying)

Whether intentional or not, he’s good at diverting the attention away from him when he wants it off him (maybe MC just assumes he’s an idiot?? lmao)

So his glasses are for sentimental reasons (but does he need them???) and his alcohol drinking habits are from his father (not a coping mechanism)

Incredibly kind...but not good at showing it (helping MC distract herself by giving her work(?))

MC’s obsession with Kyle’s eyes and collarbone (same sis, SAME) and Kyle’s obsession with her hair (fsekfbksfnjweksdgn kd,nAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

Conclusion

Overall, Kyle’s route is very solid. It may not add much to the overarching lore of Cradle (aside from another victim in The Day That Went Dark), but the route was still adorable, enjoyable and incredibly sweet. I had no moments where I felt bored throughout his route (then again, that’s likely the bias talking) and the balance between cute floof, tear-jerking angst and then hot hot spice (that he FULLY deserves, mind you) came together into a wonderful experience that left my heart full and sad when it all ended.

My final message to you all: Kyle Ash is the sweetest, most adorkable nerd that has ever graced my presence and I hope that even a tiny portion of my love for him rubs off on you, just so you can see how amazing this boi is. Thank you for your time and for listening to my ramblings gesgnsk ^^;;

Bonus: my two favourite screenshots from his route

[nakediconoclast]

Bracken: Professor Raoul X    Posted on January 14, 2011

Western Rifle Shooters Association

It was late June and I was sitting in a café seven hundred miles from home, doing a little web surfing. There was plenty of room at mid-morning, so I could sit at the end of the coffee bar with my laptop. I was scanning the breaking news about the new mass-shooting. Like most people I was morbidly fascinated with the deranged young man who was the killer. That is, the trigger puller. But I was looking over his shoulder for something else: signs of a guiding hand.

Why? Because I know something about the subject.

You see, being a guiding hand is my life’s avocation. My secret avocation, that is. Outwardly I’m a tenured professor of sociology at a Mid-western university. A life-long bachelor, so my summers are my own. Ostensibly for writing, research, quiet reflection, bungee jumping or what have you. My summer hobby is traveling and meeting interesting people. Everything I do on these road trips can be explained under the rubric of field research, but even so I pay with cash and move like a ghost. I’m old school. It’s a harmless quirk. Nobody cares.

I suppose if you polled my students, they’d declare me to be left wing, but not a rhetorical bomb-thrower. Am I closer to Karl Marx than to Ayn Rand? Well, naturally. Progressive politics were part of my upbringing and education. And of course that is also the best way to get along in academia, and I do like to get along.

No question my academic career has been lackluster. That does not concern me. I have no wife or significant other to be concerned with my apparent lack of greater ambition or wealth. Seeking publication for papers that a few academic gnomes might eventually peruse does not interest me in the least. Writing some groundbreaking tome that will be reviewed in the New York Times and read by millions is not a realistic aspiration. I am no Jared Diamond in the rough. I won academic tenure, and that was enough. I have a house and a ten-year-old Beamer. I enjoy my little comforts. A small circle of friends, none close. I’d be the first to admit it’s been a mediocre life—outwardly.

But my secret life has been anything but mediocre. I have engineered extraordinary events, but truth be told, there is little joy in secret celebration. So I am creating this document, properly encoded and hidden, to save for posterity. When my unsurpassed run is finally over, due either to my natural demise or other more precipitous causes, my secret history will conjure itself from millions of computer screens unfiltered, unspun and uncut. The truth will be known. This is my story, and no one can take it from me. My name will ring down through the ages, when my complete story is told!

But not yet. There is more secret work to be done.

I did not drive seven hundred miles to ponder my life’s ledger and tap on a keyboard. What interested me was the creature standing on the other side of the white coffee shop counter. The gaunt, long-haired young man by the espresso machine could have been taken for a college student in a college town. Really not too bad looking in person. Pushing six feet, skinny. Gray-blue eyes, a little too closely set. Decent complexion for his age. Maybe a few days since his mouse-colored hair had been washed or properly brushed, but overall he was quite presentable. Duncan it said on his plastic name tag. I already knew that his last name was McClaren. I wasn’t in this picturesque college town by accident. I was here to meet him, but he didn’t know this.

Duncan McClaren was one of the most promising prospects I’d run down in years. My own students unknowingly provide me with many of my leads. We have free-ranging discussions, in and out of the classroom setting. From practice I know how to guide them toward a discussion of the weirdest people they’ve ever known. Duncan went to high school with one of my female students. His first name was mentioned casually by the student, tossed off her lips and promptly forgotten. Duncan sometimes heard voices, she said. Talked to himself. And he could not stop talking about whatever obsessed him at the moment. He cut right into conversations among people he hardly knew, and went off onto bizzaro-world tangents. And what really set him off was the country’s most famous talk radio host.

Following that disclosure I did my own internet research. There was only one Duncan listed in her year at her high school. As a professor, I stay on the cutting edge of internet trickery. A critical part of my secret avocation involves doing internet research without leaving digital fingerprints. My students constantly come up with what they believe to be new ways to cheat or plagiarize without detection, so I’ve become somewhat of an expert at internet security. I do not take risks. I’m a very careful person. Typing this secret history and hiding it inside my computer is perhaps the biggest risk I’ve taken.

In the course of my background investigation I learned that he had been expelled or otherwise ejected from high school numerous times. He’d been arrested and he’d been to juvenile boot camp. There were a number of sealed records and denied files, both medical and legal. But reading between the lines of what I could access, it was a safe guess that there had been serious drug use and there had been family violence. Rumors of arson at a very young age. His family had money and pull, and he was accepted for admission to an out-of-state institution of higher learning. His brief transcript was telling. His GPA for three completed semesters was made up equally of As and Fs. He had not finished his second year. No reason was given.

Since dropping out of college Duncan had been adrift for a year, hitchhiking around the country, supporting himself mostly as a dish washer or at other menial short-term jobs involving limited social interaction. On his own walkabout journey of self-discovery, to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was for the moment a barista in this New England college town, and I arranged for our paths to cross.

It’s always an intense moment, my first close look at a subject I’ve known only as an internet phantom. Duncan came over to take my order: regular coffee, with cream and sugar. When he filled my cup I laid a few dollars on the counter.

Duncan tapped the bills and said matter-of-factly, “So, somebody still believes in paper money.”

I looked directly at him and replied, “For some things, yes. Like paying for coffee.”

He returned my gaze, his eyes narrowed to slits and he said, “Smart. Fly under the radar. Render unto Caesar—while you can. But it’s all just a matter of time. Just a matter of time.” He slowly nodded his head, as if agreeing with himself.

To release his floodgates all I had to ask him was, “What do you mean?” Then I listened attentively to a five minute diatribe covering many tediously familiar theories and a few original ones. A thirtyish female with a severe hairstyle, whom I guessed was the café’s manager, edged over and tried to redirect my waiter. “Dunc,” she said breezily, “You’re not bothering this man, are you? No more talking about that bank stuff, right?”

Holding the full pot of hot coffee he slowly turned his entire body and fixed an icy glare upon her, but said nothing. He held his stare, boring into her with flat eyes. His arm seemed tensed to hurl the burning-hot brew at her. Her smile wilted, she turned and walked away. “She doesn’t understand,” said Duncan when she was gone. “Her mind is closed to the reality around her.”

“Does that bother you?” I asked him.

“I’m used to it. Ninety percent of humanity is closed off to reality.”

I laughed and said, “I think you’re giving humanity too much credit.”

He smiled in a peculiar way. One side of his mouth went up markedly while the other side remained nearly flat. “Yeah. Probably. Look, I have to serve some other humanity or I’m going to get canned. I’m on thin ice around here.”

Twenty-year-old Duncan, who had a post-graduate’s demeanor and a startlingly high IQ, had never held a job for longer than a month. He could operate independently in society as a functioning adult in most situations. He could shop for himself and drive a car. He’d briefly kept an apartment in college. But he could not hold a conversation without promptly veering into the Bush-family CIA dynasty, the truth about 9-11, the Jewish bankers, right-wing talk radio and God help me, the Queen of England.

Duncan was a bug. A raving lunatic. Yet in his outward appearance and mannerisms, he was as normal as you and I. But what does one’s outward appearance signify? The faces we show to the world are mere avatars, are they not? Who truly knows our inner hearts, our souls if you will? No one. Certainly not a God who doesn’t exist. So am I normal? Define normal. A sophomoric tautology. Yes, outwardly I can easily pass as normal, and I have for most of my forty-seven years. But inside? Honestly, what a question. Who wants to be no more than a random semi-conscious insect in a hive of billions?

Not me. No, I’m not normal, and have no desire to be.

Normal means average, and let me assure you, I’m way above average. Average people don’t make it their life’s work to ferret out certain types of borderline personalities and convert them into useful tools. As far as I know, I’m the only human toolmaker of my kind. No semi-sentient insect brain resides within my skull, making me a slave to laws, traditions or norms of so-called acceptable behavior. I operate outside of the rules of the hive, and I enjoy a freedom mere insects can never know. So what, you say? I’ll say what. By my actions I have personally changed the course of history, and I will do so again.

Can you say the same thing? What “normal” hive insect can claim to have done that?

Have there been others like me? I tend to think so, but it’s an area of pure conjecture. A familiar example. Most Americans dismissed the story of James Earl Ray’s mysterious helper, known only to him as “Raoul,” as a self-serving fantasy. I always thought that Raoul was more flesh than fantasy. James Earl Ray’s actions and travels before and after Memphis make me believe that he had assistance of the kind that I have given to some very special people.

If you take a ‘Parallax View’ of history, you might allow the possibility that rogue government agencies or other cliques could also be grooming likely candidates, but I tend not to believe in elaborate conspiracies. Could it happen? I suppose. But in my experience, no conspiracy involving a large cast of characters can remain a secret for many years.

On the other hand, the temporary private relationship between a mentor and a singular student, that relationship can indeed be kept a secret. My writing this secret history in freedom instead of in captivity proves that this is so. And even if one of my human tools is someday arrested alive, his mad barkings will be disregarded. His minor side-story of a mysterious helper, if heard at all, will be disregarded as just another in his cornucopia of delusions.

Converting a certain type of lunatic into a useful tool is not too difficult when you understand the dynamics that are in play. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve had a lot of practice. Good candidates for a direct action mission are often quite intelligent, at least as measured on certain scales. They can navigate by themselves between cities, and arrive at a place and time without causing alarm to the general population.

But in my experience the best candidates for a guiding hand are not true “loners.” They often seek friendship and employment, and they may even succeed for a while. But the men who interest me invariably sabotage their social relationships by compulsively discussing their paranoid obsessions. Each human rejection adds heat to their simmering rage. Yet still they crave human companionship, and simple affirmation of their delusional belief systems. This makes them soft putty at my touch. These men, deftly guided, become my arrows. To the world, these arrows seem to plunge at random from the clear blue sky. Sometimes they do, but not always!

It’s not hard to convert a lump of inchoate anger into an arrow. At first all I do is offer them a receptive ear, and confirmation that they are not alone in their beliefs. Our dialogues lead me toward the best approach to take. I adapt my temporary cover story to fit my current subject’s preexisting delusional views. In the past I’ve pretended to be a liaison from the CIA, from Mossad, from Al Qaeda. I’ve posed as a former leading member of the Trilateral Commission, now working against their globalist designs. Sometimes I’ve convinced them that their medications are part of a conspiracy to chemically lobotomize them, robbing them of their most brilliant insights.

After a few private conversations I eventually steer the subject to “doing something really important.” Hypothetically, of course. At least at first. Then we play a conversational game of, “If I could, I would.” A good prospect will soon be describing the precise medieval tortures, punishments and execution methods merited by his worst enemies. Once I have tapped into his personal fantasy realm of gory revenge, it’s “game on,” as they say in the vernacular.

At that point it really doesn’t matter to me who or what is the focus of the subject’s hate, or what group he blames for his own shortcomings or for the ills of the world. Left, right, capitalism, socialism, religion, nationalism…in truth I stopped caring very much about them long ago. When an action will advance the cause of social justice that’s great, but generalized mayhem is also a worthy end in itself. “The worse, the better,” in Lenin’s words. Create the pre-revolutionary conditions. Some days I still half believe the old dogma. But at least I’m not just another insect in the hive.

I slid my empty cup away, and awaited the return of my barista. In a minute I’d be commiserating with him, discovering that we were practically soulmates, rare men of true vision. Posing as an out-of-town business visitor, I’d ask him the best place in the area to eat. It would turn out that he and I shared similar culinary and beverage tastes, fancy that! And I’d gladly spring for lunch or dinner if he’d agree to be my local guide. Then we’d discuss further his hatred for the Jewish bankers who run the world, and the right-wing talk radio hosts who are their willing accomplices and mouthpieces. At least, in the world according to Duncan McClaren.

Right-wing talk radio was very much on my mind, because one of the icons of that loathsome industry was going to be passing through the region two weeks hence. Ben Rafferty wasn’t the king of right-wing hate radio, but he was one of the rising princes, nearly up there with the big three. Currently he was on a national book tour, promoting his latest toxic spill of racist hate-speech. Oh happy day, his entire schedule, with bookstore locations, dates and times, was available online.

I’d discovered some other useful information in an interview Rafferty had given to a pro-gun blog. The talk host traveled without an armed bodyguard, due to the vagaries of conflicting state gun laws. This was particularly a problem when flying into New York or New Jersey. It was just too damn hard to stay in compliance with a thousand local gun laws that could cause you to be imprisoned over a technical firearms violation. So instead of an armed bodyguard, he had some kind of karate guy for protection. An ex-soldier who had been wounded in one of America’s wars of imperialism. Poor Ben Rafferty, who never saw an assault rifle he didn’t want to French kiss, couldn’t have a gun during his East Coast book tour. Beautiful.

The imminent proximity of Duncan McClaren and Ben Rafferty had brought me seven hundred miles to this coffee shop. With a little stroking and massaging of Duncan’s twisted and deformed ego, I hoped to convince him that his empty life could at long last have genuine meaning. He could make a real difference! He could change the world! He could accomplish something important, and be remembered forever. I already had an untraceable pistol to provide him, if he proved receptive to my guiding hand. Oh, the mayhem potential, when one of the leading right-wing haters is finally knocked off! Mayhem-fest, indeed. Mayhem squared. Mayhem cubed!

Radio talker Ben Rafferty meant nothing to me, but he had millions of rabid right-wing followers who clung to his every screech and scream for three hours a day. After Duncan McClaren approached the book-signing table, pulled out his pistol and gave his miserable life meaning, Rafferty’s fans would rise en masse in blind rage. And a few of his most rabid fans, feeding their own dark fantasies, would predictably strike out in violent reprisal against progressive leaders. Secondary explosions, if you will. A chain reaction, possibly my greatest work ever.

Duncan returned to my end of the bar when he saw my empty cup. While he poured my refill I quietly said, “You know, you’re right about those Jewish bankers and how they control talk radio. They’re all in New York, right? I mean, most people have no idea what’s going on around them.”

His eyes widened and a half-smile formed on his lips. He set the coffee pot down and leaned on the counter until his nose was a foot from mine. One eyebrow raised in expectation above the high side of his demented grin. He glanced back down the counter to see who was in earshot and then said, “You know about the Illuminati, right?”

Did I ever.

I smiled.

This plan might actually work. I’d know better after a long conversation with Duncan McClaren in a dark restaurant. Duncan might be my masterpiece, the one to light the fuse of Civil War Two. And if he does, eventually I want the world to know who handed him the matches, the gun and Ben Rafferty’s book-signing schedule.

But for now just call me Professor Raoul X, a guiding hand of history.

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

Fiction by Matthew Bracken, author of the Enemies Foreign And Domestic trilogy and the upcoming Castigo Cay.

[spotlightsaga]

Kevin Cage of Spotlight Saga reviews… Gotham (S03E18) Light The Wick Airdate: May 15, 2017 FOX Ratings: 2.977 Million :: 0.92 18-49 Demo Share Score: 5.75/10

**********SPOILERS BELOW**********

‘Heroes Rise’ is still finding it a bit difficult to pick up steam the way the show did in 'Mad City’… In all fairness, we’re without a doubt picking up speed as we head to the last half of S3, but FOX and the other 'Big 4’ (now Big 5 w/The CW beating out FOX on some nights now that FOX literally handed ABC their biggest ratings giant for 15 years on a hand carved wooden platter; served with fine cheese, wine & duck pâté) are stuck in stubborn traditions and continue to spread out entire seasons to 22+ episodes. Even splitting up S3 and attempting to brand each half with a different theme seems like it can’t break the cycle of eventual monotony. 'Light The Wick’ takes the dishonor of being the 2nd episode in the history of Gotham to score under 3 Million viewers… Clocking in at 2.977 Million Live viewers w/an 0.92 rating in the ad-land coveted 18-49 Demo Share, the lowest ever 18-49 Demo in 60+ episodes.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves and put too much stock in those numbers that the monopolizing dictators of tv travesties continue to pump out even though they themselves have admitted to getting it all wrong months at a time over the course of many years. Like we’ve mentioned before, we include them on the website and across our Social Media hotspots as a courtesy to Spotlight Saga readers, but there’s no one in this room who thinks anyone over at Nielsen is getting an even remotely near accurate reading… Doesn’t really matter how long the company has been directly controlling the ad revenue for television. Streaming changes everything, those hidden numbers and the revenue brought in by companies like Hulu, Netflix, Vudu, Amazon, Sling, PlayStation Vue, Shomi, Crave, Crackle (and the list goes on and on and on and on) etc. probably would probably send James Attwood and his cronies Mitch Barns, Steve Hasker, and Jamere Jackson into a full on state of psychosis! Too specific? Good, then I’m making my point.

Let’s not get off topic… Which is honestly easy to do when Gotham is at the center of the discussion. We know Gotham is over the top. It’s meant to be campy and the more the show embraces its overly theatrical roots and comic book banality, the more fun the show becomes. I often speak highly of S3A, 'Mad City’, as it literally dove headfirst right into its own pool of glossy, detailed aesthetic and gothic screwball madness. There’s a fine line you must be careful walking when playing with the likes of kitsch tv, and Gotham just isn’t playing the game quite the way they should be… At least not right at this moment, but they’ve proved they can and they’ll do it again. Bet on it.

If the 'King Of Bad Taste’ and 'Fantastic Filth’, John Waters, has taught us anything, it’s that execution is everything. If one wants to bask in such graciously gaudy territory, it must be done right or not at all. 'Heroes Rise’ just can’t seem to find the right balance… Selina Kyle’s (Camren Bicondova) transformation into Catwoman with the help of Ivy Pepper (Maggie Geha) and her double-dealing herbs, flowers, and green growing what-me-nots is simply all kinds of fun… As usual, the aesthetic is down to a science on Gotham and they always seem to work in a reference of Ivy’s shocking transformation and subsequent casting change. Unfortunately it’s basically an afterthought as lead Ben Mackenzie takes center stage with a poorly slapped together infiltration angle of The Court Of Owls. These are the people that have been ruling everything in Gotham since its sketchy inception? A group so easily infiltrated (and without wit!) that they literally just allow Jim a chance to quickly climb the ranks on the off chance that he’s suddenly gone against everything he’s ever stood for in the blink of an eye? Nah. This was an arc I was legitimately excited for, and while there’s still time left for the 'Gotham Writer’s Room’ to knock this quickly derailing train back on course (or at least halfway back on the track), we’re quickly approaching the point of no return for 'Heroes Rise’.

Just a little tip for anyone over at Primrose Hill Productions, DC Entertainment and/or Warner Bros… There’s nothing on God’s Green Earth you can do, write, say, or shoot that will get the majority of the audience that’s left faithfully watching to give a damn about Dr Leslie Thompkins (Morena Baccarin). The character, any ties to Jim Gordon, and the fun little arc that played out with her returning to Gotham and Jim shooting her Tetch-Blood deranged, mob tied husband is dead in the water. No offense to Baccarin, this was just a badly fumbled storyline in a overly Gordon-Centric season. There are so many characters in this meticulously crafted gothic tinged birthplace of Good vs 'A Whole Lotta Evil’, we just want to see anything else but the soapy bits of what feels like a throwaway directionless character. Then again, look at what they accomplished with Barbara Kean (Erin Richards), I’d literally pay a monthly fee if we could just fast forward to all things Barbara and celebrate her infinite crazy.

So far, as a whole, S3 has been exactly what we wanted Gotham to be in the first place (and I wish more people were aware of that fact)… Right now, at this moment, it’s just trying to find its place after a long break and a few falls at the 2nd round starting line on a network that insists everything be stretched as long as possible to fill an episode quota to squeeze every last dollar from the DC Universe. I refuse to believe that this much improved Gotham is taking such a nose dive, especially when there are little hints of light starting to burst through the pipes at the end of a long dark tunnel. Gotham is better than most give it credit for, and I’m thinking anytime now it’s going to find its stride again and show us how fun a well crafted world of dark, campy, violent villains can make for a great tv show and all around roller coaster of classic, exquisitely polished tropes of Good vs Evil, in the most bizarre and unexpected of ways possible. Disgraced former Head of Arkham, Dr Hugo Strange (BD Wong)… Also disgraced former Chief of Police Nathaniel Barnes (Michael Chiklis), you guys have any ideas? If not… You know, there’s always that Joker’s Wild! Sitting. Waiting. Scheming!

[rikirachtman]

Thergothon - Stream From the Heavens (1994) review

When not busy naming his cats after racial slurs and seeing how many consonants he could string together without any vowels, H.P. Lovecraft wrote a great deal of books; Lovecraft’s stories, and the imagery conjured up therein, is the very essence of “Stream From the Heavens”. A short-lived doom metal outfit from Finland, Thergothon existed for a mere four years and recorded just three demo tapes, only one of which was ever officially released, as well as one full-length before their break-up. However, despite their microscopic discography (every second of their existing material takes barely more than an hour to listen to!), Thergothon made a massive impact with their haunting and utterly dismal soundscapes, helping to pioneer the infamously inaccessible genre of funeral doom (which is like, the doom metal of doom metal, basically).

Now, the word “inaccessible” is thrown around often, but it’s truly warranted here: Thergothon is not a band many will enjoy upon first listen. Save for a few mid-paced moments here and there, nearly every moment of this album is hellishly, ungodly slow, crawling along at an average of around 20 beats per minute(!!!!!) as heavy chords ring from the guitars for multiple measures at a time and the drums trudge methodically along at the speed of the guy in front of you in line trying to decide what he wants to order. Entire sections of a song can change subtly without the listener knowing, simply because it moves at a pace too slow to fully comprehend half the time, and in rare moments where the flow of the music does change abruptly, like the medieval-inspired acoustic section from “The Unknown Kadath in the Cold Wastes” or the galloping mid-paced solo in “Elemental”, they become even more shocking for this reason. The power chords that usually make up the meat of these songs often shift in very atonal, alien ways, tending to hit the note you’d least expect to follow the preceding one. Upon first listen, I almost found it irritating that Thergothon seemed to intentionally choose chord progressions that didn’t quite sound right, but as time goes on, it becomes more apparent to me that this unorthodox writing style is exactly what helps them uphold the alien, otherworldly aura that drives their music in the first place. Lovecraft probably would have hated music theory anyway, right?

“Stream From the Heavens” is far from a clinic in technical ability, but each band member performs adequately. The vocals, although they stay mostly in the background, still play a huge role and are hard to ignore, as vocalist Niko Sirkiä employs hideously guttural, positively inhuman growls that bring to mind images of colossal behemoths from unknown reaches of the universe (or just a fat guy burping honestly), blending them with distant, forlorn clean vocals that add another layer to the lonely, isolating atmosphere of this record. I’ve often heard black metal vocals described as “the shrieks of suffering, tortured souls” or whatever cliche seems appropriate, and if that’s the case, then Sirkiä’s vocals are more akin to a being that has long since undergone its torture and now wanders empty planes as more of a husk than a human. Foreshadowing his unfortunate shift to electronic music in later years, Sirkiä also plays an eerie keyboard throughout the album with a spindly, sci-fi-esque tone that plays off the heavier instruments surrounding it tremendously. [Quick note here: After writing this review, I found out that Sirkiä was only 17 or 18 during the record of this album, and even younger when their demo was released. These big fuck-off monster growls are coming out of a teenager!]

Guitarist Mikko Ruotsalainen and drummer Jori Sjöroos (Finnish names are hard, man) are the perfect pair to back up Sirkiä as they don’t do much beyond hammer out a single note every two measures or so before moving on to the next. This may sound like a bad thing, but arrangements any more complex than that would spoil the unceasingly bleak atmosphere that covers this record like horrible Cthulhu slime, and the intermittent moments of emptiness in between only further serve to reinvigorate the slime (no more slime metaphors for now). There is no bassist credited for this album, and frankly I’m unable to hear a bass through the production as it is, so I presume either Sirkiä or Ruotsalainen played it and buried it in the mix, a mime played it, Jason Newsted played it, or it’s just not there at all.

Speaking of production...oyyy fuckin’ vey. Spotless Rush-tier production would not have suited this album, but a bit of cleaning up would at least stop me from having to clean blood out of my ears with every cymbal crash. The instruments, in a rare subversion for doom metal, are actually very thin-sounding rather than heavy or crunchy, with pitter-pattering drums and wispy, flanger-drenched guitars (I can hear the “flange” shifting between my headphones on this album sometimes and it drives me insane but I digress) that act as a softer background to the more powerful growled vocals. Although the poor production can sometimes detract from the guitar and drum work, it makes the keyboard sound even more delightfully eerie and it makes Sirkiä’s empty clean vocals that much more distant and haunting, so it certainly doesn’t come without its positives.

All in all, “Stream from the Heavens”, and indeed funeral doom in general, is very much an acquired taste, and very much “mood music” that can only be fully understood when in the correct emotional state for it. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone unless they were already deep into metal as a genre, but for those who are, Thergothon’s only release is a deeply inaccessible piece of non-Euclidean musical geometry that probably won’t make much sense unless listened to under the right circumstances. There is an eldritch magic hidden in this record that can be unlocked with the right ear for it, and the right ear for this deranged and mysterious group of Finnish teenagers. Just, y‘know, try to forget that Niko basically went on to make Pitbull music after this, and the mystique doesn’t go away

“The powers of the sea, the wind and the fire, can you hear my chant?”