#not just the one near me but every damn location in the county apparently!!!

[firelord-frowny]

so bizarreeee to me when businesses don't make certain information easily accessible to its clientele???

like, for a small music store such as (but not limited to) music&arts centers, whyyyy would you not have a clearly stated inclement weather policy on their websites with regard to private lessons?

if your business, say, a restaurant, has to shut down for several weeks renovations or something, WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY would you not stick a sign on the door that says so? WHYYYYY would you not make a quick lil social media post explaining why you're closed and how soon you expect to re-open?? literally howwww much fucking sense does it make to just turn out the lights and shut the door without a single word to any of the people who patronize your business???

are there legit reasons why so many places are content to just leave their customers in the dark like that and make them have to go out of their way to contact the owners/managers/etc and ask wtf is going on, if they care enough to ask?

[thiswasinevitableid]

7 with indruck?

7: I’m assigned to write a piece rounding up all the bad press that you, a famous celebrity, have been getting and you show up in my office and demand me to write a retraction and get the ‘real’ story”. I went SFW

“Dude! You can’t go in there! Hey, wait, dude, hold on!”

Jake’s voice jars Indrid from staring miserably at his computer screen. But it does nothing to prepare him for the stack of papers that slams into his desk. 

“Where the fuck do you get off man?” 

Staring him down is a man with dark hair, mis-matched eyes, a scar down his right cheek, and an extremely pissed-off expression. Indrid recognizes him instantly, both from T.V and his last assignment.

“Mr. Newton?” 

“Yeah, that’s me, the guy you been draggin through the goddam mud!” 

“I-”

“Where are you even gettin this stuff? Substance abuse, bad break-ups, the split between me and my team, who the fuck told you that bullshit?”

“I am not going to reveal my sources.”

“Oh now you get some fuckin ethics?”

“I was just reporting what people told me. I was assigned to round up the press around you now that you’re relaunching your show, and this is what I got. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“Upsets me?” Mr. Newton plants his hands on the desk, leaning into Indrid’s space, “buddy, I ain’t even on the same planet as upset right now. I’m actually feelin pretty damn calm, because I know who the fuck is to blame.”

“It’s not my fault” Inrid snaps back, “I got assigned it at random, so if you have issues kindly take them up with Woodbridge.”

“Sir, if you insist on raising a fuss in my office-”

“This him?” Mr. Newton points to Woodbridge as the editor appears from his office. 

“Yes.” Indrid glares at Woodbridge through his glasses; he told him these kind of stories would lead to trouble, and it wasn’t even his usual beat.

He braces for Mr. Newton continuing to escalate, but instead the stocky man takes a deep breath , holding his hands up apologetically.

“Look, I’m real sorry, shouldn’t have come in guns blazin like that, and I know you fellas gotta make a livin same as anyone but this kind of stuff-” he whacks the papers into Indrid’s lap, “y’all gotta remember there’s a human on the other end of it.”

“That’s a very fair point, Mr. Newton-” Woodbridge gestures towards the door.

“A human with a damn good lawyer.”

“Mr.Newton, free speech”

“Protects you from the government, not from the Duck. I don’t mind the break-up nonsense, that happened plenty during the first show. Leo, Minerva, and I have been through every relationship configuration known to man, accordin to papers like yours. But the shit about me drinkin? That could damage my career. So could the reasons your ‘sources’ gave for why the show ended. You tellin me you’d hire a fella who apparently yelled at his co-hosts day in and day out and ‘couldn't hack’ bein’ outdoors?” This last question he directs at Indrid, who shakes his head. 

“Mr. Newton, retracting the story would look very bad for us. However, we’d be more than willing to publish your side of the story.”

“Close, but my word ain’t enough to counter those claims about me bein’ incompetent. I’m goin’ on a month and a half tour to location scout and shoot the first two episodes. I want one of your writers to come with. Specifically, I want him.” He points to Indrid.

“Wait, why me? I’m not a travel writer, and I have a photography assignment due next week.”

“Because you’re the one who caused this mess, slim.”

Indrid starts to protest when Woodbridge turns to with a smirk.

“Start transferring your assignments, Indrid; you’re going on a roadtrip.”

----------------------------------------

Indrid grumbles to himself as he waits on the curb with his bag. Duck, as Mr. Newton has said to call him, told him to pack only one bag, and to bring his camera (“saw your shots when I was researchin you; you might like shootin out on the road”).

A motorcycle pulls up to the curb as he checks the time on this phone. He doesn’t give the vehicle a second look until the rider speaks to him.

“Glad you’re on time.” The helmet comes off, revealing Duck looking much calmer than the last time he saw him, “let’s get your gear on the bike and get goin’.”

Indrid stares at him in disbelief, “were you at any point going to warm me that I’d be doing this whole trip on a death machine?”

“Didn’t think I had to. Figured you knew this was how I traveled now, given all your, uh, thorough research.” Duck fixes him with a shit-eating grin as he straps his bag onto the bike, then hands him a helmet.

Indrid groans, jams the helmet on and awkwardly climbs onto the back of the bike.

“Gonna have to hang onto me, slim.” Duck’s voice crackles through his helmet, “don’t worry, I ain’t gonna bite you, even if I still kinda feel like it.”

“How encouraging.” He loops his arms around the T.V star, winces as the bike pulls out into traffic. There’s a laugh as he tightens his grip in fear, Duck’s body suddenly the only safe thing in the world. 

They zoom onto the freeway, and promptly come to a dead stop in traffic.

“Truly invigorating.” Indrid mutters. 

“Ain’t gonna be much fun until we’re outta the city. And I ain’t about to go zippin’ between lanes to cut ahead; great way to get us both killed.”

As they inch along, Indrid starting to sweat from the heat of the pavement, Duck asks, “did you ever watch the show?”

“Is there anyone who didn’t? Wild World was on every day. I’m fairly certain it’s still all Animal Planet plays some days.”

“Yeah but, uh, did you actually watch it on purpose?” 

“I did, now and then. I found Minerva’s tendency to try more extreme forms of exploration stressful, but I generally enjoyed what I saw. I’m not surprised you’re the one who picked the show back up; you were always oddly compelling on camera, and it was clear it was a passion project for you.”

“Yeah, it really was. Is. Feels weird to be doin’ it without them. Can’t blame ‘em for havin’ their own lives and goals though. Leo was ready to retire after the Gila Monster incident, and Minerva’s wanted to run an adventure bootcamp for years.”

“You know, if you hurry and explain everything in the next ten minutes, you can just pull off there and drop me at the edge of town.”

A chuckle, “Nice try, Indrid. You ain’t gettin outta roughin’ it that easy.”

“It was worth a try. Alaska was the last episode run, right?”

Duck’s posture shifts so subtly that, were he not holding him, Indrid wouldn’t have noticed it. 

“Yeah. Yeah it was. Nothin’ like gettin attacked by a wolf and takin a bunch of rabies shots to the gut to put you off filmin’.” 

“It really was a wolf? Everything I read said-”

“I’d misidentified what attacked us? Yeah, I know. American wolves never really go after humans, that’s why we were so fuckin’ screwed when this one did. Poor fella. He was sick. We coulda proved what happened except I told Leo to destroy the footage and we had a knock down, drag out fight over it until he did.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I didn’t want my pain, Minerva’s pain, and the wolf’s pain to become some goddamn viral sensation!” Duck snaps. 

Indrid decides to drop it, feels Duck sag in the drivers seat. In spite of dragging him out into the wilderness, Indrid doesn’t bear Duck any bad feeling. And he doesn’t like seeing him sad. 

“I, ah, I always liked the episodes where you showcased moths and butterflies. Moths are my favorite creatures, they’re so varied but so overlooked.”

Nothing but the traffic around them, then, “I once saw a Luna Moth bigger’n my hand. Didn’t get it on camera but damn was it a stunner.”

“Where did you see it?”

“Now there’s a story…”

By the time Duck finishes the cars are finally moving, and Duck changes them into the lane leading towards the exit for a single lane, county highway. 

“Fuckin’ finally. Alright Indrid, hold tight.”

What follows is simultaneously the most thrilling and most terrifying four hours of Indrid’s life as Duck speeds down the road, win whipping around them and the world going by in a blur that’s much more alarming when not behind metal and glass. They find a rest stop, where Indrid shotguns an entire bag of skittles under Duck’s amused gaze, and get back on the road for an only slightly less terrifying four hours more. 

They stop for the night at a KOA (“you’re lucky, slim, I got us a cabin to ease you into things”). Whereupon Indrid is treated to the sight of Duck stripping off his road gear, back muscular and sporting several scars.

“How are you likin’ life on the road?” Duck asks, not turning but starting to undo his pants. Indrid doesn’t look away until he’s down to his boxers.

“You know, it’s growing on me.”

They make their first shooting destination the next afternoon, setting up camp in a mostly-empty campground before hiking off into the woods. Duck shoots B-roll while Indrid photographs, the pair working in near total silence before meeting up with their contact near a jumble of boulders.

“Nice to see you again, Thacker.” Duck shakes the man’s hand, and gets a pat on the back.

“Good to you too, sport. Who’s the new fella?”

“My biographer.”  Duck deadpans.

Duck spends the rest of the day filming as Thacker helps him find nest and burrows and creatures to shoot and narrate over. In spite of the show being done on a single camera, Duck is compelling as always when he talks about the natural world. 

Indrid just wishes he’d sprung for better hiking boots.

“Ooof.” He mutters, face down on his sleeping bag.

“Not surprised, we did about ten miles all told today.”

“I repeat. Oof.”

A kind, sympathetic laugh, “C’mon, you’ll feel better after some dinner.”

Later that night, as he’s climbing into his sleeping bag, Duck pokes his head into the tent.

“Psst, Indrid, come look.” 

Indrid follows him out, kneels by a clump of flowers when he waves him down. 

“See, look, riiight there” Duck points, “it’s a Hummingbird Moth.”

Indrid gasps, delighted, and watches the pollinator flit from blossom to blossom. Duck sits beside him, answering his questions when he asks them, until it’s too dark for either of them to see.

--------------------------------

Duck never thought he’d have a travel companion again. Not after Alaska, not after the attack and what came in the nights to follow. 

He certainly never assumed the wiry, silvery haired writer who’d nearl fucked everything up would turn out to be that person. But Indrid, for all his initial skepticism, has become an excellent partner. He’s easy going, eccentric enough that Duck’s own quirks don’t phase him, quiet;y awkward, and a damn good photographer. The fact his alienly handsome face has become a bit windburnt and his pale hair a little longer only adds to his charm.

Christ, Duck wants to rip those red glasses off and kiss him until he’s breathless. 

Currently, he’s missing the feeling of long arms around his waist, as he left Indrid back with a family whose jeep had run out of gas. They’re in one of the long, monotonous stretches of desert highway where passersby are few and cell phone service is unreliable, so Duck volunteered to ride ahead to the next gas station and bring some back. As the Jeep comes into view, he sees the family waving. Indrid is leaning against the car, smiling as if Duck is the greatest thing he’s ever seen. 

That settles it; when they make Santa Fe, he’s calling The Weekly Rounds and asking Woodbridge to extend Indrid’s assignment. And if the old man refuses, well, Animal Planet is thrilled to have him back, and made it clear they’d be happy to pay for an additional camera man.

------------------------------

This time they’re the only ones in the campground, and Indrid suspects it might technically be closed. Indrid could do this forever. He wants to stay like this, with Duck, day in and day out, have their evenings be like this. Duck makes a fire, keeping it small to be safe, and the evening progresses like normal, the two of them swapping stories and munching on the dinner they whipped up from leftovers from the last gas station. Then the moon rises, two days from full, and Duck doubles over with a groan. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Indrid moves to help him, but Duck raises his hand to stop him.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, ‘Drid, fuck, I thought I had another day, thought we could make it somewhere I could keep you safe.”

“Safe from what? Duck, please, you’re hurt, I can call for help, just hold on.”

“No” Duck snarls, still hunched over, “you ain’t callin anyone. What you’re gonna do is run, far and as fast as you can, away from me. Find a tree, find a cave, flag down a car if you can find one. Go, please, fuck.” He falls off the stump he’s sitting on, and in spite of his instructions Indrid tries to help him up.

“Go!” It’s a growl now, and when Duck looks up at him his face is changing shape. Duck drags himself away from the fire, into the shadows, and Indrid turns, starting to run. There’s howl of pain and he stops. He can’t leave Duck like this. He won’t.

Resolute, he turns back to the camp and immediately regrets his decisions. Whatever is in the shadows isn’t human, not anymore. It’s growling low and labored, as it rises onto two feet and howls. 

“Oh fuck me.” Indrid doesn’t dare turn his back, tries to slowly creep away and trips on a stray piece of firewood. The monster lowers to all fours, padding into the firelight across from him. It’s fur is dark and shaggy, it’s hands sport claws and when it opens it’s mouth to grin at him it’s teeth glitter like rows of knives. 

He has to keep the fire between him and it, even if he has to spend his night running in some Scooby-Doo style circle around the fire pit. It’s his only chance.

In one, large leap, the werewolf clears the fire and lands in front of him, front paws bracketing his body when he tries to crawl back.

“Told you to run, slim.” 

“I, I can’t.”

“Didn’t think you were stubborn to the point of dyin’.” 

“Y-you told me not to run from predators, and I c-cannot drive the bike. And, and I didn’t, I couldn’t leave you.”

“Ain’t that sweet.” Duck grins again, “but why do you think I told Leo and Minerva I wasn’t safe to be around no more? Because a werewolf don’t know friend from foe.”

“That’s, that’s a lie. Y-you clearly know me, you know your past, you’re not some mindless killer ahgod.” He whimpers as a muzzle finds the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply before sending hot, hungry breath across his skin. 

“Mmmmm, you smell good, sugar.”

“You’re not going to eat me.” Indrid says, eyes shut.

“You seem real sure about that.” Another snuffle, tongue dragging along his throat.

“You’re not because you are still Duck, just very large and covered with fur and with a mouth full of unnecessarily sharp teeth, and even though you seem convinced you’ve become bloodthirsty you are still you.” It comes out in a rush and he holds his breath as a clawed hand cups the back of his head. Duck tugs his head back, nosing along his exposed neck. He stares at the stares, praying they’re not the last thing he sees. 

“I could rip your goddamn throat out.” Duck says matter-of-factly. 

“Do you want to?” He whispers, hands coming up instinctively to protect his vital organs.

A long growl, and then Duck’s face blots out the night sky, “No. I don’t.”

“Ohthankgoodness.”

Duck rumbles out a laugh, “that’s puttin it mildly, slim. No one ever stuck around long enough to see what I’d do because I always hid myself or they had the goddamn good sense to run when I said too. Always assumed as soon as I was all the way changed, I’d wanna hurt people, even if they were people I loved.” He plucks Indrid’s glasses off, setting them carefully on the picnic table before using the pad of his thumb to wipe away a tear he hadn’t realized was there.

“What do you want to do instead?”

“In general, or to you?” 

“Both?” Indrid is puzzled by his phrasing. 

“Kinda amped up, like I wanna go for a run. Transformin’ basically releases a shit ton of adrenaline so your body just doesn’t collapse from the pain. But as far as you’re concerned…” the muzzle his back, snuffling at his face and chest, “dunno, mostly just wanna keep you close. Protect you. Some part of the wolf-brain is kinda just screamin ‘mine’ over and over again.”

“Oh. Ah. That’s, that’s good.” It’s also painfully arousing, but he’s not quite ready to admit that aloud yet.

“Probably helps that you’re wearing my shirt, since it means my scent is all over you already.”

“You let me borrow it AHHEY, gahthattickles” Indrid cackles as licks and nuzzles his face.

“Aww, didn’t know you were ticklish, sugar.” Duck grabs him, begins mercilessly rubbing his face on any exposed skin he can find.

“I’m not you are just very AHhehe hairy!” In retaliation Indrid reaches between them and scritches his fingers against Ducks chest and belly.

ThwupThwup

They both look at Duck’s tail with surprise. Indrid rubs his belly again.

ThwupThwup

“Didn’t know it did that. I mean, guess makes sense on account of bein’ kinda canine, but I guess I ain’t ever been really happy when I been like this before.”

“Should I keep doing that?”

“Fuck yeah. Hold on, here.” Duck adjusts so he’s on his back with Indrid more or less on top of him. Indrid resumes petting him, Duck making little happy whines as he does.

“Damn, that feels good sugar, ooh right.” 

“Why do you keep calling me that? It’s a pet name.”

“I, uh, fuck, um, fuck, I didn’t, meant to say, uh, fuck.” A deep breath as Indrid sits up to meet his eyes, “I’m real fuckin into you, ‘Drid. I, I didn’t wanna say nothin until we were somewhere you could bail out easily if you needed to. But I ain’t felt this way about anyone in years.”

“Is that wolf-you talking or you-you talking?” Indrid asks, toying with a patch of fur.

“Both. I wanna be with you, and wanna keep travelin with you as my partner, as my, uh, my boyfriend. As my mate. Okay, that last bit was definitely the wolf talking.”

“I...I would like that as well, Duck. I didn’t know how to say it, I was afraid that what happened with your friends meant you didn’t want to be close to anyone. Including me.”

Duck sighs, “I wish I’d known then what we figured out tonight. Maybe things woulda ended a little better between us three. I just, I couldn’t face the idea of bein’ out on a shoot with ‘em and havin this exact thing happen.”

“I must admit, the lack of a full moon is rather confusing.”

“It ain’t just the full moon. It’s a few days after and before too, and I thought I had one more before it hit. Plan was to sneak out of the hotel in Santa Fe and hole myself up in a cave somewhere.”

Indrid strokes his cheek, the fur a little coarser there, “That was what attacked you three, I take it.”

“Uh huh. We were trackin it, thinkin’ it was some kind of huge predator we might be able to film.  It jumped Minerva first, but she’s a tough one, managed to hold her own and only got scratched up. I pulled it off her and it bit me. I, uh, I shot it point blank while it was doin’ that. Turned into a man as it fell in the dirt. Leo and Minerva said I did what I had to but I...well, let’s just say I still see that fellas face a lot in my dreams.”

“No wonder you wanted the footage destroyed.” Indrid murmurs.

Duck nods, waves one hand in front of his face, “damn skeeters, c’mon, let’s get in the tent.”

The tent is a tight fit, but Indrid couldn’t be happier. He crawls onto Duck’s chest, nestling against his fur with a sigh. 

“Now if you have bad dreams when you’re like this, you have someone to to hold.”

Duck kisses the top of his head, “Thanks, sugar.”

Indrid falls asleep atop a giant wolfman, and wakes up to the morning sun and much smaller, human man sprawled beneath him, who he wakes with a flurry of kisses. 

They make Santa Fe by noon, riding in feeling freer then either of them has in a long time. When they ride out the next morning, Indrid has a new job and Duck has a new cameraman. But all either can think about at the moment is his new boyfriend, and the future spreading out ahead of them beneath the rising sun. 

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

Descending into Madness An Anarchist-Nihilist Diary of Anti-Psychiatry

Just sayin’... The opinions expressed in this text represent no other than my own. My position against psychiatry is based on my own personal experience and should not be taken as an authority on the subject. Psychiatry, medications, and or psychiatric incarceration is considered helpful by some, and I wish them the very best experience with it.

But also... To the ‘freaks’, the ‘weirdos’, the ‘delinquents’, and the unruly... To those who embrace these words like daggers drawn against civility, To the insubordinate youth who refuse to tranquilize their play with meds, To those who riot in the asylums, and those who dare to escape from them...

Let the moonlight illuminate our iconoclasm, witches and savage animals spellbinding fire in the night, for the destruction of society, with the courage of unmedicated confrontation.

Any society that you build will have its limits. And outside the limits of any society, unruly and heroic tramps will wander with their wild and virgin thought — those who cannot live without planning ever new and dreadful outbursts of rebellion! I shall be among them!” — Renzo Novatore

I’m sittin’ at a big round table with about three nurses and two doctors. My eyes are sensitive to the light cus I haven’t slept in days. A nurse directly beside me has been gently nodding at me with the same look of concern for about an hour. My vision keeps blurring and then re-focusing. My hands are slightly trembling. I’ve been fighting the urge to lay my head down since I sat down. It appears this awkward meeting is almost over, and I have some papers to sign. The doctor who has been talkin’ since I got here is still talkin’ and I admit, I haven’t really been paying much attention. Finally the talking stops and everyone stands up. The nurse beside me helps me up by my arm. I start to feel dizzy. We begin walking down a long hallway and eventually enter a room. Another nurse in the room greets me with a pillow, a blanket, and a pill to “help with rest”. Before sittin’ down on the bed I’ve been assigned, a nurse calmly requests my belt and shoe laces. I comply and decide while I’m up I might as well take a shit before I go to sleep. About five seconds after my ass hits the toilet seat I hear a commotion - frantic pounding and demands to unlock the bathroom door. Confused and startled, I jump up, trip over my pants, and unlock the door. Apparently I’m not allowed to lock the bathroom door - or have it totally closed while I’m in there. I quickly finish shitting in plain view of a nurse and walk back to bed. I notice a different nurse has pulled up a chair right beside it and sits down with a clipboard and pen. I lay down and try to get comfortable while accepting the awkward close watch by this nurse beside me. As I start drifting off to sleep I reflect on everything that’s goin’ on. Oh that’s right. Earlier today I tried to hang myself in my apartment and this is my first night in a psych ward.

**** INDIANAPOLIS, March 18 th 2018 — Resource Treatment Center Riot Nearly a dozen Indianapolis police officers were called to respond Wednesday night to a riot at a juvenile psychiatric treatment and addiction facility on the city’s east side.

Eleven officers were dispatched to 1404 S. State Avenue just before 11 p.m. Wednesday on a report of a disturbance at the facility. The location is home to the Resource Treatment Center juvenile psychiatric facility, as well as Options Transitional Living, which provides sober housing for homeless or at-risk youth.

Police arrived to find that a group of juvenile residents had done more than $50,000-worth of damage to the facility and assaulted four staff members. Officers took nine juveniles ranging in age from 13-17 into custody on preliminary charges of vandalism, rioting, battery and disorderly conduct.

****

During my time at this psychiatric prison I was subjected to what’s called ‘one on ones’ which basically means I’m at risk to myself and therefore require 24 hour observation by staff. Two different nurses watched me shit, sleep, cry in my sleep, and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was required to take meds and a sleep aid everyday. I had face-to-face therapy once a day. I was only allowed one 15 minute phone call per day. I wasn’t allowed outside at all. I was told to “set anchor” because the faculty had no intentions on releasing me “anytime soon”.

All the reasons I was originally depressed took a backseat to this new horror show I found myself in. Everyone in my ward talked about one day gettin’ out, despite being told they would “never make it on the outside”. I couldn’t help but notice the striking similarities to incarceration at a prison for criminals. This was a prison. The more I heard stories of attempted escape, violent physical repression, and hopeless isolation, the more I realized this was not a place to ‘get well’, nor any hospital I ever been to. These prison guards wore scrubs, enforced order with chemical warfare and physical restraint jackets. “The hole” was the padded room. Those who resisted were tackled to the hard floor causing cuts and bruises. And to the nurses and doctors, we were all just “case files” or “subjects” to be talked down to and humiliated. We were in their world now and it was their rules.

“We need a program of psychosurgery and political control of our society. The purpose is physical control of the mind. Everyone who deviates from the given norm can be surgically mutilated. The individual may think that the most important reality is his own existence, but this is only his personal point of view. This lacks historical perspective. Man does not have the right to develop his own mind. This kind of liberal orientation has great appeal. We must electrically control the brain. Some day armies and generalswill be controlled by electrical stimulation of the brain.” - Dr. Jose Delgado, a Spanish professor of neurophysiology and author of the book ‘Physical Control of the Mind: Toward a Psychocivilized Society’

The era of institutionalized ‘care’ for those with ‘mental illnesses’ began somewhere around the 19th century with heavy support from the state. Public asylums were built in Britain after the passing of the 1808 County Asylums Act. This created an upsurge of asylums being built everywhere. These asylums were known for inmates havin’ to live in filthy conditions with bars, chains, and handcuffs.

The Lunacy Act 1845 was known to have changed the status of ‘mentally ill’ people to ‘patients’ who required treatment. This led to the eventual chemical treatment of people as ‘medical patients’ – despite the fact that lab tests, X-rays, and brain scans have never verified psychiatric disorders as medical diseases or brain damage. Over time, this inspired the emergence of psychiatric medical experiments on ‘patients’ in order to chemically ‘cure’ their ‘disorders’. The 20th century saw an explosion of psychiatric drugs. The first anti-psychotic drug, Chlorpromazine (brand names: Thorazine, Largactil, Hivernal, and Megaphen) was first synthesized in France in 1950.

Psychiatry, asylums, and prescribed drugs contributed heavily to reinforcing social order and individual submission through fear. As the years went on psychiatry and asylums expanded, re-defining and strengthening the power of state repression and civilized control.

Along with this came an ever-expanding culture of publicly calling out those who were considered ‘disturbed’ or ‘mentally ill’. The first to be targeted were those who didn’t fit the narrowly defined behavioral expectations of society. In the 18th to early 20th century, individuals assigned female at birth were often institutionalized for damn near everything including unpopular opinions, social unruliness or a politicized refusal to be controlled by patriarchal society. Other individuals of various assigned identities who sexually deviated from hetero-normativity were institutionalized and considered “confused” and in need of being converted.

One major marketing scheme deployed by the pharmacology industry was the social construction of an ideal emotional state that every ‘normal’ individual was expected to experience. Today this same ideal can be found everywhere – from televised entertainment to billboard advertisements and so on. The ‘happy’ and ‘depressed’ binary was used to create social pressure leading people to feel isolated or out of place for not happily accepting the conditions of society on a daily basis. Being “sad all the time” was, and still is frowned upon and ridiculed – regardless of its complex nature and the reasons behind it.

Despite being emotionally fluid by nature, the individual human (animal) is expected to fulfill the civilized role of positivist supremacy. This normalized obsession with positivity plays a key role in suppressing emotional responses of outrage to the multitude of oppressive experiences. The obsession with - and normalization of - positivist performance also encourages people to overlook the deep-seated trauma caused by civilization on a daily basis. Everything from the fear of flying, car wrecks, workplace injuries, to being late on bill payments – all examples of fears attributed to trauma. But because civilized life requires wage-slavery and commitment to continue, these forms of trauma are trivialized and written off - usually followed by something like “that’s life” or “it is what it is”.

As techno-industrial society advances, new laws are constructed to create new definitions of ‘criminality’. This means there is an ever-narrowing idea of legalism. The same can be said for psychiatry. As more labels and identities for ‘disorders’ are created, the pharmacology industry expands. And as the conditions of capitalist, industrial society continue to worsen, more misery becomes available for exploitation with the sale of “feel good” prescriptions.

Under capitalism, where there are ‘correctional’ facilities, there is a profit motive to keep them filled. Where there are ‘inmates’ to fill those institutions, there is financial gain or cheap labor. And where there is any potential for social unrest, there is an ideology and identity to categorically define an unruly individual as ‘anti-social’. Society turns ‘disorders’ into categorical identities assigned to those it considers ‘undesirable’ in order to reinforce the social conditions that pressure people into behavioral uniformity.

Today, within the realm of identity politics, psychiatric-assigned identities garner social capital where ever victimhood is glorified for social benefit. As with any form of identity politics, I have seen many individuals exploit psychiatric identities by brandishing them as reasons to rid themselves of responsibility for their actions. And as this plays out in the all-too-familiar social cannibalism of identity politics, individuals personalize these psychiatric- assigned identities and create inverted hierarchies of social entitlement.

Ultimately, a new identity-based movement is formed, gaining media recognition and becomes assimilated into the broader prison of society.

****

Thursday, September 4, 2014 Riot at Central New York Psychiatric Center A dozen staff members were injured when several inmates started rioting in a kitchen area at the Central New York Psychiatric Center on Wednesday.

Four people were hospitalized for their injuries, authorities stated. The fight broke out at about 11:45 a.m., when five to six inmates started attacking staff in one of the kitchen areas using kitchen utensils as weapons, according to the state Correctional Officers & Police Benevolent Association. The inmates tried to fight their way into the mess hall.

At the same time, another fight broke out between inmates and staff on the floor above the kitchen, officials said. The emergency alarms were raised, and security personnel inside the facility were able to break up the two fights, with help from the state police.

****

After careful planning, I was released from psychiatric incarceration much sooner than originally set. The walls were closing in on me and the monotony of daily under-stimulation, medicated numbness, and confinement started breaking me down. Witnessing the prison cannibalism of infighting between incarcerated individuals, I began spiralling worse than I had prior to being there. On top of that, my two attempts to secretly organize a rebellion had failed miserably; the wards or ‘bunks’ were so small that an artificially constructed bond was easily created between most staff and patients. Snitching was heavily rewarded.

Nobody wanted “any problems”. So instead I turned to another method of emancipation; using my own high school knowledge of psychology to convince my therapist I was merely suffering from “a broken heart” due to a “recent romantic breakup”.

Despite the full spectrum of my hatred for society, the life I was living at the time, and the complex emotional storm that raged in my head on a daily basis, I was able to convince my therapist and the other nurses I was just upset over a breakup. The humiliation of having to role-play such a lie paled in comparison to my desire for freedom from that place. Released into my mom’s custody, I was required to continue taking my medications three times a day and seeing a counsellor once a week.

Against the wards request, I went back to living in my apartment. I could see where the police had went through all my notebooks as well as a pocket book of phone numbers. The noose I worked so hard to construct and attach to a wooden beam along my ceiling was gone. To this day I don’t know if my landlord took it or if the police did. My rent was overdue indicated by the notes in my mailbox. Luckily I was working a self-managed painting job at the time so I couldn’t get fired. I could start back up the next week.

That night I masturbated for the first time in what felt like years. But I couldn’t orgasm. The next day I called the doctor who dealt my meds. According to him, my impossible orgasm was common with people on psychiatric medication. A week went by and I continued to feel numb. Nothing was interesting to me. I often found myself watching the hands on clocks move or staring out my window at passing cars. I didn’t feel sad. But I didn’t feel good either. I just existed.

After about a month of being out of the psych ward, I decided to stop taking my meds. The hassle of getting them filled as well as keepin’ up with taking them everyday just wasn’t worth it. And neither was feeling numb. I didn’t know what would happen. Would they find out and send the police to take me back? A couple weeks went by without meds and I started to feel slight changes. I was scared but prepared for the hellish withdrawals I had heard all about. I got dizzy a bit, and some headaches but nothing more. Soon I stopped gettin’ calls from my counsellor. I expected her to be upset and leave me angry voicemails. It never happened. Eventually I felt my appetite change and I could experience emotional reactions to things easier and more frequently. And I finally had an orgasm!

For the next couple years, I reflected on those experiences and began exploring the origins of my suicidal thoughts, the origins of the morbid depression that caused them, as well as the consumerist life I lived as a wage-slave law-abiding citizen.

****

A Riot on Thanksgiving Morning 2016 at Springfield Hospital Center (a regional psychiatric hospital and former slave plantation located in Sykesville, Maryland) In the early-morning hours of Thanksgiving Day, Catherine Starkes and April Savage huddled in an office with several other employees at the Springfield Hospital Center in Carroll County as patients rioted around them.

Starkes and Savage said patients threw chairs, knocked over file cabinets and tried to break into the staff's Plexiglas-enclosed refuge. The patients poured cooking oil over the floors, making them slippery. One patient tried to crawl into the office through the suspended ceiling, Starkes recalled.

It was like no other night she could remember in 22 years of working with dangerously mentally ill patients at Maryland state hospitals.

"They wanted to take over the unit. They seized the unit," she said.

****

“What we say is the truth is what everybody accepts. ...I mean, psychiatry: it's the latest religion. We decide what's right and wrong. We decide who's crazy or not. I'm in trouble here. I'm losing my faith.” -Dr. Railly from the movie “12 Monkeys”

Similar to religion, psychiatry assumes a powerful role in defining “right” or “wrong” in terms of “normal” vs “abnormal” behavior. The standardization of a particular, socially expected behavior is essential for creating categories of people defined in terms of their contribution to the collective success of society. With psychology as a basis for analytically outlining ‘problems’ and suggesting “potential cures”, mass society becomes dependent on its authority for deciding who is “normal” and who isn’t. Certain behavioral characteristics unique to an individual become outlawed in order to maintain this social conformity.

Speaking from my own experience, psychiatry and all its theories, roles, and chemical prescriptions at best aims to merely manage ‘symptoms’ of ‘disorders’ - not eliminate the sources of their creation.

By ‘symptoms’ I am referring to any set of behaviors or emotional responses that indicate an individual’s struggle to conform to societal expectations or ‘normal’ behavior.

By ‘disorders’ I am referring to the set of behaviors or emotional responses that have been selected and condemned by society, and therefore declared a ‘mental illness’ by the authority of psychiatry.

By ‘sources’ I am referring to any and all prisons, societal forms of coercion, and civilized society – all of which pressure individual subservience and ideological conformity.

The conflict of interest in ‘curing’ the ‘mentally ill’ becomes apparent when acknowledging that successful cures to particular behaviors and emotional responses would require the abolition of civilized society all together - the same civilized society that creates trauma, followed by the concept of mental illness and subsequently a ‘solution’ via many forms of emotional anaesthesia.

Another factor of social control built into psychiatry is its ability to distort and control dissenting information. Social systems that require the subordination of individuals are always sharpening their ability to suppress or demonize information – especially information derived from rebellious experience. When it is individuals themselves who are considered living examples of this information, those seeking total control will portray them in such a way that renders the nature of their rebellion a mere product of mental illness. For example, the Soviet Union responded to rebels with psychiatric wards called “Psikhushkas”. One of the first Psikhushkas was a psychiatric prison in the city of Kazan. In 1939 it was transferred to the secret police. Psychiatric incarceration was used in response to political demonstrations and attacks. It was common practice for soviet psychiatrists in Psikhushka hospitals to diagnose those who rebelled against soviet authority with schizophrenia.

Just as religious authority figures speak of purging people of their sins and demons, psychiatry seeks to purge people of their ‘sickness’ and ‘bad’ habits. In the church of psychiatry, only those most committed to social conformity (or emotional suppression) can enter the heavens of being socially recognized as ‘sane’ or ‘normal’. Normal or civilized behavior is rewarded with social capital and easier access to survival resources. And in the eyes of those who fear unbridled freedom, without the church of mental psychiatric authority, ‘the masses’ just might descend into madness...

****

Sept 5 2016 John George Psychiatric Hospital Riot Nurses at Alameda County’s embattled mental hospital say three patients tried to incite a riot overnight and escape the facility. Staff members are blaming chronic overcrowding at John George Psychiatric Hospital’s emergency room. It’s the latest in a string of troubling incidents at the hospital uncovered by 2 Investigates.

Nurses – who didn’t want to be identified for fear of jeopardizing their jobs – tell 2 Investigates that two male patients and one woman demanded to be discharged from John George’s Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) department Sunday night. But when they were refused, they turned violent, according to staff.

The patients allegedly tried to encourage others to help them push the facility doors open to escape.

****

“The Law, social expectation, and psychiatric tradition and practice point to coercion as the profession’s paradigmatic characteristic. Accordingly, I define psychiatry as the theory and practice of coercion, rationalized as the diagnosis of mental illness and justified as medical treatment aimed at protecting the patient from himself and society from the patient.” - Psychiatrist turned anti-psychiatry, Thomas S Szasz, M. D.

While reflecting on my experience with psychiatry, including being on three different medications and my stay in the ward, I started asking myself questions I had never thought to ask before: what are the social conditions contributing to my feelings of misery? What type of behavior is characteristic of ‘mental illness’ and ‘normal’ functioning? Who enforces these definitions as universal truths to begin with? Is it the same psychiatric authority that at one point considered homosexuality a mental illness – then changed their minds in 1973?

I couldn’t help but notice that despite all the therapy, meds, and psychiatric hospitality the world outside my head was still the same. Poverty still dominated my hood, rich billionaires were still playin’ golf while the government continued bombing other countries. Millions of non-human animals were still bein’ mutilated in slaughterhouses on a daily basis, and the environment was still bein’ devastated by industrial expansion. I still needed to wage-slave away to pay my rent. And like everyone else, I needed to do this until I got too old and eventually live out my days in a nursing home. But somehow I was supposed to be ‘happy’ - or at least apathetically accepting of it all without a fuss. Obedience without incident. Without question. Or as the others in the ward had said to me “no problems”.

Currently in my life, I am still angry, still depressed, and still sometimes suicidal. But rather than seeing these things as what’s broken about me, I see them as a reflection of how fucked up the world is around me. I find little things to help me channel the anger, depression, and suicidal thoughts. I exercise, practice mixed martial arts, enjoy a walk in the woods at night. I star-gaze from park benches, rooftops, and moving freight trains. I indulge in stolen food and cherish the excitement of criminal activity. Managing my emotions is a daily activity coupled with observation and growth. I listen to the stories of others and learn from their experiences. I listen to my emotions and source their origins, making it easier to understand my needs and desires. My emotions – my madness - manifesting as anger, depression, and so on remain sharp and act as the best tools for understanding the effects of this imprisoning society on my well-being.

My disposition lacks evidence of being broken or brain damaged – if anything, it would suggest the contrary. My emotional state is a complex response to the anxiety that occurs when recognizing society for what it is – a prison propagating itself as ‘normal’ life. And integrated within this prison is a web of altered realities that materialize the logic of control and domination: Wage-slavery masquerading as productivity and personal responsibility. Coerced submission and obedience to law and order in “the land of the free”. Pictures of happy cows on packages of mutilated body parts. Borders, bio-technology, cyberspace communities of friends interacting with the emotional vacancy of digital communication.

And it is here, in this same social prison society, that the word insanity is used to describe an individual person rather than industrial civilization - the epitome of mechanized social control.

“The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon” ― Ken Kesey, from the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I believe deep down all people are ‘insane’ - not in terms of mental illness - but in terms of individual, unique differences that remain defiantly incompatible to behavioral order. In society, some people hide these differences better than others. And many people I have come across express frustration with having to keep themselves locked up inside, aching to break out. The fear of being socially labelled insane or crazy keeps people passive and submissive. But some people experience difficulty assimilating themselves. And while society attempts to frantically control and eliminate certain undesirable people and behaviors, natural responses to environmental conditions continue to produce both.

If one were to really examine the social interactions between individuals, one can see the subtle tip-toeing of animals peeking from within the wardrobe of humanism. It is the fear of being too loud, too angry, too sad, too imaginative – the fear of allowing oneself to exist at full bloom – that incarcerates the animal individual. It is the fear of exhibiting any personal qualities or characteristics that would violate the boundaries of socially expected behavior. Breaking the laws of psychiatry could be punishable by chemical injection, imprisonment, or even death.

This fear also plays a vital role in creating an obsession with relying on institutional specialization rather than peer to peer support. This obsession is normalized when, in response to someone reaching out for emotional support, friends suggest ‘professional help’ as if to surrender themselves ineffective by default. It says something about the nature of one’s confidence, ability, and will to support another when that support is often outsourced to an elite group of ‘professionals’. I’m not tryin’ to say that every individual has the capacity to support others at all times: I am suggesting an examination of the inferiority complex internalized by people in the face of institutions, and how individuals often find themselves too busy obeying the demands of capitalism, or too distracted by consumerism to make time for supporting their loved ones – let alone themselves.

If one were to examine society as a whole, one can see how over-simplified, quick-fix solutions to complex problems is built into it. If one were to examine this even on a personal level, one can see how everything about industrial society reduces personal time to the point where one often neglects their own emotional health. Against the demands of technological addiction and wage-slavery, making time for supporting one’s self and or those they care about is, however under-rated, nothing less than an act of personal revolt. “You need professional help” is often the quick response to an individual simply looking for support from close friends. Not all people (including myself) enjoy being pathologized or assigned a diagnosis like a broken machine. It is this ‘professional help’ that replaces intimate support with capitalism where someone struggling is treated as a profitable ‘case file’ and dealt a bottle of pills.

From a vibrant friend struggling with a unique history of complex emotional experiences, to a patient branded with an over-simplistic set of psychiatric identities – the individual becomes merely a unit of diagnostic measurement.

Diagnoses act as identity configurations defined in terms of symptom-based sameness. These identity assignments are constructed by the specialists of psychiatric authority, and are enforced socially by those who uphold its power. The same way that leftists are quick to use statist terminology to publicly label and shame “undesirables” or those unwanted by The Movement (for example, using the word “terrorist” to describe proponents of anarchist attack), they are equally quick to call people ‘mentally ill’, or ‘toxic’- demanding they seek ‘professional’ help. Perhaps without realizing it, leftists socially reinforce the validity of the state and psychiatric authority by reducing the complexity of individual behavior to mere psychiatric constructs and moral condemnation.

Psychiatry provides a comforting sense of order in the refusal to accept the chaotic nature of behavior. By asserting psychiatric terminology and morality many leftists seek control over social interactions with the intent to sterilize and homogenize them. This attempt at behavioral uniformity goes hand in hand with the treatment of individuals as members of monolithic, identity-based groupings. Behavioral uniqueness and variety are often discouraged or condemned when they don’t fit neatly constructed scripts. One’s behavior or emotional expression could be trivialized by being socially called out as ‘problematic’ - a label which itself requires the conformity of a generalized consensus to define and enforce.

Society and all its defenders require the dam of psychiatry to subordinate and control the tidal waves of individualist variety and social unrest. I can only imagine what would happen if the mechanisms of control failed on an individual level - if freedom of emotional expression took aim at the crystal castles of psychiatric authority, shattering the illusion of sterilized permanence. One after another an individual cannonball weakens the continuity of the structure, an ungovernable individual compromises the strength of collectivized subservience.

****

Jan 31, 2006 Riot at the Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth Five male patients at a state-run psychiatric hospital for children face rioting charges after they ripped out a phone line and tried to steal a worker's car keys before barricading themselves in a room over the weekend, a state official and other sources said Monday.

The incident at Riverview Hospital For Children and Youth occurred less than a week after employees protested over conditions in the facility, contending that the hospital is increasingly unsafe because of the volatile mix of patients.

Sources said that between 11 p.m. and midnight Sunday, a group of boys in the hospital's 11-bed Lakota Unit came out of their rooms and started confronting and arguing with staff. A male clinician and two female employees were assigned to the unit at the time.

Sources said the boys surrounded the man and tried to get him to turn over his keys but he refused. When one of the female workers tried to use the phone to call for help, the boys pulled the phone line out of the wall, sources said. The youths then barricaded themselves in a room and tried to smash a large exterior window, which broke off its hinge.

Sources said the boys intended to escape through the window but were stopped by a Connecticut Valley Hospital police officer who was called to the scene and was outside near the window .

Authorities would not release the names or ages of the boys involved. All face charges of inciting to riot, disorderly conduct, criminal mischief, unlawful restraint and threatening.

****

When, in expressing themselves, individuals let their emotions rupture the confines of psychiatric authority, and fan the flames of their contempt for social control, psychiatry begins to resemble the shell of a burnt out police car. If psychiatry is the agent enforcer of mental law and order - let it die along with every cop and agent of the state. As with identity politics, I refuse to participate in the use of psychiatric terminology when describing other individuals. As with all other socially constructed assignments, I reject psychiatric labels as they seek to limit the horizon of emotional complexity.

When, in expressing themselves, individuals become wild with nihilist hostility toward all ideological roles and identities, what is left of a society without individual conformity? What is ‘male’ or ‘female’ without being fixed to an aesthetic or performative role? What is ‘black’ or ‘white’ without the social construction of race? What is the sane/insane binary without the commanding authority of psychiatry? What is social law and order without anyone willing to obey?

My anarchy is found in the obliteration of these social constructs and the rejection of their ‘social contract’ that universalizes their false existence. I use the phrase social contract because that is precisely what accepting these identity assignments is. It surprises me to see such little prisoner solidarity with those incarcerated at psychiatric facilities. I imagine total anarchy looking like all prisons - including every manifestation of the educational-industrial complex, every zoo, and every asylum – being burned to the ground.

****

On New Year’s Day, 2018, 10 Children as Young as Age 12 Riot and Escape from Strategic Behavioral Health Center in South Carolina During the New Year’s Day incident, patients broke furniture to make weapons. The state report suggest Strategic staff missed warning signs that patients had planned to escape. They did not question residents who were wearing multiple layers of clothing that would allow them to change what they were wearing when they left the hospital.

In a less than five-hour span beginning in the late afternoon, there were seven “Code Purple” incidents in which workers are alerted to trouble. A state investigator reviewed video showing patients going from room to room, throwing a trash can, tearing up paper and tearing schedules off the walls. When one employee arrived, according to the report, he heard loud noises and cussing and saw trash all over the floor in the hallway. Patients had barricaded themselves in a room and had weapons he described as boards with six-inch screws.

“There was no staff trying to get into the room and he was told by staff, ‘They have weapons. Don’t go in,’” records say. “The nurse described the situation as a ‘riot, complete breakdown.’”

By the time police arrived, the south Charlotte psychiatric hospital had descended into chaos. Patients at Strategic Behavioral Center — some wielding wooden boards — attacked one worker, barricaded themselves in a room and escaped through a broken window.

**** For many years I paraded psychiatry as a valuable scientific instrument for understanding the inner workings of human behavior. I no longer find it useful after learning to recognize people as complex beings with unique emotional responses to this civilized nightmare. I have come to recognize psychiatry as, at best, another form of identity politics that ultimately attempts to force the infinite complexity of emotional expression into rigid categorical boxes.

Individual people are far more than ‘bipolar’, ‘psychotic’, etc could accurately express. While a person may experience combinations of emotions socially identified by a psychiatric category, their emotional state can not be summarized or represented by any list of fixed terminology.

My refusal to define a person by the emotional struggles they experience is similar to the reasons I refuse to identity people struggling with intoxication as ‘addicts’. An individual's struggle in coping with society is complex and unique. Psychiatric labels and identities are tools of the state – an entity which I reject. As a tool of civilization, psychiatry creates alienation and violence by treating people found to be emotionally unfit for society as ‘broken’, and therefore socially inferior. I personally refuse to disregard an individual’s struggle for survival by assigning them a psychiatric identity that puts blame on them as ‘mentally ill’ - rather than focusing attention on industrial society itself. Like prisons for ‘criminals’, the ‘correctional’ facility of the psychiatric ward seeks to condition submission through coercion and confinement. Solving or curing ‘mental illness’ in the societal sense often ends up becoming a re-defined ability to condemn, suppress, or sterilize emotions.

Like all governments, presidents, and authority, psychiatry never gave me freedom. Assigned psychiatric labels didn’t help me – they only filled me with an internalized sense of victimhood and inferiority. Medication didn’t ‘cure’ or ‘fix’ me – only damaged me, numbing me to my own senses in order to create an emotional void between me and the fuckery of civilized life. So instead, with nihilist celebration I descend into madness, taking aim at social order and civilization. With armed animalism I realize now that there was nothing to fix - my natural contempt for domestication and social control reminds me that I was never ‘broken’ to begin with.

With maniacal laughter I mock the conventional standardization of human behavior. I reject the authorities of psychiatry, their holy book (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM–5)), and their prisons. I refuse to continue being a test subject for their ever-expanding pharmacotherapeutics. I am an individualist against the collectivized consensus used to materialize institutions of psychiatry. I am a nihilist - hostile to the ideological sane/insane binary and all social constructs that, with pathology, attempt to categorically subjugate individuality. I desire nothing less than a feral revolt against civilization. If civilization and psychiatry marry at the church of morality, then let my anarchy be a fiery black smoke that chokes their gospel of social control.

[missjanjie]

Branjie Fic | Bad Girls Club (5/?)

Title: Bad Girls Club Summary:  Los Angeles’ new program, the Juvenile Female Rehabilitation Program (JFRP) was created with the purpose of taking at-risk girls in the county and send them to a summer-long program located where a sleepaway camp once stood. There, they will take classes in ethics, behavior, and other courses to help mold these young minds. Brooke Lynn and Vanessa have been sent there for wildly different reasons, but with the same result - a clean permanent record. Being roomed together, the pair might find an unlikely alliance (and maybe more) in each other. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter)/~13.2k (total) Relationship: Branjie (Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo) Rating: E

Read on AO3

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[October 8th, 2017]

Brooke had been staring at her bedroom door for over fifteen minutes now. She was trying to will her legs to work, will her arms to open the damn door. There had been weeks of anticipation – she had practiced what she was going to say in front of the mirror dozens of times every night. It was much more comfortable to perform intricate dances in front of a full auditorium.

Fuck it, this was it.

“Are you busy, Mom?” Brooke’s voice was meek as she poked her head around the corner into the living room.

The muffled noises of the television silenced. “No, come in.”

For the most part, Brooke Lynn wasn’t afraid of her mother. They generally kept to themselves unless otherwise necessary and cohabited perfectly adequately. But this? This was entirely different. It would change the entire course of her life drastically, possibly for the worse in the short term. Still, she knew she would regret it if she didn’t say it at all.

Brooke fidgeted with her fingers; eyes trained on the floor. “You know how I told you I didn’t want to go out with your friend’s son because he’s an anarchist?” She didn’t wait for her mother to respond. “He’s not. At least… not as far as I know. The truth is...” Her throat tightened, and her heart started to race. “I’m not attracted to him. Or any guy. I-I-I... I like girls. I’m gay, Mom.”

The ticking of the clock in the otherwise silent room felt like a bomb counting down to her world collapsing around her. Brooke Lynn needed her mom to say something, anything. “Mommy?”

Her mother sighed. “I suppose this is my fault. Perhaps if you’d spent less time with your nanny, you wouldn’t have this… misplaced need for affection.”

Brooke swallowed thickly and shook her head. “This has nothing to do with Kyle. It’s just who I am. A-And I want you to still accept me.” Her eyes welled with tears and the strength to keep the dam from breaking was dissipating with every passing moment.

“Well I don’t really have any choice but to do that now do I?” she scoffed, then added “these days they call that child abuse,” flippantly. “You’re still my daughter, Brooke Lynn. Now please be a dear and go fetch me my wine.”

“Which glass?”

“Oh no, just bring me the bottle.”

[Present Day]

“No, I don’t got no fucking wine. Where d’you think I’d keep it? In a cooler with some caviar? Look, do you want the vodka or not?”

Brooke nodded and handed the girl a twenty-dollar bill. “Yes please,” she mumbled and exchanged it for a sixteen-ounce bottle of Smirnoff. Luckily it was a rare chilly evening on campus, allowing her to smuggle the bottle in her sweatshirt (while looking over her shoulder every ten seconds) all the way back to her room, everyone she passed none the wiser.

Luckier still, the room was empty when she returned to it, allowing her to make a cocktail of vodka and fruit punch and pour the artificially red mixture into a metallic water bottle. There was a split second’s hesitation.

Having never been drunk on vodka before, Brooke Lynn didn’t know what to expect from the experience. As it turned out, it was brief euphoria and dizzy bliss followed by becoming utter comatose. It was probably for the best – to be dead to the world by the time Vanessa returned. She wasn’t ready to talk to her – she wasn’t even entirely certain why she was so upset, other than it was obviously her fault, apparently. And she felt guilty – it pained her to be the reason why her sometimes-lover was hurt.

The next morning, Vanessa was woken up by the sound of Brooke Lynn groaning. “Damn you really hungover, huh?” she observed, noting that maybe karma had laid a hand in this. “Take some Advil and get ready. You ain’t getting outta class cause you lack self-control.”

“Ugh. So mean,” Brooke grumbled and pulled the pillow over her head.

“That’s life.”

Vanessa was dressed by the time Brooke Lynn got herself out of bed. “How the hell did you get that shit in here anyway?”

Brooke rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself together. “Bought it off some girl. Said she knows a guy. And that I ask too many questions,” she recalled. “It worked though. Got me good.”

“So, you just gonna drink til you feel better?”

“That's the plan.”

[November 20th, 2017]

Brooke caught her breath as the front door shut behind her. “Okay, we’re in the clear,” she exhaled, waving the wine bottle around like a trophy and parading it in front of her as they walked up to Detox’s bedroom.

“You sure your mom’s not gonna notice she’s a bottle short?” Her eyes scanned the label with casual interest before setting it down on her end table while Brooke Lynn shifted to sit comfortably on the bed.

After a couple of moments of struggling, Brooke dislodged the cork from the bottle and took a swig. “Nah, it’s like taking one jellybean from the whole bag,” she reasoned. “Besides, it’s not like I took an expensive bottle, this is a dessert wine.”

“So, what would you call a breakfast wine?”

“The first sign of a drinking problem.”

Detox laughed and shoved her, narrowly avoiding a wine spill on her duvet. She then snatched the bottle from Brooke to down a long swig. “She still not down with the gay thing?”

There was a wince and a moment of tensing up before Brooke sighed and lay down. “If you call ‘a mounting resentment due in part to the blow in social standing from rampant gossip mixed with casual homophobia’ not being down with the gay thing, then yes.”

“You know, just ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed,” she huffed, then her expression softened. “I’m sorry shit’s still rocky between you guys. I’m sure it’ll get better eventually. You talk to Miss West about it?”

Brooke reclaimed the wine and her finger traced around the mouth of the bottle and she stared into it, as if the answer to her problems rested at the bottom. “Yeah, but she always wants to do something about it. Her heart’s in the right place but I’m not always looking for a solution. I just wanna get things off my chest sometimes.”

And her friend listened intently, nodding slowly. “Maybe you should just tell her that. Use your words like a big girl and then we can celebrate with wine instead.”

[Present Day]

Brooke poked her head into Nina’s classroom. “You got a minute?” She let herself in before getting verbal confirmation and sat herself at the edge of the teacher’s desk.

“I was actually hoping you’d come by sooner rather than later.” Nina confessed casually, not wanting to ambush her. But immediately, she saw the suspicion and hesitance in her student’s expression. “I know you were hungover in class. Think you’re okay to tell me why?”

And Brooke Lynn appreciated the way she never pressured her into divulging more than she was ready to. “I had...a falling out with Vanessa. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I’m sure it was my fault,” she sighed, “because it always fucking is.”

Nina reached out and squeezed her hand. “Come on, you know that’s not true,” she gently assured. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Brooke bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

She tugged on the teenager’s hand until they made eye contact. “Listen to me, Brooke Lynn, even though I know you don’t want to hear it.” Nina waited until she had her full attention. “You need to learn how to let your guard down, even if it’s just one baby step at a time. I know you like Vanessa a whole lot – more than you’re willing to admit, I’m sure. I’m not saying you have to put your heart on the line in some like, dramatic gesture, but I think you’d be opening yourself up to a great deal of happiness if you let yourself feel.”

As hard as it was to admit – in fact she may never do so outright – Brooke knew Nina was right. Of course, that didn’t mean anything in regards to her ability to actually follow through on that sort of thing. It just was not in her nature – it wasn’t in the nature of anyone in her family. “Maybe I can try…”

“After all, we don’t want a repeat of last time, right?”

Brooke yanked herself away abruptly, face flushing red. “Don’t… don’t talk about that,” and before Nina could respond, she turned on her heel and briskly left the classroom. The last thing she needed was to reopen old scars.

[March 2nd, 2018]

“You know, I’ve tolerated a lot of your weird post-outing behavior shit, but I’m not giving you a free pass on this one.” Detox clicked her tongue and shook her head. “How the fuck do you have the gall to flake out on someone like Kameron Michaels?”

Brooke gave an exaggerated eyeroll and popped a couple grapes in her mouth, eating them before answering. “It wasn’t even like, an actual date. Relax.”

Detox stared at her incredulously. “You guys have been all up on each other for like, almost two weeks. But as soon as she wants to go out with you, you drop off the face of the fucking earth! And I’d understand if it was pretty much anyone else but come on bitch – she can flip a straight girl in her sleep. Not a lot of public-school girls can pull that off around here.”

“Then she won’t miss me,” she shrugged flippantly, looking off into the distance instead of her eyes drifting anywhere near her friend.

“How’s convincing yourself of that going?”

“Swimmingly, thanks for asking.”

Detox scoffed and grabbed a handful of grapes from Brooke’s bowl. “You’re so full of shit,” she said with her mouth full.

Brooke responded with an indignant huff. “Maybe so. But it works.” The definition of working was undoubtedly skewed, but she lacked any desire to address it. She could take care of herself and not get hung up on a fling – or she’d keep telling herself that until she believed it.

And as it turned out, believing it had proven to be a near impossible hurdle to overcome and she was suffering the consequences of her own denial. But there was no way she was going to turn to Detox when this realization dawned on her – so she went to the only other person she knew she could trust.

“You look like you’ve had a rough week. Honestly, if you hadn’t come in, I’d have sought you out myself. I’m worried about you, Brooke Lynn.” Nina’s tone was gentle and kind, but there was a heavy layer of concern paired with it. And it was sincere – she had always made it her duty to take care of her students’ emotional health – especially the ones in the LGBTQ+ community, because she knew exactly what these frightened, wide-eyed girls were going through.

After some uncomfortable fidgeting and shifting around, Brooke nodded. “What happened was… I was seeing this girl casually – like, I thought we were just having fun, you know? Then she asked me on a date, and I said yes because it would’ve just been too rude not to. But then I bailed last minute, and I did apologize, and she said it was okay but… I just feel awful.”

To Nina’s credit, she was a naturally great listener, which, unsurprisingly, proved to be a massive strength in her career. She nodded attentively but never tried to interrupt or talk over her – it was imperative that students like Brooke Lynn saw her as someone they could freely and openly talk about their problems with. “Well, let’s start here – how do you feel about her?”

The first time Brooke had gone to Nina for help, she had found it jarring – it had been the first time any adult had expressed any interest in hearing about her struggles – so of course she had been keeping them all bottled up. But that day she had spent nearly two hours after the final bell rang sitting in that classroom and pouring her heart out. As much of a relief as it had been, she was left feeling nauseous the rest of that evening. Clearly, doing that with any sort of regularity has posed an issue, which is why she replied to the question with a shrug and a ‘I don’t know’ noise.

Nina didn’t buy it. “I think you do know.”

Brooke sighed in the way one would expect a pouty teenager would. “I… Yeah, I guess I like her. But I know I don’t want to date her. I don’t want a girlfriend yet.”

“Do you think it’s actually because you don’t want to? Or because you think you can’t?”

Another shrug and ‘I don’t know’ sound.

“You’ve got to work with me here, Brooke.”

This time, Brooke was at least trying her best. “It just seems like too much. I got enough going on and I feel like a relationship is just too much for me.”

“That’s a good start, you should tell her that.”

[Present Day]

“You might wanna make sure you look extra nice before you go into the dining hall today.”

Brooke had quickly learned to take everything Scarlet told her with a grain of salt. Still, her interest was piqued. “What, are they doing a news report or something? Some sort of circle-jerk of praise for being such good samaritans to us lot?”

Scarlet shook her head without any other reaction. “Nah, but a bunch of girls from your neck of the woods are volunteering, figured you might wanna put on a nice face in case you run into someone. Or maybe a paper bag over your head would do the trick,” she mused.

“Fuck my life,” Brooke groaned. “Wait for me?” she asked as she ducked back into her room. And yes, Scarlet was still there when she returned. “Too much?”

“Doubt it,” she hummed as they took the now familiar path from housing to the dining hall.

As luck would have it, most of the girls were college aged. It seemed like they were the kind that were doing this in lieu of a summer internship or something of the sort. Brooke was just about to get in line confidently when her tray dropped to the ground and her eyes went wide. “No fucking way.”

“Someone you know?”

There, in all her golden haired, tan, inked skin, toned bodied glory was Kameron Michaels. She looked just like Brooke remembered – give or take a new tattoo or two. And she was there as if it had been her job the whole time – serving the girls, smiling and making small talk – it was a stark contrast to the otherwise introverted personality she was once so familiar with.

“Yeah, something like that,” she exhaled once the initial shock had settled.

Scarlet tilted her head, observing the other girl. “You seem tense. Bad blood?”

“Not bad… It’s definitely awkward, though,” Brooke explained, muttering, “Fuck, I hope Vanessa doesn’t run into her,” under her breath.

“Too late.”

Sure enough, Vanessa had been on the line the whole time and was now face to face with Kameron. Brooke’s heart sunk to the pit of her stomach and her throat felt tight. “You know that part in a romcom where everything suddenly goes really bad really fast?”

“Of course.”

“This is it.” Her voice was high and strained. “This is definitely it.”

[dolphinitley]

Jacob Seed/Deputy Fic

Chapter 2 of a fic I decided to name “Love Like Revenge”. Full work on AO3.

Summary: Jacob's effort to take Rook back to the Veterans Center gets interrupted by Hudson, Jess, and Sharky. Now that the Project's influence has been mostly eradicated in Hope County, the Deputy goes back home to recover from the trauma she experienced the past few weeks. It was a mistake to think the Project didn't care for her anymore, because Jacob alone surprises her in the woods near her home.

Sort of a hurt/comfort vibe in this chapter.

Sharky, Hudson, and Jess were hanging out around a table at the old 8 Bit Pizza Bar.

“Rook’s never gone this long without checking in.” Hudson was focusedly fumbling with her fingernails.

Jess sat with her elbow on the table, holding the side of her worrisome face in her hand.“I shouldn’t have left her. She said she wanted to spend some time alone but we’ve really been pissing off Jacob lately.”

Sharky and Hudson looked at Jess with sympathetic faces.

“I just feel like Jacob’s got her again,” said Jess.

Hudson’s radio starting crackling. The Sheriff was trying to get ahold of her.

“Hudson, check in with me when you can. Over.”

Hudson picked up her walkie and spoke into it. “Go ahead, Sheriff. Over.”

“I got some sensitive news. Are you in a secure location? Over.”

Hudson had grown so close to Sharky and Jess these past few weeks. Since the police department cut salaries, law enforcement were basically on a volunteer basis. Hudson thought that Sharky and Jess more than proved themselves worthy to hear whatever Sheriff Whitehorse had to say.

“Yes, Sheriff. Over.”

Whitehorse sighed over the walkie before saying, “I just got word from the Whitetails that Rook’s killed Eli.”

Sharky, Jess, and Hudson stared at the walkie with confused faces.

“They think she was under the influence of Jacob’s conditioning. But apparently now she’s gone on a warpath to find him and kill him. Think you can head up to the mountains and find her before she gets herself killed? Over.”

Jess was already collecting her arrows and Sharky was grabbing his keys.

“On it. Over.” replied Hudson.

The trio started at the Wolf’s Den and tracked Dep from there. It wasn’t that hard to follow the trail of dead Peggies. Hudson spotted a strange figure across the field. She took out her binoculars to get a closer look.

“Fuck! He’s got her. She looks unconscious.”

“Let me see,” said Sharky, who took a look then handed the binoculars to Jess.

“Alright. I got a plan,” said Sharky.

Jess and Hudson listened to Sharky’s ridiculous plan. They didn’t love it, but time was running out. Jacob would be much harder to track than the Deputy was and his soldiers could be anywhere.

-

With Dep slung over his shoulder, Jacob tried to get out of the open field and into the woods as soon as possible. It would be a quarter of an hour before his soldiers could get a chopper to him. Good thing he had the Bliss on him to tame the Deputy.

The woods seemed empty and quiet until Jacob identified the sound of crackling fire and smell of smoke. He began to pick up the pace.

The fire grew fast, forcing Jacob to run out of the woods and onto the road, where he set the Deputy down on the pavement. Where was that damn chopper?

With Jacob in the open and Dep off his shoulder, Jess felt she had a good enough shot to take him down. The sound of a helicopter approached as Jess released the arrow, which hit Jacob in the backside. It wasn’t fatal, but it was very painful.

“What the fuck!?” he growled. In the chaos of approaching fire, lowering chopper, and the arrow stuck in his flesh, Jacob lost focus on the Deputy. This gave Hudson, Jess, and Sharky the opportunity to swoop in with the Cougar van and barely drag Dep inside. As they sped away, they heard the sound of bullets against the van and Jacob’s frustrated roar.

-

Once again, Dep came out of the Bliss on a cot in the jail with Tracey by her side. It got harder each time to get back into her usual headspace after being injected. She didn’t know how much more of it she could handle.

“You awake there, Dep?” asked Tracey.

Dep nodded. “What happened?”

“How much do you remember?”

Dep took a moment to try and remember what was real and what was the Bliss or conditioning. “Oh no. I...I killed...Eli?”

Tracey nodded solemnly. “You killed a couple dozen Peggies right after, then Jacob got his hands on you. Hudson, Jess, and Sharky came through as the rescue squad and brought you here. ‘Bout started a forest fire while they were at it. Jess shot Jacob in the ass.”

The last couple of sentences had Dep half grinning at how classically ‘Sharky and Jess’ that sounded.

Hudson came in the room and sat down on the cot next to Dep. “You alright Rook? You look like hell.”

“Yeah,” replied Dep tiredly. “What happened to Jacob?”

“The Chosen came and got him. He seemed alright. I don’t think he’s dead.”

This made Dep angry and guilty, but deep down she was relieved that her infuriating mountain man was still alive.

“I think it’s time for you to take a break, Rook,” said Hudson. “Eden’s Gate is on its last legs. There’s no roadblocks left. The Cougars and Whitetails can take care of it from here. We got Staci out of the Vet Center. Maybe it’s time we enjoy life while we can, ya know?”

Rook considered Hudson’s words and just nodded. Hudson wasn’t wrong. What more could she do here besides hunt for Jacob? Her body and mind were screaming for rest. She considered heading up to her house in the neighboring county to the north for a few weeks.

“Just think about it. Take all the time you need. We’re here for you.”

-

Walking into her own home for the first time in weeks had Rook feeling surreal. Everything was as she’d left it. Her cat seemed to fare alright by using the cat door to come and go as he pleased.

She broke down on her living room floor, hugging her cat. After an hour she got up and took a hot bath, focusing on breathing deeply. Then she ate some food and hot tea, and slept for a long time.

Rook made a point to check in with Hudson and her other friends every couple of days. Otherwise, she focused on work around the house and outside. She tried to recover from the hell she spent in Hope County, but it was tough.

-

Early one morning, when the sky was only a pale blue, her phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Deputy.”

Rook swallowed her fear and it turned into sickness. “Jacob,” she whispered.

“How are you holding up, Deputy? Been a couple weeks since I’ve seen you around the mountains.”

“What do you want?”

“You first. When we were on that rock you said that you wanted me and that it was the only way you were going to get me. What did you mean?” Jacob sounded less mocking than usual.

“Don’t pretend to be civil. I know how much you want me dead.”

“Deputy, if I really wanted you dead I’d have had it done a long time ago. But I don’t, and it’s getting to be a real pain in the ass.”

“I did the job you wanted done. I served my purpose. Now I’m gone. Just leave me alone.” The Deputy hung up the phone and went back to sleep in her warm bed.

-

After she hung up on him, Jacob tossed his phone on his desk and sighed. He thought about her too much. He wanted her too much. He spent less time working and more time thinking of how he could get to her. Whatever he did, it would have be just him because everyone in the Whitetail Mountains wanted her dead. So on his own, he found out where she lived and her habits. She sometimes hunted just north of the Hope County border and he decided to find her there.

-

Dep was walking slowly and quietly through the woods with her bow, looking for any sign of deer. She began going out more often when most grocery stores closed down or majorly cut down on their stock. It was yet another indication of the impending collapse that she tried to ignore. At least the hunting got her outside and moving. Her time in Hope County left her a mess that she wasn’t sure she could fully recover from.

She suddenly felt a presence behind her, but it was just a moment too late. As soon as she turned around, a six foot camo clad figure grabbed her bow, dropped it to the ground, and grabbed both her wrists in the blink of an eye. She was about to kick him in the groin until the figure pulled down his gaiter to reveal a red beard. It was Jacob and she was quite disarmed, but only for a moment. She began thrashing in his grip while he tried to calm her like she was an angry Judge.

“Deputy, you’ve got to calm down. I’m not here to take you. I’m not gonna hurt you,” Jacob tried in his most soothing voice. She wouldn’t stop fighting so Jacob brought her to the ground and pinned her. “Calm. Down. Soldier.” This got her attention and she stilled, staring up at him and out of breath. The look in her eyes was wild.

“I’m gonna let you up now, and you’re going to remain calm, alright?”

Dep nodded and Jacob released her. They got up to their feet quickly.

“If you’re not here to take me or kill me, what do you want?”

“I just missed my Deputy.” Jacob was speaking in his usual mocking tone and Rook wasn’t having it. His presence alone was so triggering of her time in Hope.

“Shut the fuck up,” she said with a biting tone. She tried to sound tough but her eyes were welling up. “You ruined me. I could have died and you wouldn’t have cared.” Her voice was breaking.

“I would have cared.” Jacob’s tone was more serious now.

“You fucking psychopath.” Rook was starting to hyperventilate. Jacob slowly closed the few feet of distance between them with his hands held up in a surrendering position. “You...you...” Rook tried to speak between sobs but it was useless. Once Jacob was close enough he quickly wrapped her in his arms and held her gently. The feeling of him being gentle made Rook dizzy. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jacob has always ever been extremely rough with her and threatening to her. She had been so sad, and the feel and smell of Jacob’s large body enveloping her made her feel just a little bit better. She buried her face in his coat.

“You’re almost as far gone as I am,” Jacob said softly.

Rook half heartedly beat a fist against his chest in response. How dare he compare himself to her? She didn’t think she could ever be as evil as him.

Once she completely stopped crying and shuddering, she looked up from Jacob’s chest and took a step away from him. His eyes were the definition of piercing blue. Rook still could not figure out what he wanted.

Jacob slowly grabbed her bow from the ground and handed it to her. Now even he didn’t know what he was trying to do here. He saw just how much he had broken her, and he needed to figure out how to help her. For now all he could do was hang a water canteen around her neck and place a couple of MREs in her backpack.

Without any more words, Rook quickly walked back home. She glanced back at him twice and he was still there watching her. The third time she looked, he was gone.

Thank you for reading and please please let me know your thoughts! :)

Tagging @farcrying5 @zacklover24 @sassenach-on-the-rocks @afeverxlongingstill @mmechromancer @jacobmybeloved @theatmmmmm @liilaac @deputyoneill @colorguardian18 @theromanianbookworm if you feel like reading it :)

[emergentanimism]

Deadwater

In my last post, I said something that should have given you pause. When describing spirits of the dead, I said, “They can even be exploited if a magus is so inclined. If they can't learn to chill even after they're dead, fuck 'em.”

No one told you that being a magus makes you a nice person, right? There are reasons why necromancy is reviled by many cultures. Most of those reasons are bullshit based on fear and control. But being a necromancer does sometimes mean blurring some lines. If you as a magus decide you may need a weapon at your disposal, even just for self-defense… well weapons come at a price. A weapon is not an innocent thing, despite what the NRA wants you to believe. A weapon always requires you to compromise your innocence. A weapon symbolizes you are willing to do harm. A spiritual weapon can be a costly thing indeed.

The most powerful weapon in my spiritual arsenal? Without a doubt – Deadwater. What is Deadwater you ask? Lucky for you folks I know the leading expert. The number one source. I turn you over to the words of my beloved brother, Frater Yaramarud, the man who provided me with this amazing substance.

“My first encounter with Deadwater came nearly a decade ago. At the time, I saw it purely as a novelty and not something with the nearly boundless potential that I know today. Traveling down the road with my good friend Frater Dreadnaught, and an ex-partner of mine, the three of us had made a late night decision to stop at the next cemetery we found in order to waste time in a way that people in their early twenties are wont to do. When we finally found one and had parked the car, a light in the center of the cemetery had drawn our attention to a pump well gently illuminated beneath it. My initial thought was one of curiosity and bewilderment. What reason could there possibly be for there to be a well here? With this question unanswered, it dawned on me that the corpses surrounding us had, beyond any doubt, decayed and seeped into the table from which this well drew.

After jokes and general fucking around, we left the cemetery without even noting its general location. Though I had lost contact with my ex-partner, Fr. Dreadnaught and I remained close friends. During this time, he had enlisted in the military and left our home state for roughly 7-8 years. Though we often discussed the possible location of the Deadwater, the only thing that either of us could remember was the highway that it was most likely located on. With him gone for years and me being the only person that could feasibly find this place, I did all I could do in order to locate it. Driving up and down the highway proved fruitless, as did looking at maps of cemeteries along the route and cross-referencing them with Google. My last effort was to post an inquiry on a local genealogy group under the guise of searching for the grave of a relative. This too led to nothing. I was forced to give up, and so it was for about six years.

Last year, however, things changed. Fr. D had moved back from California and had spent some time living with my wife and I. It was during this time that we had become determined to find this Deadwater once again. As we had both evolved in our magickal practice, it had become less of a curiosity and more of a holy grail; here was a tool that had so much latent potential, and yet it was completely out of my reach. One night in September of 2017, we had decided that, since it was once again physically possible for us to find it together, we would do exactly that.

I'll spare you the details of the ritual itself suffice to say that Fr. D and myself had performed a Goetic invocation for executing our will. In hindsight, we had made a mistake. For our statement of intent, I had simply said, “It is our will to invoke XX to lead us to the Deadwater located along Highway XX.” It was during the ritual that I was mentally given a map of the county through which the highway ran, with a marker placed by the demon. With the image still firmly visualized, we pulled up a map of cemeteries in the county that this marker could possibly represent. After making a list with their corresponding addresses, we left in search of the Deadwater.

It was the middle of nowhere; we were surrounded by corn fields in every direction. After taking the final turn, still flanked by corn on either side, the GPS indicated that we had arrived at our destination: the first cemetery on the list. There was nothing. Just corn. As Fr. D was rechecking the address, I slowed the truck to a stop. Just before we had become entirely motionless, the field opened up to reveal the stones we were looking for, but they weren't familiar at all. There was no light in the center. It was just darkness. Despite this, we decided to look around anyway. After all, we had the entire night to look, and maybe the light had burned out, or our memory of the place was faulty.

We spent roughly 30 minutes wandering between the gravestones, splitting up to cover more ground. As we both began to lose hope and had called out that we should go to the next address on the list, I noticed a dim light in the distance. I called to Fr. D to meet me and we could explore this light together. Once we had reconvened, we started walking together towards the light. Not even ten steps from when we started, our headlamps simultaneously crossed, revealing before us a pump well.

This was not the same well. We both knew that, and yet a shiver ran down both of our spines. We tested it. It worked. The demon had shown us the way, though due to our lack of precise wording, it was not the same well we had seen all those years ago. We had prepared for this moment and filled several bottles with the water, water that contained the decayed remains of hundreds of bodies, water that was the distilled essence of the dead.

Since that night, I have utilized the Deadwater in multiple ways. The first ritual that we had done with it was a joint effort between Fr. D and myself. He had volunteered to drink a small portion of the water, and a ritual was formed around this primary action. Performed twice, we discovered through Fr. D's gnosis that he was able to visualize and speak to his own ancestors. Thus, not only did this water stand as an essence of the dead that I had discovered through my own later experimentation, it was able to form a link between their realm and our own.

Its apparent linkage to death and focal point of death have proven invaluable. Apart from the aforementioned use of contacting one's ancestors, I have used it as a method of simplifying my altar. Rather than having dozens of pictures of my ancestors for veneration, I find it just as effective to place a bottle of the water with an image of my family crest as a sort of condensed fetish. Another similar use I have found is mixing the water with the gravedirt of my grandmother in order to form an anointing solution that has a direct link to my lineage and those that came before. In using it as a kind of “essential oil of death”, I have found that it works with great success in “jinx” or “hex” work as a medium for freezer spells and the like. It has also worked equally well as an intensifier for other gravedirt workings and as a component for spirit work. Though these cover only my own current experiments with the Deadwater, I know that its potential has exceeded every expectation that I have had for it. As I continue to find new uses, it continually astounds and amazes me.”

 What’s the first lesson to be learned from this amazing story? Have a tribe! There are other awesome magi out there. You can find them. It will take hard work and dedication to actually work together. I travel thousands of miles a year just to be with my tribe. But it’s so damn worth it when you experience that love and are gifted with magical knowledge, and receive gifts like 750 ml of Deadwater.

Lucky you, you can buy it online from Frater Yaramarud at his most excellent store, Welcome to Tarotdise, where he and his wife sell some amazing hand-crafted occult products.

Back to the original point and my experiences with Deadwater. As far as I know I am only the second person dumb enough to drink some of it. I immediately tasted the earth and rot of the grave. My vision dimmed, and I felt myself slipping between the land of the living and the realm of the dead. All from one sip. BTW, I in NO WAY endorse drinking the Deadwater. It is not sold for consumption. If you get intestinal parasites or a fungal infection, that’s your problem.

Meditating on the bottle sitting on my altar has produced some interesting visions. You can literally see the angry spirits swirling around in the bottle. No, they are not happy to be there. And I get the feeling the Deadwater captured some of the most malicious spirits of that particular cemetery. Is it wrong to use them for my own devices? Probably. But a magus gotta do what a magus gotta do. I’ll talk some more about the nuances of such necromantic work in a later post.

In my opinion, Deadwater is essentially spiritual toxic waste. No other spirit I know likes to go near the stuff. I really don’t want to meet the spirits that would enjoy it. For example, I recently had an altercation with a certain Red Goddess who has been fucking with my love life hard. Of course, she laughed at my admonitions of her cruel little games. Until I threatened to pour some Deadwater over her statue. She shut the fuck up real quick after that. Is it truly a threat to a goddess? I don’t know, but I certainly got the impression she wouldn’t enjoy the experience.

As noted, Frater Yaramarud had somewhat different experiences. Maybe it’s the batch I got. Maybe it’s his intent when using it, or how he mixes it with other substances. Maybe those spirits just don’t like me for whatever reason. You don’t have to use it as a weapon.

Yeah, I know a lot of this sounds a bit crazy. But part of being a magus is learning to frame your experiences in a mythic context. As my hero Miguel says, “Write your own story. Live your own myth.” Be hardcore. Get yourself some Deadwater. Better yet, harvest some of your own. Be prepared to do a lot of banishing before and after you do something like that.

[recordofmyreverie]

Valentine’s Day Tour of South Carolina (February 2017)

Since I had no plans of wanting to stay in one place, I thought I’d explore what weirdness my home state of South Carolina had to offer. What were my options? Well, there was a button museum, a topiary garden, and a Mexican-themed gigantic pit-stop in-between Wilmington and Myrtle Beach called “South of the Border.”

It was Valentine’s day, and I had two days off in a row. I made my south through Lancaster County to Camden, SC to eventually Bishopville, SC where I discovered that people in small towns must be really, really bored. I stopped by a small house on a wide stretch of land where a sign pointed to “South Carolina’s Famous Button Museum.” 

I drove up to the airplane hangar where the museum was kept inside, and I looked around to see no other cars around. I entered the museum which was free-entry and apparently unlocked all the time with nobody there. There was a mannequin man at the entrance wearing all buttons, and then two cars covered with buttons, a toilet, a bathtub, and various musical instruments also decked out with buttons. 

An old man known to Bishopville’s residents as “The Button King” created this museum on accident. I read the stories taped on the wall about him in the newspaper, saw photos of him with celebrities and talk-show hosts, and then there was an excerpt from the bible next to a shrine dedicated to him and his wife. He was an old man with insomnia who was trying to pass the time before he could be with his wife who passed away before him. Near the bible excerpt, there was another note which read “I will not sleep or stop sewing buttons until I am with Ruby in heaven.”

The Button King died in 2015, but his legacy of insomnia-inspired creativity lives on. It was a bit of a sad story, but sweet, nonetheless. I’m glad he gave me and other weird people like me something to see in his small town. 

Another landmark of the unexpectedly quirky town of Bishopville was a topiary garden which I didn’t expect to be in someone’s back yard. I felt like I was intruding when I was walking around and taking pictures of it, so I didn’t spend much time there. I went onward to see what I thought would be the grand finale of roadside attractions. 

South of the Border was a huge rest-stop with gas stations, motels, campgrounds, a reptile lagoon that was locked, an abandoned theme park, an arcade, and at least 5 gift shops all the size of warehouses which all contained similar junky souvenirs. I’m sure this place was probably hoppin’ back in the 1970s or something, but it seemed like a ghost town when I went there. I didn’t know such a place would exist in my own state, and I was so incredibly alone there that I expected zombies to come from the abandoned park any minute. 

The only human interaction I had there was with people who worked there when they’d be surprised someone was actually walking through their store. I don’t know how they’d even stay in business, especially with most of them selling a lot of the same things. 

Then I had a really awkward interaction in the bathroom before I left. I was about to try and see if I could get to the top of the sombrero tower through the arcade, but the elevator was broken. I went to the bathroom located in it’s own separate building, and I saw a row of stalls. I entered each one of them and none of them had a toilet. Then a girl comes out of the utilities closet and says “If you’re looking for the toilet, it’s around the other side. Those are all changing rooms.”

What? How long have you been in that closet? Is this your job to tell people where the actual toilets are?

After I flush the toilet, I go to wash my hands, and look for the paper towels or anything that will dry my hands. The girl came back out of the closet holding a paper towel and a tip jar. So I dried my hands on my pants, and I left. 

I drove to the most touristy place in South Carolina, Myrtle Beach. 

I figured that I could entertain myself by people-watching at bars on Valentine’s Day, but when I got there, even the bars were pretty dead. It was off-season for the tourist town, so that’s probably why. I wanted to people-watch, but there weren’t really any people to watch.

I even tried going to Derriere’s Gentleman’s Club, thinking that there would at least be interesting people at the strip club, and when I showed up in the parking lot, the building looked to be condemned or something. Nobody was in the parking lot and there were wooden boards on the windows. Damn. So much for danger. I guess I had to be safe.

I ended my night out in a karaoke bar where I found the jackpot for drunk and lonely people. I sat through a bunch of country songs, and one oddball who liked to sing screamo versions of every song he sang. I managed to sing “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion and then left right after. 

I spent the night at a guy’s apartment who I booked through Airbnb in my own room that was decorated with seashells. He said that his dog, Cameron, I know, another one, had stomach problems because she liked to eat whatever she could find, so I had to keep my stuff on top of the dresser. I at least got to spend Valentine’s Day with Cameron, but it was just a farting dog version. 

[jeremiahdowney]

911 is no longer responding to the Brighter Futures Suicide Hotline

[CALL LOGS]

________

**#June 6, 2006 // 9:27PM**

**Operator**: 9-1-1, what is your location?

**Caller**: *[Unintelligible]*

**Operator**: 9-1-1, what is your location?

**Caller**: B--er Fu--res.

**Operator**: I’m sorry, Sir, you’re cutting out. What is your emergency?

**Caller**: Do you...know?

**Operator**: Know what, sir? What is your emergency?

**Caller**: They’re here. They’re all here.

**Operator**: Who is there, sir? Are you injured?

**Caller**: There’s s-- many of them...mo-- than I thought.

**Operator**: SIr, what is your emergency? Are you in danger? Are you injured?

*[Shuffling sounds, as if phone is dropped.]*

**Operator**: Sir? Sir are you there?

*[Shuffling sounds, as if phone is picked up.]*

**Caller**: *[Unintelligible whispering]*

**Operator**: I--......yes.

**Caller**: *[Unintelligible whispering]*

**Operator**: I understand.

*[Caller screams in anguish. Operator ends call.]*

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**#SERENITY FALLS Channel 06 News Online // June 13th, 2006 // 7:52AM**

The body of Brian Hewitt, a local 9-1-1 operator, was found in his home late last night, dead from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. Neighbors called in after hearing a gunshot at approximately 10PM. Coworkers at the call center say Hewitt appeared shaken after a call and left before the end of his shift was over, exiting the building without talking to anyone. Details of the call in question remain unclear.

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**##December 7th, 2009 // 5:12AM**

**Operator**: 9-1-1, can I please have your location?

**Caller**: Brighter Futures, the--the suicide hotline.

**Operator**: What is your emergency, ma’am? Can I have your name?

**Caller**: There’s--they, I think I just saw something happen. But I don’t know for sure. It was Danny, that new Employee of the Month.

**Operator**: What happened, ma’am?

**Caller**: He looked...he looked like…

**Operator**: Ma’am?

**Caller**: They...they want to talk to you.

**Operator**: No, ma’am, please stay on the line with me, I’m sending units your way, but I need you to tell me what the emergency is so we can make sure you get the best help w---

**Caller**: *[Unintelligible whispering]* He is returning…

**Operator**: Excuse me?

**Caller**: *[Unintelligible whispering]* He walls the Earth and you will…

**Operator**: I...yes. But...when?

**Caller**:* [Unintelligible whispering]* Obey.

**Operator**: Can I say goodb--

**Caller**: *[Garbled]* N̷̡̺̫͉̱̣͙̯̠̲̓̐́̏̿͐̔͒̕͝o̸̜̤̖̚w̷̢̰̘̙̟͚̠̮͉̖͍͎̒͆̈́́̎̐̆̄͝͝

*[Operator ends call]*

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## WCKS CHANNEL 12 NEWS ONLINE // December 10, 2009 // 3:18PM

Local 9-1-1 operator Jacqueline Davis was found dead this afternoon. Reports say Miss Davis hung herself from the second floor bannister of her Preston Heights apartment. A neighbor says that Miss Davis knocked on her door and asked her to “come over and open [her] door in five minutes”. When the neighbor, who wishes to remain anonymous, did so, she found Miss Davis. Detective Malevich was able to find a few stray particles of DNA Stuck inside an air vent.

“There can be no doubt here. It’s likely a serial killer,” Malevich told us, after showing photos connecting to over 13 other deaths within the past 6 years.

Reports say that the call came from the local branch of the Brighter Futures Suicide Hotline. Channel 12 has reached out to Brighter Futures for comment.

More as this story develops.

______

**The following diary was found near the second building in the Preston Heights Apartments after a fire destroyed the majority of the block on October 6, 2019 by Detective Malevich**

-October 2-

It’s good to be back.

I miss calling myself Walker to hide what I was doing.

Killing people. A lot of people.

There’s a bunch of recordings I kept, it’s fucking hilarious. You can tell in the first one, they put a lot more effort into it. They had a whole thing going on in the background. Then in the second one, they just kinda sorta did the whole “acting like we’re afraid/something is wrong thing”, but now it’s not even that, anymore.

It’s honestly gotten kinda boring. Over at Emerald Bay; they’re still doing the whole elaborate setups, over here we’ve just gotten lazy. I mean, sure, we’re still #1 in the 9-1-1 Game, but does it really even count anymore? I mean, any one of us can just...make someone off themselves; it’s hardly a “skill”.

But doing it organically, that was the best. Filling them with so much fear, so much regret, so much shame, so much hatred, so much that they just can’t bear to live anymore, that was the way to do it. Now they just say a few words and boom, they kill themselves. Where is the fun in that?

I remember years ago, when 9-1-1 first came around, there was a certain finesse to our game. And we really had to earn it. My boss Greg, he started it. We’d put on whole...I don’t know what you’d call them...audio shows for the operator, break down their walls, put all those aforementioned feelings in them naturally. We only used the key words if all else failed, which, let’s be honest, it never did.

These kids now, though, they’re lazy. No commitment, no imagination. I miss the good old days.

-October 4-

I know the Serenity Falls branch is still putting in that good work, the work I used to love to do. That’s why I’d love to go there again. But even still, they’re in fifth place right now. Back when we started this, the effort they’re putting in now would’ve put them in first place by a wide, wide margin.

I will say though, with everyone doing what they’re doing, taking the easy way out in the game, the numbers have been outstanding. No one will ever put the pieces together, either. The game is going on at, what...5 locations? Something like that. A few closed down. And the calls go out to every small town we can think of. Bring us more.

-October 5-

So the collections are fine. But there has to be...honor...in the kills. Integrity. Like I said, any one of us can make someone off themselves. When they do it the easy way, something is lost. A part of us is lost. A part of our history. The skill...if not practiced, its use becomes fewer and farther between with every generation, and before long, it’s forgotten entirely.

-October 6-

I sound nostalgic because I am. Things have changed. It isn’t the good old days. Now, it seems like we are the ones on the run.

I say that because of the past couple of weeks. Gradually it began; calls of disappearances all throughout the County. And not even any bodies to be found.

Then, last night happened. I got a call from my old boss. Greg sounds scared. And I know scared and Greg is never scared.

Here. I’ll just leave the recording here for everyone to listen to. Cause I think whoever is doing this, they are coming for me next.

________

*the following audio data was recovered by the SFPD inside the apartment of one Bernard White*

**OCTOBER 6, 2019: SERENITY FALLS BRANCH BFSH**

**Caller**: Pick up the goddamn phone.

**[Unknown Voice]**: it’s too late for that old friend.

**Caller**: you shouldn’t be here. You CAN’T be here. It’s against the rules.

**[Unknown]**: you can thank that new assistant of yours. All those deaths over the years that you and Mr White caused. It ends now.

**Caller**: I don’t know what you are talking about.

**[Unknown]**: Jacqueline. Stanley. My parents. You’re a monster. And it’s not just what has been inside you all these years Greg. It’s you. So this… this is going to be painful.

*[sounds of screaming, bones crunching, thunder]*

**Caller**: Emerall… no… god… no…

______

*notes taken by Sergeant Malevich*

I know that this call was meant for me to listen to, because of my attitude over the years. And because every time something had happened over the years, Bernard would not respond. But this time they wanted me to hear. To know that his time was up. Someone did my job for me.

There is one final note I found amid the wreckage of the fire that burnt half the town.

Though that god damn building still stands.

It was near to the school. I think that’s where the fire started. I’m leaving it here along with these notes, so that if anyone has any information it can be forwarded to my office.

_______

*I’m probably next, and I probably deserve it.*

*So I’m passing this on to you, Maddox. Please, shed light on all of this. Cause if we don’t.*

*If we don’t.*

*I think next time it won’t just be a few that pay the price.*

_______