Crip knowledge

I love disabled people and I love our community.

2024.05.15 01:08 Infamous-Interest52 I love disabled people and I love our community.

Hi! I am 19 with cerebral palsy spastic diplegia. I also have dyscalculia.
I’ve been noticing an amount of posts discussing ableist trauma and shame, as well as poor mental health, and I wanted to post something uplifting
I’ve been studying more about critical disability theory and Crip theory which is all about the system of oppression disabled people live in and how the world views disabled people. Crip theory specifically being a branch of research for the physically disabled. It’s fascinating and it’s changed my perspective on accessibility and the world.
I won’t lie and pretend that it’s easy to be disabled, we all know it’s not. But that’s not our fault at all. And I say screw the shame that has been enstiled in us for existing differently. it’s not our fault, and we deserve the rights to be human. we aren’t abnormal, and we aren’t freaks. all throughout my childhood I was ashamed to seek accessibility as it made me appear a burden or weak. disabled people are not weak. we have so much power. all the disabled rights that we have, we had to fight for. not abled bodied people, us. able bodied people are taught in society to care less about us, and to view as subhuman, so we have to fight for our rights ourselves.
I really truly love our community. I love disabled people of all kinds, but I have a bleeding heart for people growing up disabled. it’s an oppressing experience to have childhood with a disability, to be labeled since practically birth, and I often think people don’t understand how isolating and traumatic it can be to have ableism at such a young age. I was 12 when I was asked if I could have sex and being seen as less likely for children to have crushes on me because of the way I moved. I know that people who develop disabilities later in life have their own unique and equally important experiences, but I often don’t see people talk about disabled children in a non infantilizing light. and I just want disabled children to know they aren’t broken, and they don’t have to hold themselves to a able bodied standard. ramble aside..
i love all of us for the people who do not.
I think we have a wonderful culture and community, there’s a disability experience that is unique to us, and we have each other. able bodied people will never understand what it’s truly like, so we’ve created a unique culture by having to relie on eachother and ourselves.
if you’re disabled and feeling alone, I love you so much. you’re worthy of love, no matter what you have been told by others. you have a valuable perspective, and you hold value.
I see you, my fellow cripples. keep moving forward. it might not matter at all, but if you need to hear it, I love you very much. Disabled existence is an act of power. we defy all the rules of society just by existing, we’re so cool for that.
there’s no shame in being disabled. you’re not any less than able bodied people. yes, our pain and anger is hard and isolating, but we’ve been taught that disability is a stain on humanity. I was told that I was a burden on my teachers.
but I love disabled joy and disabled happiness and disabled everything. and I thank all of you so much for being here and teaching me incredible knowledge about my identity.
submitted by Infamous-Interest52 to disability [link] [comments]

2024.05.13 06:28 ShinyHunterYT ShinyCat The YouTuber Is a Crip ( Confirmed )

The YouTuber ShinyCat With 7.9k Subscribers Makes Drill Music And Lives/Based Music On New York He Makes Music With The Crips But Does Not Say Anything Public or Uses Any Knowledge On The "Street Life" considering that he is a Gangster. - ShinyCat The YouTuber Is a Crip
submitted by ShinyHunterYT to u/ShinyHunterYT [link] [comments]

2024.05.05 02:49 futurebannedacct _______Choices________

_______Choices________
Hello areslash conspiracy. I'm out of my hibernation with another important message for you all and I know that just makes you so fucking happy and excited.
I can't see the moderators of this community from where I'm staring, but I wanted to say, "hey, what's good, fam?" Please keep this place as one of the last bastions of free speech that is left in this god-forsaken place.
Alright, now that I have officially tongued the mods assholes to the point where pleasure turns to dysphoria, allow me to present to you: total bullshit!
...and some other things.
Let's talk about choices. We make them everyday; life is all about them. This is a somewhat true statement - because life is really all about making sure you don't wake up - and choices play a significant role in this operation. Probably not so big a role as language, however, because language is the most deceptive tool in the arsenal of the ones with the power, so it is important that we choose our words wisely.
For example, I keep hearing the phrase "forced vaccinations" or "mandatory vaccinations" being thrown around conspiracy forums, and this phrase, in itself, is an example of the deceptive power of words. We need to be honest with ourselves - because through honesty the truth is exposed - and the truth is the most well hidden part of this experience because the ones in power work to keep the truth hidden at all costs... because the truth will "set you free". But I digress. No one was forced to get vaccinated - not yet, anyway - so let's be honest about this: you might have chosen to take the jab, in order to keep your job, or you might have chosen to take the jab, in order to participate in society. This is a choice that you are making. Perhaps the stakes are high and perhaps you felt coerced because you had a lot to lose if you chose not to take the jab; but until they are breaking down your door, holding you down, and sticking that needle in your arm - until that time - you are giving your consent to take the jab.
This distinction is an important one to discern because we should be paying attention to the parts in life that are forced upon us and the parts in life that we are choosing to consent to. For example, no one forced us to wear masks for an entire year, but we all (for the most part) consented to doing so, in order to participate in society. We all chose to stand on the circles on the floor, in every checkout line, of every store. We made this choice for many different reasons - but in this community - many of us simply did this for other peoples "perceived well being". In other words, we were catering to the people that make up the majority and aren't as far along in the process of "waking up" as we are... although, many people seem to be choosing to remain asleep - for many different reasons - far from the most insignificant being "fear based programming".
Allow me to share my perspective: for an entire year, we all wore masks in public: an action which is gradually weakening our immune system. Also in public, we practiced "social-distancing": an action that is also gradually weakening our immune systems. Many people - the drooling masses - took this social-distancing b.s. very seriously, for their own "perceived well being" (while virtue-signaling online that they were doing it for everyone else). So, the government asked us to all make a choice: to wear masks and social-distance for a year and - oh - almost forgot! Hand sanitizer - all over, suddenly - some so strong that it seems to be pure rubbing alcohol - killing all germs - and, well... gradually weakening our immune systems! The government had us all compromising our immune systems and overall health, in preparation to get vaccinated with something that sounds... frankly, batshit insane. Do you think this was all an accident? An innocent faux-pas on the part of our dear leaders? I think this was done intentionally. I've also prepared this meme, to help illustrate the conspiracy in question:
The inspiration for this actually came from a post that was written by someone who is, by no means, an anti-vaxxer, and overall still happy to be vaccinated... because the debilitating side-effects, self-replicating spike proteins is nothing compared to the constant onslaught of fear-based programming.
"Trust the science". That's the last thing I think I'll do; thank you very much. Science is a bullshit factory specializing in limiting beliefs, which uses language to support any point of view that it chooses to support... and of course the point of view we are inundated with, in excess, is that of the ones in power. So please know that if you choose to educate me in the comments, about why the science behind social distancing, face masks and hand sanitizer is to our benefit then I'm either going to think you are being intentionally deceitful, or I will feel sorry for you because you have sincerely become this invested in the wrong direction of practices that are to your benefit.
The moral of the story is that the words we use need to be chosen carefully, because when we choose words such as "forced" and "mandated", we are only working to deceive ourselves further away from the truth. The truth is that we are consistently bombarded with propaganda and manipulation, from the many resources available to the power structure, with the goal of getting our consent. The internet has been a great resource for the power structure to use for minimizing the power of consent. We must constantly "agree" to the terms and conditions that are made to be intentionally agonizing to read and understand. We are being trained to believe that consent is of little value or importance - consent is nothing more than a single click - in order to get to the prize on the other side. The truth may be that our consent is far more valuable than we realize: our consent is one of our most valuable assets.
We need to pay attention to the effect that our consent has on our shared reality - because if there is one thing I learned, after experiencing psychosis - it's that the greatest sin is often committed by very kind people: the kind of people who are timid, helpful, and generous to a point where others take advantage of their kind, benevolent nature. Everyone knows someone who is in a relationship with a manipulative, controlling narcissist that walks all over them. Everyone knows someone who is kind, meek, and respectful of others... because they have no backbone. Someone who has lived a life of avoiding any and all conflict, at all costs, and chooses instead to allow others to take advantage of them. When you habitually allow others to walk all over you, this is your consent that "it's ok for others to do this to me". You are a worse person that the one who is violating you, because you think that it is ok for this to happen to you.
Alright - that was just to set the mood for the actual post - which will begin..... ........ ......... now.
CHOICES: PATRIOTIC EDITION
In the spirit of (shudder) "the most free country on Earth" we're going to (I had a bad reaction to typing that just now, I find the idea to be suffocating and repulsive) talk about choices in red, white and blue. To be perfectly honest, I don't know that much about topics like "color programming", or the exact science and reasoning behind it; I just know that this color palette is used with enough frequency and in a way where there is likely some intent behind it. Perhaps it's as simple as feeling patriotic about democracy, constitutional rights, and other deceptive concepts that are total bullshit - or maybe - the meaning behind it goes far deeper, into the psychological manipulation that is induced by this particular color palette. When I saw that the magnet shared the same red/blue color palette, I realized that these colors are likely being used in order to put each individual into a state of polarization.
CHOICE # 1
https://preview.redd.it/5hrmdbcw9iyc1.png?width=250&format=png&auto=webp&s=6e8ffb35db15de791e14f2677852c98f523cd8f6
Games are fun. Games are based in conflict. Manufacturing reality by making conflict the biggest source for entertainment.
Being alive involves the near constant activity of making choices. We are indoctrinated with the idea that having more choices is desirable. The power construct that is manufacturing reality has recently gone into overdrive in the manufacturing of choices. As the information age progresses through time, the amount of choices is becoming an ever increasing burden on the collective consciousness. The choices are presented using many different angles. A popular example is beliefs, which are currently being exploited by the manufacturers of choices more than any other time in the collective memory*...* which is always followed closely by the collective amnesia. Choices are deeply rooted in the DIVIDE AND CONQUER strategy, an all time favorite of the power construct. Choices are now being utilized in another favorite strategy for maintaining control: ORDER OUT OF CHAOS. Choices have an important role in the MANUFACTURING OF CONSENT, which is highly valued by the power construct. Consent is the oil that keeps the reality machine running smoothly, which is why so much effort is put into the illusion that consent has very little value. This illusion is concealed very well within the fabric of the intangible idea of reality that is overlaying the physical, material reality and has been so successful that consent is given almost instantaneously and without a second thought. Meanwhile, the illusion of value that has been given to currency is as strong as ever: remaining in its long-held position as one of the "pillars of control", which supports and maintains the power construct. The other pillar of control: the illusion of legitimacy, which several institutions within the power construct rely on, has been under maintenance, as a new version is being installed. While the anticipation for this new update slowly builds, the grand master illusion behind the power construct: FEAR BASED PROGRAMMING, - that's it - I'm giving up on this now. They're fucking plastic robots that hit each other until one of their heads... pops a boner?
CHOICE # 2
A theme that seems to always accompany color-based choices emerges: everyone on the outside, looking in, sees an absolutely pointless rivalry. These dudes are victims of mind control.
Well, after choice # 1 resulted in a train wreck of disjointed abstractions trying way too hard to be deep, meaningful observations, I am troubled by the thought of how many readers have probably given up on this. I want everyone that is still with me to know that, due to irrational fears about what anonymous online profiles might think about me, I will now focus primarily on "fitting in" and being likeable, by employing a strategy of trying very hard to not express any more ideas that might be considered "out there". Obviously, this is just the result of growing up poor and uneducated in the ghetto. I mean, who is crazy enough to actually believe that this is somehow connected to other rivalry's that use... very similar hues of red and blue. I mean, they are two of the most popular colors out there - both primary - and... realistically, there aren't that many colors; especially that complement each other like red and blue... ahh, blue and red: the colors of rivalry. There's no deep conspiracy here. Obviously, these guys wear these colors so they know who their enemies are... because, otherwise, there is no reason to kill each other. This is all about the colors. It would be completely pointless otherwise and these guys would probably get on well and hang out in each other's back yards... and then the cops would have nothing to do, which would be a waste of tax payer dollars. Can't have cops just standing around eatin' donuts and getting fat.
CHOICE # 3
Coke & Pepsi. A classic rivalry that makes me proud to live in a free country, where great ideas like capitalism can flourish. I know that they are made by the same company, but I don't really think that matters, ya know?
We are presented with choices. Our choices shape our opinions. So, if I choose red - I mean - Coke, then I will get along with others who choose Coke and we will agree that we chose correctly and that the people that prefer blue - I mean - Pepsi, chose incorrectly. Well, the people that chose blue think they chose correctly and that it is, in fact, the red people that chose incorrectly. This is a conflict of interests, and conflicts create division. People who are divided require a non-biased mediator so that order can be maintained and, because this mediator cares about the safety of both the red and the blue groups, it only makes sense that they should be given the authority to decide what is ok and is not ok for both groups. This is the most rational and logical option because the authority isn't biased towards red or blue, which means they will know what's best for everyone's interests. The police are there to make sure that all red and all blue people are all following all of the all-inclusive rules, mandated by the mediator, and all this is done for the greater good of society. I - I'm gonna get all choked up over here, just thinking about how nice the government is to do all that it does for us. They protect us from those fucking freaks that drink Pepsi. God I fucking hate those sub-human blue-tards! Red people generally have more money and are more successful, which means they are smarter. What started as a small neighborhood feud between Coke and Pepsi is actually how the gang warfare between the Bloods & Crips originated. That's right, they got the colors from Coke and Pepsi, which obviously is a lot more likely than a vast conspiracy involving powerful people manipulating reality in order to maintain control and power over the uninitiated masses. Fuck poor people. Oh, and how about those people that make their preference for Coke or Pepsi an aspect of their personality? They don't seem to understand that the color of the can is the only fucking difference. That's why I stick with Tab Cola, for those unmistakable metallic flavors and the uncomfortable, sticky feeling all over my body the next day.
CHOICE # 4
They're the exact same store except for the fact that one is red and one is blue... and yet, you have a preference for one over the other. You made up some reasons for why they are different in your head, because you are under an immense amount of mind control.
Ahh... consumerism: the arena of pointless choices. Why does only one company manufacture all the different brands of eyeglasses? Perhaps... to have control over the market? No - to have control over you, stupid - and no: this isn't a joke. It's a desperate plea, urging you to wake up and see this shit for what it really is, while you have this opportunity - this window - into the illusion. You see, they are getting desperate - and lately, the world seems like it has gone mad - which is part of their strategy, which is preventing you from seeing it. Why do you think there are suddenly twenty new M&M's flavor combinations? All these new Reese's Peanut Butter Cup's with minor alterations of essentially the same fucking thing? Let me guess: they're just having fun... right? Trying to stir up interest in candy bars? Or maybe for profit... right? This is just a business strategy to get your money... right? No... no... I'm afraid you're thinking way too small... with your logic and reason and all the other LIMITING BELIEFS that you have been - and are being - indoctrinated with: every fucking day! These are all pointless choices (brought to you by consumerism) that are trying to keep you distracted. Trying to keep your mind occupied. Why is Netflix trying to induce option paralysis? Why are the high-tech gadgets we use for entertainment purposes bombarding us with a constant onslaught of ads, new articles, stories, and a maddening amount of pointless bullshit?!?!?! They want you to be overwhelmed*;* they want you to freeze. They want you to have no sense of identity. They want life to overwhelm you with an endless list of pointless shit that has to get done in order to maintain... in order to maintain... to maintain what? THE ILLUSION, IDIOT. Ok: that was uncalled for. I don't think you're an idiot. I think that you know, in the bottom of your cold, gray heart , that the crazy shit I am saying sounds right (for some reason). They are manipulating reality in order to keep you under their power and control. I don't exactly know why, but I do know that they care a lot more about you being distracted than they care about worthless green paper. You know what? I bet the 1% doesn't give a shit about money: they simply have all of it just to piss you off. Why is all this corruption in the news all the time? The next fucking scandal that everyone can talk about? WHY is the news telling us to wear masks, get vaccinated and then, the following week, admitting COVID-19 is a bio-weapon? TO KEEP YOU DISTRACTED. THAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO THEM. Oh, and Walmart and Target's LOGOS both contain some occult symbolism. Yep: Target's logo is the astrological symbol for the sun and Walmart's logo is the Star of David... with the hexagon in the middle. The hexagon is symbolic of the cube. Once you understand that you can't not see the cube*.* It's fucking weird - but also a conversation for another time - when we can discuss why all of these well-known corporate LOGOs are symbolic of Saturn:
OH NO NOT muh REDDITS
CHOICE # 5
You know what? I think I should devote a large portion of my life to watching a bunch of overpaid, mentally compromised, grown-ass men chase a ball around. I also think I should be passionate about the team that is closest to me in geographical proximity. This is not mind control, but as a conspiracy realist, I do like to point out that MK Ultra really did happen, and the CIA really did experiment with mind control back in the 1950's, but the program ended decades ago. I like to go on online conspiracy forums, and help people understand the reality of conspiracy theories, so they don't get sucked into lies like Q-anon or lizard people or THIS POST, WHICH IS OBVIOUSLY THE WORK OF A MENTALLY UNSTABLE INDIVIDUAL.
Watching sports makes me feel safe, and comfortable, because it distracts me from all the bullshit of everyday life. It's good to have a nice distraction - and fill my mind with useless sports stats - or talk endlessly with the bro's about individual players strength's and weaknesses - in a boring, monotonous tone of voice - while I sip domestic piss-water beer. I don't want to think too deeply about things because it starts to make me really uncomfortable when I have to confront reality. I'd rather just not worry about it and see what happens. Who am I but a lowly speck of insignificant, worthless dog shit in this giant, scary universe, where I am completely powerless to do anything but take whatever beating the world feels like dishing out to me that day? I dunno. Maybe Jesus will come back and good will win out in the end. Good always wins in the end - that's just the way it works - so I don't really have to worry about anything. God is good. My little brother doesn't like sports at all. He likes to put on girls makeup, and is always depressed and confused and obsessing about some dumb shit. We're lucky to live in the modern age, with advancements in science that will allow my brother to medically transition into the woman that he always should have been - and always truly was - on the inside. Some assholes don't think that trans women are women. They just don't understand how science works, and don't care to learn. They are just misogynistic, transphobic assholes. That's right: if you don't think that you can be born a man and then change into a woman that means you are transphobic. You hate trans people because you don't want to believe that a man can change into a woman. Anyway - that's my brother -not me. I like guy shit... because I'm normal.
CHOICE # 666
The choice of the beast
Oh NO! This isn't "allowed" on this forum - which is why I hid it at the end - because I know nobody is still reading this. I've alienated myself from the audience, with all the confusing switching between dialogues of seemingly different people and JUST BECAUSE I BET there will be some DIP-CLIP that says "every post here is just about politics." HA! Nice try, but this isn't about politics; this is a meta-analysis of WHY it's NO POLITICS. The short answer is that participating in this is as pointless as those people above, participating in gang warfare against their fellow man. "THOSE PEOPLE?" What do you mean, those people? Black people? THIS GUYS RACIST. No, even worse: HE'S INTOLERANT. The human race has become far too soft, weak and emasculated by the pesticides and environmental toxins that get dumped all over us, every day! GET VACCINATED for other people, you SELFISH CONSPIRACY THEORIST. This is why we aren't going to reach herd immunity and we will have to deal with COVID-19 for years to come: because of people like you. WHY WOULD I trust a RANDOM, intolerant asshole on Reddit, who watched a YouTube video about lizard people, over EXPERTS who WENT TO SCHOOL for years to become indoctrinated, believe everything the MSM tells them, and completely LACK the ability to critically think?! All my life I heard that I "need to go to college", and today I couldn't be happier that I am not of a "higher education" because, from what I've gathered, they are some of the most CLOSE-MINDED people on the planet. LIMITING BELIEFS. That's what trendy these days.
I'm not done yet! Yes, I'm gonna talk about the donkey and the elephant: not only are politics bullshit; those who participate in politics are participating in a terrible, evil practice. Why would you affiliate with a political party and tell people what you think they can and cannot do? Can't you see that's the crux of the problem? I know things are fucked when the majority of people are of the opinion that we need to FIX the government (change it, drain the swamp, bureaucracy, etc.) They don't get it - we don't need to change the government - we need to END the government. Government is the single biggest threat to humanity. "But they protect us from the BAD people." Guess what? "The bad people" are there because of the government. The government needs the bad people to be there, in order to maintain their "illusion of legitimacy" (credit - Jim@EOI) and make themselves seem needed. THE BAD PEOPLE are the people who protect us. The sooner you understand that, the better off you are. And people on are still talking about election fraud because they think that the Orange Man is GOOD. Can't you see the mind control? How are these people this BLIND to reality?
Manipulators of reality.
Look... it's the superpowers. The greatest countries in the world! But why do they have the exact same color scheme as all the pointless choices? How can they be united? This is the divided states and the divided kingdom, and they have conquered. DIVIDE & CONQUER. Oh, wait... some patriots went off to find a new home and fight for freedom from the oppression of the taxation of the royal bloody palace? Only to go and make a new country even more oppressive and with higher taxes, some two-hundred odd years later? Are you SURE that it wasn't actually to commit GENOCIDE against all the indigenous BROWN PEOPLE, whose genetic makeup allowed them to have a far deeper understanding of spirituality? CoUlDn't bE Th*@*T....
I'M DRAWING A LINE IN THE SAND
I am so sick of the average Redditor - who thinks they're smart because they're an atheist who understands science - arguing with me, using all their SUPER-BELIEVABLE LIMITING BELIEFS. I know on Reddit it's hard to tell who is real and who ... isn't real - but these people are seemingly the majority now - and they're fucked. They don't even actually understand what science is. Science isn't chopping off your dick to be a woman. Let's talk about the actual scientist who performed many series of actual scientific experiments to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that people are able to control material reality with only the use of their minds. Why doesn't anyone ever want to talk about THAT science?
What it seems is that every thing in this world - every institution, religion, and academic study - has been corrupted to keep us under control. The people that are in control of this world have access to esoteric knowledge that they have hidden from the masses to keep for themselves. This knowledge involves the ability to manipulate reality, which they use for power and keeping the rest of us down and powerless. From what I can tell, the thing they don't want us to know is that we are powerful beings, with capabilities that have been hidden and unused. Every person needs to understand that they are a powerful being that doesn't need any help or anyone to save them. WE have the power to control our own destiny. If the majority would start believing in their power and themselves, we would have a chance at ending this shitty reality manipulation and living as non-dual beings of love - as the true source of creation made us - powerful, independent beings with everything we need, and no need to evolve or learn shitty lessons about suffering. Unfortunately, it seems like most people would prefer to keep their creature comforts, believe that this isn't as bad as I am making it sound, and remain here, in the safety of familiarity... away from the fear of the unknown. And that makes me so fucking sad that it brings tears to my eyes.
submitted by futurebannedacct to conspiracy [link] [comments]

2024.04.23 02:36 Real-Turnover-7289 What’re your thoughts on gang culture amongst Guyanese people?

Firstly, I was born in Guyana and lived their until I was 8. At 8 I moved to NYC and this is the reason why I ask this question. I know there’s a gang culture present in Guyana but holy shit NYC is insane. Around 16-18 I was so close to joining a gang because I did come from an abusive home I was looking for a family outside of my biological one as I didn’t really have one at home. I was basically seeking the love I ain’t get at home to put it simply. Now in high school there was so many gangs crips, bloods, Latin kings, even a GS9 member which was crazy given that I went to school in NYC. It really just happens naturally. Looking back the troubled kids genuinely attract each other and by hanging out with these gang affiliated members you get really close to earning your stripes until you’re either officially slly jumped in or you just stop hanging with them.
For me I saw my “friends” get stabbed and jumped but that didn’t do it I also went through a horrible break up which left me emotionally distraught. I decided I want to take school seriously because the girl I dated did and she showed me another path (not intentionally). Through her I just saw that i could do it because if she did it why can’t I?
So then I stopped hanging with those guys and started taking schools seriously. The rest is history I went to college got a great job. If someone from HS saw me now they wouldn’t recognize me.
Now here’s my point; growing up I knew 1 Guyanese kid gang affiliated but I had 8 cousins to my knowledge that were gang affiliated (could be more). My nephew actually recently got arrested for selling weed and he’s 20. Sad part is his dads gang affiliated so it’s a vicious cycle.
Point being, I’m noticing there is a gang culture amongst Guyanaese people in general. What’re your thoughts? How can we stop this?
submitted by Real-Turnover-7289 to Guyana [link] [comments]

2024.03.29 03:00 Magnafico19 Good budget gaming mouse?

Hello, I'm not too knowledgeable about what to look for in a computer mouse so help is appreciated. I play mostly survival games (raft, minecraft, the forest, those types) and I have a medium sized palm but short fingers. I have a claw crip, and I don't mind if the mouse is bluetooth or USB. Thanks!
submitted by Magnafico19 to MouseReview [link] [comments]

2024.03.27 00:02 lordpascal Book recommendations

Repost cause reddit deleted my first post due to the use of the word " w a r "
This is mostly a message to people in "first world countries". This is the f*cking Capitol and the people in the rest of the world are like the 12 districts.
We live in a dystopia that is literally a mix of 1984 and Brave New World, and if we don't want the human race to go extinct, we need to dismantle the kyriarchy once and for all.
"Third world countries" are not "underdeveloped", they are overexploited.
I'm gonna leave a series of books and articles tht you can check right now for free. You can download them using Anna's Archive
They go from things like capitalism, to feminism, mutual-aid, indigenous societies, anthropology, colonialism and so on.
Decolonize your mind, create class consciousness, build a community, dismantle the kyriarchy, flip the script and eat the rich ✊️
submitted by lordpascal to LateStageCapitalism [link] [comments]

2024.03.05 00:09 XPacmvNX "BLUE LIPS" ALBUM REVIEW.

MY OFFICIAL REVIEW OF SCHOOLBOY Q's, "BLUE LIPS" ALBUM.

tHis is about to be janky as sHit, just follow me tHougH..
​
1. FUNNY GUY
tHis track starts off like we're entering tHe fucking twigHligHt zone, sHit sounds like tHe House falling in tHe "Wizard of OZ" I stg.
You can Hear Q in the background faintly repeating:
"Bring tHe dope, bring tHe Hoes, bring tHe money bags in.."
I now feel like I gotta get some dope, Hoes, and money bags, for tHe rest of tHis album.
(ultimately decided not to)
DOPE INTRO.
https://i.redd.it/1lv03lb4xdmc1.gif
2. POP (FEAT. RICO NASTY)
A radio cHanging sound abruptly ends wHat felt like a nice ass sunny day-walk in tHe park type of sHit, and Q is all of a sudden pissed off dawg:
"oH, fuckface punk-rock bitcH!"
Now I've Heard tHis nigga Q mad before, but wHen you Hear tHat "UH", at tHe end of His sentences like tHis:
"I've been gettin' money back tHen, making plays, top ten, UH!" <- rigHt tHere
Just be ready to start sHadow boxing or some sHit.
@ 0:43-46: "💥💥💥💥💥💥💥", followed by one of tHe craziest drops and beat switcHes I've ever Heard IN MY FUCKING LIFE!!"
It was at tHis moment wHere I felt like I was morpHing into 'Quincy Kruger', in a "NigHtmare On Figg St. Part 2" (go listen to NigHtmare on Figg St. if you Haven't).
A few moments later we get Rico Nasty wHo goes absolutely Haywire on tHis sHit. Initially I wasn't really feeling Her on Here, but during my 2nd listen- yeaH, sHe fucking served dawg- super necessary.
STRAIGHT HEAT! IMA KRUMP IN THE HOOD TO THIS.
https://i.redd.it/rk36fnk2ydmc1.gif
3. THANK GOD 4 ME
AlrigHt so look.. I knew wHat tHis track was before it even started because, I know most of us seen Q debut tHis a few montHs ago at tHe Kal Banx & Friends Boiler Room, and immediately were begging for it's release, but yo.. FAM, FAMMMM!!!! DID ANYONE FEEL LIKE THEY WERE JUMPING AROUND BACK IN THAT MOMENT WITH Q AND HIS HOMIES, OR WAS THAT JUST ME?!
tHe way tHis starts off so peaceful witH tHose little flutes and sHit, I didn't know if Q cHanged tHe song or tHe name or wHat. And tHen @ 0:43, tHe Project Pat, "cHicken Head" starts ringing in tHe background- it eventually switcHes back to tHe peaceful sHit, and Q starts talking His sHit again:
"tHank God for me, all my bitcHes gon' lie for me.."
THE VIBES ARE IMMACULATE ON THIS ONE!
https://i.redd.it/osf8lymwydmc1.gif
4. BLUESLIDES
First and foremost, RIP Mac Miller 🕊️.
BotH Q, and Lauren Santi's vocals on tHis record are just Heaven sent man. It's crazy tHe range Q Has tHrougHout tHis album. One second I wanna mask up, next second I'm jumping around Hype af, but Here, on tHis one- I wanna put on my formal attire, and bust out a cigar witH some cHampagne.
Q doesn't take a second to talk tHat talk on tHis one eitHer, and one tHing about Q tHat we all know is, if He eatin, rest assure everyone around Him eatin' too! As well as making sure everyone around Him good mentally too.
"We split tHe profit witH tHe people, we be all lit. Top ten, not ten, bitcH, we all in.."
"Better climb out of tHat Hole before you fuck up your blessings. 'Fore you realize tHat it's over witH and start to get dеsperate."
JUST SO WE'RE CLEAR, THIS MAN IS 4/4. [and I wrote tHis witH tears in my eyes]
https://i.redd.it/sm98rpduzdmc1.gif
5. YEERN 101
First off, tHis beat reminds me of my 5 year old's Heartbeat after He eats cHocolate. THIS BEAT IS FUCKING ON ONE!
tHen Here comes Q to remind tHe world tHat He's not only a successful rapper, but tHe greatest golfer-fastest rising golfer-most successful golfer etc. of all-time:
"I've been livin' off golf from tHe last few deals. wHen tHe Nike cHeck came, man, I still got cHills, Hit a 2K lick, I ain't even go pro."
Also, tHis isn't tHe first time Hearing Q on a beat tHat feels so "out of control", it's almost become a trademark at tHis point plus witH tHat range I mentioned earlier- is anyone Honestly surprised? wHat is tHere tHat Q can't do?
DIVERSE Q, IS ALWAYS A GOOD TIME.
https://i.redd.it/38heq83s0emc1.gif
6. LOVE BIRDS (FEAT. DEVIN MALIK & LANCE SKiiiWALKER)
tHis record begins witH tHe "Can I Call You Rose?", sample by, tHee Sacred Souls, and Lance Skiiiwalker singing:
"GIRL I ACKNOWLEDGE THAAAAT, I MISTREATED YOU--" \BRMMM BRMMMM BRM BRMMMMMM\**
[someone sHould've warned me about tHe beat drop because Holy fuck, it felt like I was in an eartHquake, I was not ready..]
Yeah see, tHis nigga Q is on sometHing witH tHese switcH ups [in a good way]. I know it was mentioned that "Blue Lips" was to be interpreted as meaning: "SpeecHless, especially as tHe temporary result of sHock or some strong emotion”, and tHis production imo, is reflecting tHat to a tee (don't get excited if you're reading tHis Q, it ain't no golf tee nigga).
AnotHer tHing, I can never get enougH of rappers not taking tHeir rapping way too serious. tHis man barking on tHis track, ad-libs galore etc. tHis is wHat makes Q, unapologetically, Q!
"BiatcH, Suuu, RrrH" and tHe infamous, "Aw-aw-aw!" 😂😂😂
Never stop being you dawg, I love tHis sHit!
And sHout out botH Lance and Devin, tHey killed it!
"Life get Harder tHan my dick inside your bitcH" - Devin Malik
[tHanks for tHe ig caption fam lol].
THE BEAT SWITCHES, THE FLOWS *CHEF'S KISS*.
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7. MOVIE (FEAT. AZ CHIKE)
"tHen today, I find out you fools are paying two-seventy for a blunt.."
I first Heard a snippet of tHis from tHe "Blue Lips" tracklist video tHat came out on Tuesday (2/27), but again- tHese fucking beat switcHes bruH.. So first and foremost, I ain't from LA, I'm not from Cali period lol, but wHen I Heard tHem mutHafucking locker slams!
I knew I was a Cali Crip..
Bro, tHe way tHat song began, and tHe way it just went completely left- again, left me stuck for a second. I could only picture OT Genesis crip walking in that one gas station, wHerever tHe fuck lol. And uHH.. WHy AZ Chike slide like tHat? Like dawg, wHen tHat beat dropped and He was like:
"YeaH, naH fam, you ain't folk, you ain't kin. You ain't tHe nigga I'ma look to to win.."
Mannnnnn, listen..
ANOTHER ABSOLUTE BANGER! SHOUT OUT LA!
https://i.redd.it/emcrm8bs2emc1.gif
8. COOTIES
AlrigHt so, rigHt before tHe album released last nigHt, I watcHed tHe official video for tHis, and Honestly- tHis one made me tHe most restless going into midnigHt. Q's flow is so broken Here, but not in a bad way by any means because it complements tHe tHeme so well- you could just feel tHis sense of like, yeaH I got all tHis sHit, life is good:
"Likе, I can't believe my Housе on the Hill, like, I can't believe tHat mountain is real, accountant is thrilled, tHe scars on tHe back of me Healed.."
But, also like.. I'm still Quincy from Compton:
"My House smell like ganja, fuck yo' kids, I'm dealin' witH problems.."
And as you get into tHe lyrics even deeper, Q never let's up:
"Mass sHootings, wHen will tHey stop it? Hmm. 'NotHer kid gone for unlimited profits, ratHer keep my kid Home, before you fuck up tHe process, I'd ratHer die and lose it all, before tHey don't get tHe knowledge, I'd ratHer die and lose it all, before I turn on my partners.."
Do I need to speak on tHe production of tHis one? Because..
THIS NIGGA IS 8/8, ARE YOU DUMB?
https://i.redd.it/46dwy7c33emc1.gif
9. OHIO (FEAT. FREDDIE GIBBS)
Okay, so first tHe fuck of all.. THis sHit immediately starts off feeling like the good days on "SnowFall FX", before Franklin became a crackHead- you know wHen tHe camera would just pan tHrough tHe neigHborHood witH tHe palm trees, and tHe kids running to tHe ice cream truck? YeaH, tHat sHit.
I love tHat Q takes His time getting in on tHis one:
"I'ma stack my O's like oHio, lookin' at your life, tHat's a long, "No" lookin' at my life, tHink He Pablo.."
Like dawg, His pace is just insane tHrougHout tHis album, He sees eye to eye witH every aspect of tHe production on Here.
tHen of course @ 1:18, sHit gets spooky [per usual].
HOL UP, IS THAT A $NOT SAMPLE!?!? 🔥🔥
YEAH, Q GOT IT.. INCOMING "NAIMA" - JOHN COLTRANE SAMPLE, WHAT THE FUCK?..
Now listen.. I'm not super familiar witH Freddie Gibbs, but I've Heard Him kill features before [Vultures as of recent], and tHis is notHing lesser, He tHrasHes tHis track, and absolutely loses it on Here witH His flow..
[as JoHn Coltrane sends us to Heaven witH His sax]:
"YeaH, turn me up tHen, bitcH, run it up tHen, bitcH Hella Hoes like Rick... James.."
OHIO IS ONE OF THEM ONES, NEED I SAY MORE?
https://i.redd.it/h00lsr3h4emc1.gif
10. FOUX (FEAT. AB-SOUL)
My introduction to Ab-Soul was actually my introduction to Kendrick, a song titled:
"For tHe Girlfriends" feat. Ab-Soul. How I discovered Q? Similar fasHion, anotHer Kendrick record titled:
"MicHael Jordan" feat. ScHoolboy Q.
[been tapped in w. TDE since 2010, it's been a minute lol]
In 2011, Q and Ab-Soul collaborated on a track called "Druggys Wit Hoes", whicH brings us to tHe title: "Foux" aka Four, or "Druggys Wit Hoes 4". Upon my first listen, no bullsHit, I Had trouble accepting tHat it's been as long as it Has, since tHe last installment in 2012.
But let's get rigHt into it..
We start off witH a sample from tHe Watts PropHets, titled, "Dem Niggxrs Ain't Playing":
"Look at tHem flames ligHtin' up the sky, ain't never seen fire sHootin' up so HigH.."
tHese "Druggys Wit Hoes" records always Have tHis cHaotic upbeat formula, so I went into tHis expecting any, and everytHing- and tHat's exactly wHat I got. Q and Soul took me back to 2011, witH tHis one. tHey understood tHe assignment, and brougHt tHe energy, cHaos, and unpredictability.
"Marijuana, Hydro, pussy Hoe, ass, titties."
If you know, you know..
THANKFUL FOR THIS RECORD. Q IS RUNNING RN!
https://i.redd.it/2987usx05emc1.gif
11. FIRST
We start off witH tHis sample tHat sounds straigHt outta tHe fucking Smurfs or some sHit:
"Na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na-na-naaaaa.."
At tHis point of tHe album, I know a switcH up is coming, and sure enougH @ 0:08:
"I was tHe first one fuckin' tHat bitcH I was tHe first one Hittin' tHat shit I was tHe first one lovin' tHat shit I'll fuck tHat sHit, I'll fuck tHat bitcH.."
tHen @ 0:14, we get tHis stoooooooopid drop.
Now I'm committed, my Head is boppin', I got tHe stank face on, and Q doesn't Hesitate Here. He instantly gives us tHat arrogant energy, witH tHem arrogant bars:
"Gold in my moutH and got gold on my wrist, Ho, you gon' sHine if I give you a kiss.."
"I don't Hang around witH tHem niggas, tHey suck, I ain't 'bout to argue witH you, baby, that's weak, you ain't been in love witH a nigga like me, real Loc nigga, I ain't never gon' bleed.."
tHen @ 1:37 everytHing calms down, and eventually switcHes up into tHis spooky R.L. Stine Goosebumps type beat. A lot of tHese songs feel like 2, sometimes 3, songs in one. I'm loving tHe diversity and range on tHis project.
WHAT KHALED SAY? OH YEAH, "ANOTHER ONE".
https://i.redd.it/x53005hx5emc1.gif
12. NUNU
I'm really feeling How Q starts some of tHese songs witH tHeir own little intro. We Had tHe: "na-na-na-na..", to begin tHe last song, and now we're starting witH: "la, la-la, la-la.."- it like, glides you into tHe vibe of tHe song before it gets going, and tHen He pulls tHe rug out from under you witH tHe beat switcHes.
At tHis point I'm just expecting a beat switcH to come out of nowHere, cause it is wayyy too cHill rigHt now.
Q raps:
"Dropped out of scHool, balled all year, keep sayin' sHit, I'm never gon' Hear.."
tHe production on tHis track is majestic as fuck. You get tHese random sparkling sounds on top of tHe drums- legit sounds like a magic wand from Cinderella in tHis bitcH lol. Also, I Hope I'm not being redundant by continuing to praise tHe production on tHis album, but- it is wHat it is. tHis entire album so far, is just sonically Heaven sent.
No beat switcHes Here, a pretty straigHtforward record, notHing super HigH nor low.
DREAMY JOINT RIGHT HERE, NOT BAD.
https://i.redd.it/lwkfsse57emc1.gif
13. BACK N LOVE (FEAT. DEVIN MALIK)
OKAY SO, RIGHT AWAY THIS BEAT IS FUCKING CRANKIN'!
\DUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUNNNNN-DUN\**
I don't remember Q screaming "SUUUUUUU" on any albums before Blue Lips [could be wrong], but I am fucking witH it! Reminds me of some Wu-Tang sHit.
"Back in love witH tHis sHit Back in love witH tHis sHit Back in love witH tHis sHit Back in love witH tHis sHit.."
Before I go on, I just want to add tHat I've Heard tHis track already from tHe video Q dropped during tHe rollout- but I've never Heard tHe Devin Malik feature. I'm not too familiar witH Devin but- did tHis nigga just drop a Triple H DX bar?:
"tHis a love triangle like wHere Bermuda is, on a mission, be tHe voice of twenty tHousand kids, D-Generation X, Triple H and sHit.." He valid in my book for tHat one alone lol.
Side note: I caugHt a portion of tHe Back on Figg "Blue Lips" listening party, and saw Devin speaking about How He tapped in witH Q. After Hearing His verse on Here, tHis relationsHip feels like it could end up being on some Kendrick x Keem sHit- wHere iron sHarpens iron, Q Has Devin under His wing, and it Helps botH of tHem on some veteran-rookie sHit.
@ 1:04 Devin's flow switcHes up and He raps:
"Money gotta make, bad bitcH, you know I gotta take off on a wraitH, I'll say, I was on tHе way, not tHe wraitH, okay, money on my mind, got my pockets in sHape, okay, I'm in sHape, money, we get paid I'm tHe big man, dog, get sHit stained.."
You can Hear Devin's flow and energy sHift towards a more aggressive, Q-like sound. Especially once He ends His verse and says:
"STAIIINNED!" - [Heavy Q influence; fucks wit it]
As far as Q is concerned on tHis track, I love grimey Q, and we get a lot of tHat energy Here from Him. wHen He released tHe video for tHis record, I was fired up wHen tHey sHowed tHe lil' Home video clips of Him as He rapped:
"Around nine, I was tryna have sex, tHirteen and I caugHt a new flex Ask wHy tHen you'll probably get blessed Yes, yes.."
tHis track got me so hype, wHen it dropped at tHe start of tHe rollout, and it did not disappoint.
NO DENYING THIS TRACK IS A BANGER!
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14. LOST TIMES (FEAT. JOZZY)
As mentioned in tHe last one, Here we go witH anotHer smootH transition-intro. tHis time it sounds like we're tuning in to a 70's sitcom, like "Good Times", or some "Sanford and Son" sHit.
AlrigHt listen..
WE GOT A FUCKING ALCHEMIST x SCHOOLBOY Q TRACK!!!
wHere do I even start? How do I even start witH tHis one..?
tHis song is sometHing serious! Q kills it, Jozzy kills it, tHere are literally no Holes in tHis song- it's quite literally perfect.
"I FEEL BLESSED, HAD THE BREAD STASH.." tHen @ 0:26 you just know it's Uncle Al all over tHis one, and tHe entire mood switcHes wHen Q starts speaking:
"You know me tHougH, alcoHol and God and all tHat sHit tHat comes involved witH it, takes time, man, you know wHat I mean. I got some screws loose in tHis tHing, you Heard wHat I mean. EverytHing takes its time, but it's gon' be- tHe one thougH, and tHat's just How it works."
tHe tone, tHe energy- everytHing is set off rip. We know wHy we're Here, we know wHy we came, alllaaaaaat!
"How you hate me witH a smile, my nigga? You foul, my nigga.."
Q is putting ink on paper Here, Heart on His sleeve- just pouring it all out, AND LET'S NOT FORGET JOZZY, WHO COMES ON HERE AND JUST SENDS US STRAIGHT TO THE MOON WITH HER VOCALS:
"I'ma put my fingers in tHe air for tHe lost times Twist one and I put it in tHe air for tHe lost times I'ma tHrow tHis money everywHere for tHe lost times I'ma get to bustin' in tHe air for tHe lost times." [suu, su, su, su.. \in tHe background*]*
I really love tHat "su", sHit dawg lol.
OH, YOU THOUGHT HE WAS DONE? NO.
Q gifts us witH a second verse, and tHis time tHe beat begins galloping [tHank you Uncle Al], tHere's no major switcHes, tHe beat just gets tHis Heartbeat to add to, wHat is already a masterpiece. Q's rapping is more sporadic now, it's got tHis personality to it- yes, His voice, and we're getting tHe "uH's", at tHe end of tHese lines now- IT'S GROOVY SEASON BITCH!
"Slid througH tHe many nigHts, uH Givin' you plenty life, uH DeatH and beauty all alike I tried so many times, like, How else I'ma climb tHe HeigHt? uH wHo knew I'd be dynamite, uH? You keepin' it sHade I'm tryna sHine all tHe ligHt, uH.."
ARGUABLY MY FAVORITE JOINT THUS FAR, MY GOD!
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15. GERMANY 86'
[Here we go again witH tHe intro]
Once tHe sample cuts, you Hear tHis rauncHy cruncHy ass beat come in [I don't mean it in a bad way]. Feels like we're in anotHer era Here, tHe 80's or some sHit. Q gets rigHt to business rapping about His upbringing, and giving props to His motHer wHo he labels as His superHero:
"My mom stayed workin' late, sHe taugHt me How to be great, my superHero's a woman, you know sHe served for tHis country.."
Q tHen Hits us witH tHese random, "do-do-doooo's", lol idk wHy I took note of it but, I tHougHt it complimented tHe track in a funny but- necessary way.
But yeaH..
Q just pissed me off lol, because.. wHy are we getting one verse Here? tHat ain't rigHt dog, you ain't rigHt Q, and you know it!
[tHis felt more like an interlude, I respect it]
15 TRACKS IN, AND THE SCOREBOARD SAYS 15/15!
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16. TIME KILLERS
THE PRODUCTION THE PRODUCTION THE PRODUCTION
No intro to tHis track, we get straigHt to business witH tHis groovy ass tune. AltHougH a lot of tHese songs Have big switcHes, some Have tHese subtle additions to tHem later on, tHat turn tHe lights on in tHe room [Hope tHat makes sense]. tHis is anotHer example of tHat- we go from a regular groove, to tHis scary/shaky, jungle/foresty groove real quick. Kind of reminded me of some Dark Twisted Fantasy, Kanye type of sHit.
Q raps:
"Wake up, I'm on tHe nigHt sHift, don't do me wrong Pull up, I need my sidekick, come get me on, on, on, turn me on.."
His flow is impeccable Here, matcHing witH tHe beat everywHere it goes- tHe beat goes left, Q is rigHt tHere wit it, sHarp rigHt- Q is rigHt tHere.
As tHis track went on, it felt like tHe deeper we walked down into tHe tunnel, and tHe longer tHe beat rode, Q got Hungrier:
"Grew up on Figueroa Street, I saw tHe blade Lil bo' scrawny nigga for sure was catcHing fades Raised by all women and still I never caved Took it tHree times, extended from greatness, I display Home of tHe brave, ran by tHe slaves Stole e'rybody name so wHite Jesus on tHe cHain.."
[anotHer common tHeme on tHis album I've come to realize is, wHen it's tHe first verse, Q usually takes it a lil easy- not meaning lazy or anytHing but, if you pay attention, come tHe second verse, we start getting more energy and aggression, background vocals etc. and tHe same goes for some of tHese beats- tHe longer tHe duration of a song, tHere's tHis sense of 'losing control' towards tHe end- it's so fucking dope]
From tHe voice distortion at certain points on Here, and tHe ecHoes, the background noises, the adlibs.. tHere's so mucH going on, but Q makes it fit perfectly. Doesn't feel crammed in, or unnecessary- it's just rigHt..
BLUE LIPS BLUE LIPS.. YOU'RE SOMETHING SPECIAL
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17. PIG FEET (FEAT. CHILDISH MAJOR)
THE INTRO IS HEREEEEEEEE..
BUT MY GOD, IT DID NOT PREPARE US FOR A GODDAMN THING!
AlrigHt so, tHis sHit starts witH tHis like- Harp type of sound, it's Hard to explain- and tHen tHere are tHese like, keys or some sHit- it Honestly feels like wHen two people are about to duel it out in a movie, on some Kill Bill type sHit- you know wHen it's like, panning back and fourtH between botH people's eyes, and you just know.. AWW SHIT, IT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN!
And tHen tHat's exactly wHat Happens Here..
DAWG! tHere are so many moments on tHis album wHere tHe production just blows me away, and tHis is no different. The drop on Here is just psycHotic bruH..
We start witH CHildisH Major:
"YeaH, ay, ay, yeaH, ayy, yeaH, we're all on the same team, fuck it.."
tHen it just turns into tHis scene wHere it feels like He's about to lead an entire army of street soldiers througH tHe 1965, Watts Riots:
"Ayy, ay.." "Left, uH, left, uH, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left Ain't no rigHt, ay.."
"Left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left, ay, left.."
"It's on sigHt, uH.."
tHen of course Q doesn't let up:
"YeaH, quiet down, Hey, Hey Not a sound, ay, ay Piggy down, ay, ay Peakin' out, ay, ay.."
tHis is one of tHem records tHat you listen to, and it makes you do some regretful ass shit- my adrenaline was zoomin' wHile listening to tHis, and I know I'm not alone lol- straigHt Heat!
IF YOU HAVE A TOP 5 ON BLUE LIPS, PIG FEET IS IN IT!
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18. SMILE
Well.. Are we sad tHat it's over? Or wait- wHat's tHat saying.. "Don't be sad it's over, smile because it Happened.."
tHis is bittersweet.
So we start off witH Q tHrowing a karate kick or some sHit, idk wHat tHe nigga was doing tbH, but it sounded like He Hit His target. It also sounds like we're in an elevator- tHis really giving elevator music to start..
"My old bitcH, get swerved I fell off, oH word tHe new car, go, "Skrrt," I did it big, big work.."
Of course we get singing Q at tHe end smH, and tHis track definitely gotta be from 2021, cause:
"You my Kim K to my Kanye.."
YeaH.. tHis one from tHe cHambers lol. NonetHeless, tHere goes Q witH tHe effortless flow, doing wHat He's done tHe entire album = groove. tHe production on Here is probably tHe grooviest of tHem all too lol, tHis was really bittersweet as I wisH tHere was more.
But yeaH..
"tHat's it."
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VERDICT:
Five years..
The most frequently asked question has been:
"Was it worth the wait?"
Honestly.. Anytime ScHoolboy Q drops, it'll be worth the wait for me, good or bad. I was a junior in high school when I started following Q [14 years ago], and as Q has evolved, so have I- only difference being, I've been following him, and he doesn't know me lol. Basically what I'm trying to say is, it's been dope watching him evolve as an artist through these albums- from "Setbacks", back in 2011, to present day.
This "Blue Lips" release was personal, and I went into it a little skewed, as I \vroomed*, through his discography one more time before midnight. I was expecting more of a *"CrasH Talk", "Blank Face" sound/vibe, so when I clicked play for the first time, and "Funny Guy" loaded up- truth be told, I wasn't ready for what was to come.
I'll be straight forward, my first listen was a blur. I literally came out thinking:
"What the fuck did I just listen to?"
Not in the way you might be thinking either, it was more of a- "holy shit" moment, but In that moment I said to myself:
"Man.. I'm gonna fall in love after my second listen."
And sure enough, here we are.
When you get the chance, go on Apple Music, Spotify, Genius etc. and just look at how the body of these songs were constructed. Certain songs look like 2 or 3 in one- even by listening to them, you can both see and hear the effort that went into this album, and it follows Q's definition of "Blue Lips", to a tee [I touched on this in my review].
Q's definition:
“Speechless, especially as the temporary result of shock or some strong emotion.”
There are so many moments on here where Q's flow, word play, and the production, all gang up on you, leaving you both shocked, and speechless. I don't think there is a single bad record on this album.
But..
With all that being said, I wish a song or two would've been a little longer, and I wish each track transitioned into the next one. The more I listen, the more I fall in love, but if we had one complete transition from 1 to 18, oofff..
Word on the street is TDE died when Kendrick left, and I believe Q took that personally [insert MJ meme]. "Blue Lips" was everything I didn't expect, but everything I hoped for + more. The bar has been reset for 2024, and whoever said TDE was dead- they lied.
Thank you, ScHoolboy Q
"BLUE LIPS", FINAL RATING: 9/10
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submitted by XPacmvNX to Schoolboyq [link] [comments]

2024.03.01 18:31 WelderNo6075 Who did it? What are your theories and why?

For anyone who has seen the supposedly picture of the arm, the cutting of the fingers as a way to make it harder to identify makes no sense. Specially since the tattoos are as recognizable. IMO the cutting of the finger was tortured or as a message and it was done pre murder.
Also the location is interesting, to me it indicates knowledge of the area. Sure our first thoughts are gangs specially MS13 but the closest gang area is Wyandanch and is mostly bloods or crips. Next would be Brentwood or CI which are pretty far.
Interested in hearing people thoughts on who did but please post why and supported by facts. Keep it civil!
submitted by WelderNo6075 to longisland [link] [comments]

2024.02.19 04:33 Ambiguously-Disabled I have ehlers danlos and this series feels... ableist [all spoilers]

I just finished this book, and iron flame. I found it a bit hard to get through. Obviously we all have our subjective personal opinions, so please don't take my discussion here as being an attack or anything. i just wanted to share some of my reading experience because this book actually kind of broke my heart in a way that it wasn't meant to. So if you read it and thought it was empowering, that's cool. Im not here to judge you or anything. Just want to share my experience, especially because like violet, i have ehlers danlos and have competed in physically demanding, national sports.
THERE ARE SPOILERS AHEAD.
I picked up this book because it has been everywhere, and so many people said it had "amazing disability rep". I even saw some clips of the author talking about how she wrote it to be an inspiration, an empowerment novel, something feminist.
I have ehlers danlos and i was so excited... I was so just over the moon to finally see a fantasy book with my disability in it, and have it be handled with care, and then as i read, i just felt like i was being spat in the face. it sounds harsh but i can't describe it any other way. because of my ehlers danlos i have been mistreated by many people, including doctors and hospital staff and people in my universities and sports institutions. all of those people told me to "push through" and "overcome" my struggles to do what everyone else can do so able-y, and it lead to a decline in my body's health and a rise in deterioration rate. when you dislocate shoulders over and over, they become easier to injure, which means you have to take even more care. Not dissimilar to Violet, except she sees none of the realistic and frankly sometimes horrible repurcussions of treating your body without much care and being injured so often. I just found it hard to see the merit of a story like this. it could have been alright if the story didn't reward her with success and promote her extra training/injuries/lack of boundaries as a tool that works without much consequence, i think.
i didn't feel like the book was aware of how much like a horror this reads like. it felt like the author truly believed these things were empowering and accomodating etc. but let me tell you, when i was forced to train harder for my competitive sports, it seriously impacted me and i don't even have severe ehlers danlos. violet is almost, or maybe even just is, the super-crip trope. she has basically a super-human pain tolerance and can remain functional in circumstances so many others (even everyone else in the text, which is said explicitly) cannot. i don't understand how it is empowering when she's being forced to over-compensate and be better than everyone else, and nobody bats an eye. as a super-crip, she is "A disabled person, particularly an athlete, who achieves exceptional success or accomplishments in spite of the challenges they face, serving as an inspiration to others." this doesn't have to be an inherently bad thing, the author could have intentionally engaged with the insane expectations that puts on disabled people, but i didn't think she did. the book is explicitly stating here and there that she *can* do everything everyone else does even though it's harder for her.
i felt like the books were mostly interested in fighting very blatent and obvious forms of ableism like people calling violet "weak", but it didn't understand that ableism is so much more insidious than that. it feels like a gap in the author's knowledge somehow. even if we agree that violet had to train harder than everyone else in order to survive, the lack of realistic consequences just... it doesn't make sense, it feels like it's missing how terrible that is, because it's a story of success. she does do it, and she is fine, and there is no critical thought there about it being terrible. one element of ableism is the message of "push through it" and "try harder". it's everywhere, and it has killed people with disabilities. it is scary and harmful to me that this book is called "empowering" and "inspiring" when it is relying on this narrative. i spoke to my physio therapist who is also a big reader, and she read fourth wing too, and we both agreed that it wasn't great, so i was glad someone at least heard me out and validated some of my feelings.
I read iron flame because when i spoke to some people about feeling uncomfortable about the rep, and when i scrolled booktok, people got so defensive and mean about people even saying "i personally didn't like it", and people told them not to judge the series by one book. but these thoughts were not attacking the author, just a personal opinon. yet so often it gets heavily attacked and criticized because the author has ehlers danlos too. okay, but that doesn't make her unable to accidentally be ableist too? i have had to unlearn so much internalized ableism because of the narrative this series relies on and the messaging that it's repeating. even some of my doctors have had to do it, and my family, and my friends who also have ehlers danloss. so i read both books to see if this messaging was intentionally built in or something, but no, iron flame triples down and makes Violet even stronger.
As for the romance, i like that a disabled woman gets to be sexual for once. it's rare. but it bugged me that her disability only came up when violet says "you won't break me" and also in iron flame when she is literally healing from being horribly beaten and injured and xaden basically is so horny he doesn't want to be gentle but he's scared of hurting her and she is just miraculously fine? they have very rough sex? what is the point of mentioning her healing then if only to ignore it and make no acocmodations for or even discuss if certain things are okay for violet during sex (even if she doesn't need anything)? where is the intimacy and the care?
it just didn't feel nice to read. i don't know if i can continue with the series. even if the later books somehow "undo" some of this or try to be like "i planned this all along", nothing in the current two books gives me hope that that is the case, and i will admit, i actually cried a bit thinking about all this as i read, and as i type this i gave up on caring about spelling because it's just... i don't know, i feel like i'm stuck on the outside of a glass window, basically, and i'm sad about it.
i was just excited and i wanted to be in the fandom and laugh and cry with everyone, and i really loved the concept, but it's just not working for me. there are things about this book series that i do genuinely find interesting, so i'm not hating or criticising the whole thing.
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PLEASE if you are going to engage in this conversation and disagree, that's fine, but i ask not to be insulted. it has happened before and it hurts my heart that this book with disability rep has a big subsect of a fandom that silences and dismisses and insults some disabled people's experiences. much love to you all
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submitted by Ambiguously-Disabled to fourthwing [link] [comments]

2024.02.19 03:51 tobiasfunction Deque University CPACC Prep Course: A Disabled Perspective

Edit: This post is regarding to the current (as of posting) version of the course. IAAP has released an updated CPACC Body of Knowledge (PDF) document for exams starting with the 2024 May/June Exam Session. The Deque University course is currently being updated, and Release Notes will reflect when the new material is available.
I'm keeping this post as-is because I think it's still a valuable point of view to have in this community, but depending on when you read this it may not accurately critique the course in question.

Background

I took the Deque University CPACC prep course and received my certification through my employer in 2023. In my opinion, the course showed a pretty severe lack of disability and disabled culture literacy.
I am disabled and consider myself a member of the disabled community. I have friends who are active in disability advocacy and community organizing. I by no means speak for all disabled people, but I can speak from my own lived experience and many conversations I’ve had on this topic within my community.
The public criticism of the course I’ve seen usually focuses on how well it prepares you for the CPACC exam, but discussion of the disability-related content itself tends to be neutral-to-positive. I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while. Since Deque’s axe-con is this week and there are sessions specifically talking about IAAP certifications, it feels like the right time to add my perspective to the conversation.

Disclaimers

The Stramp

In the section on Accessibility in the Built Environment, the course highlights Robson Square in Vancouver, Canada as the ideal example of Universal Design principles.
Ramps blended into stairs, sometimes called "stramps" (stair-ramps) are a meme in disabled communities as an example of things that abled people think are accessible but aren’t. The B.C. government has stated that the ramps "should be primarily considered ornamental" because they would not comply with current accessibility laws if they were considered functional architecture. Deque's own 2023 Global Accessibility Awareness Day (GAAD) event started by using the Robson Square stramp as an example of bad Universal Design.
Further Reading:

Stephen Hawking

The Mobility Disabilities section contains a page about physicist Stephen Hawking that I found deeply and repeatedly problematic.
For example:
A photo from his wedding in 1966 is described with “he is standing, smiling, and appears to have full mobility.”
A photo from 2014 is described with “obviously he had not had full mobility in several years” and “he was not able to smile as before.”
The two photos are chest-up portraits. It’s impossible to know how much mobility he had based on these images alone. Other pictures taken during his wedding show him using a cane. Also, does “not able to smile as before” mean he couldn’t smile at all, or just that he smiled in a different way? There are plenty of photos and videos from his later life where he is smiling and laughing; he just wasn’t smiling in this serious professorial portrait.
​
When describing his assistive technology: “If he had been born 50 or 60 years earlier, we wouldn’t know he can think.”
This is incorrect because of the progressive nature of ALS. Hawking was not diagnosed until he was already in university. Even without modern technology, he would have found new ways to communicate as the disease progressed.
If we go a bit deeper than factual inaccuracies, this text frames movement and communication disabilities in a regressive way. It implies that he was unhappy because of his disability. It all but states outright that if someone can’t communicate in typical ways, the only thing you can do is assume that they can’t think.
Even in the current day, many disabled people have those around them assume that they don’t understand their surroundings and deny them personhood. Being an accessibility professional should include an understanding of one of the core maxims of the disability rights movement: presume competence.
Further Reading:

Missed Opportunities

There are instances in the course where the material doesn’t necessarily contain factual errors, but also doesn’t represent the full disability community in ways I think it should. Even more than previous sections, whether these constitute problems with the course is subjective. It would be impossible to include the full diversity of the disabled community in a course like this. I just want to highlight some specific instances that stood out to me.
The course presents braille and refreshable braille displays as the only way deafblind people can access information. There is no mention of tactile signing. I don’t think the course needed to go into detail on this complex topic, but the fact that it’s missing entirely implies that deafblind people can't communicate without technology.
​
In the discussion of visible versus invisible disabilities, the examples of visible disabilities are all public figures, while the examples of invisible disabilities are generic strangers like “someone you see driving a car.” There are many public figures who speak openly about their invisible disabilities, and featuring some of these would have given invisible disabilities actual representation and been a more concrete illustration of the ways this is a false dichotomy: the same disability can be obvious or hidden or somewhere in between depending on context and knowledge.
​
The course uses stock images of hospital-style wheelchairs as their examples of manual wheelchairs instead of real wheelchair users in active-style wheelchairs. Hospital wheelchairs are not designed for independence, and these images do not accurately represent the wheelchair-using community.

Conclusion

My intention here is not to nitpick specific things that could be changed and I would think the course is good. I did not cover every disability-related issue I had, and there are definitely problems I missed because they fall outside my personal experience and knowledge. I'm sure there are also disabled people who would disagree that everything I’ve talked about is a real problem.
Instead, I included examples that I feel are illustrative of deeper problems with the course, especially when it comes to topics outside of digital accessibility. I don’t know who wrote any specific lesson or what the approval process was, and I don’t know how often the course material has been internally reviewed since it was first published in 2016. But even if disabled people were involved in every step of the process, there are significant disabled perspectives missing.
Taking this course was incredibly isolating as a disabled person. The trust that so many people put in Deque made me feel like “it’s rude to kneel to talk to a wheelchair user” or “some people can’t use touch screens” or “kids don’t grow out of ADHD” are fringe unconventional beliefs in the larger disabled community, which I honestly don’t think is the case. The material feels like it was written for nondisabled people, with an outside-looking-in perspective on disability, despite the fact that they advertise the course as being accessible and let disabled people apply for free access.
Ultimately, I’m raising these issues because accessibility is important to me. I believe disabled people deserve to be represented authentically, and I believe accessibility professionals deserve an accurate, sensitive, and respectful education that empowers them to better understand the demographic they serve.
submitted by tobiasfunction to accessibility [link] [comments]

2024.02.17 03:39 Tendi_Loving_Care Reverberations (Mission #2)

Mission 1
I'll preface by saying I wished i'd had a bit more time to prepare, and the blessing to know I'd be 2 players short on this scenario. One let me know a week in advance, the other let me know 1 hour before the game began. This is the curse of being the Forever GM/DM/ST. I also ended up changing the names of some NPCs, not out of being awkward or unique, but poor planning due to a player dropping out.
Reverberations Cast
Agent Trevor Mann, (Codename Agent Dyer) knowledgeable in Humint, Accounting, Persuasion, White, Early 40s
Eleanor Martinez (Codename Agent Botello), former Mexican SWAT, knowledgeable in Drive, fighting, law
Eli Hughes (Codename Agent Fisher), PC expert, electronics master, software cracker
NPC Tony Bui (Codename Agent Cao Cao), Anthropology, History expert of South East Asia and China.
​
The mission began with me having to replace a missing player with an NPC (who had very eerily similar stats, but was Vietnamese). It played like the scene in The Office where Jim is replaced by an Asian actor and everyone is in on it but Dwight.
The Four Seasons, Chicago
The group meet at the Four Seasons, Chicago. Their handler for the mission is an Agent Mithril, an African American FBI man himself. He gives the group the down-lo on Reverb, its previous connections with the Tcho Tcho. They're told about an Agent Mercy, a doctor working at the local hospital who might have more info on the drug. Finally they're told to meet with an undercover DEA agent working in the rough streets of Englewood.
Englewood and the DEA
Botello and Dyer go to Englewood and make contact with a very aggressive street thug called Turtle... his real name was Mike Angelo, and he's been bullied since elementary school. Turtle is the DEA agent who called it in, and has explained that dealers are vanishing. It's like alien abductions declared war on the Bloods and Crips, because there's mass chaos, but no bodies. Both sides are scared, and going to ground, and dope fiends are getting angsty because Reverb's getting harder to buy.
He tells them of two known street pushers: Bruno and Big Bad Luke. Bruno is hiding somewhere, but a Tcho Tcho prostitute and user might have a lead. Luke is in the 5th Precinct (I made this precinct up) after he violently assaulted a police officer. Strangely, it seems like he wanted to be caught.
They go to the police station, bluff the desk sergeant, and get a sit down alone with Big Bad Luke. He plays tuff but they see he's fronting. He wants protection to his stash house where he can collect 10k, then he wants a ride to the train station as he's leaving town. When they refuse he makes it clear he wont leave the station with them, so he tells them to try a p***y a**ed snitch like Bruno.
The Hospital
Cao and Fisher first go to the Hospital to meet a Doctor Angela Grisetti (Agent Mercy), who explains to them what the drug does. She says it contains an unknown trace that doesn't exist in any documents, and that she's unable to mimic its properties with any other compounds. They fail a Humint roll and don't realize she's tried it once herself, or that she's addicted to stimulants to fight off nightmares. As a side backstory, I have it that Dr Angela Grisetti is a survivor of Jack Frost. There were a few hooks here the players missed, but that's what happens when your humint specialist lets you down (/rant). She gives them her last piece of Reverb, perhaps to avoid taking it herself.
The CAAA & Tcho'na Town
Cao and Fisher go to the Tcho Tcho part of town, sample fine food, absorb the culture, and enjoy life. Cao warns Fisher that the Tcho are like a hive of bees, just trying to make do. Attack them however, and they close ranks, swarm, and pulverize their aggressors. They have done this since the earliest history of Asia, and it's doubtful 50 years in the states has cooled their heels.
They visit Dr Bian the advocate for the Tcho Tcho posing as journalists wanting to write about Reverb, and how it created an ugly stigma for the Tcho Tcho community, but they hope to paint the community in a positive light. She is polite to both men, and tells them not to worry about the drugs as the problem will likely solve itself. Though they were very cordial, they failed a couple of key rolls. Bian does not tell them about the Hound of Tindalos or its strong dislike for spheres. They do learn however that the Liao flower is the source and it is sacred to the Tcho Tcho.
The Hotel (Four Seasons)
They go back to the hotel, discuss their plans, and then fall asleep. Because of GM bias or cruelty I decided to make the group do a POW test. When Botello failed it, she took the pill and experienced lucid visions of the past. I'll admit this was my one piece of rail roading, so if anyone asks, Nyarlathotep was behind it...
They yell at her for taking the drug, but this ties into a part of the story that comes later...
The CAAA Again
Botello and Dyer go to see Dr Bian. She is not intimidated by their badges and provides them little. She gives them a history of when black gangs tried to muscle into the area, but the community chased them off. She says she's busy and asks them to leave, but wishes them a nice day. They notice the cameras recording the room and back off.
Englewood Again
The group find a girl in her early 20s, of Vietnamese / Tcho Tcho ethnicity. She identifies herself as Marsha and, with little hesitation, she offers to make one of them happy for $20. When they want to find Bruno, she tells them it will be $200. She mentions the gang war, and how her family have disowned her and she's not allowed back into the Tcho Tcho community until she's clean. The way the dealers are dying, she won't have a choice. She warns them that "Jack Da Strippa" is back, just like in London times, and instead of prostitutes, he's taking junkies. She thinks it might be Big Pharma harvesting their brains.
When they arrive at the crack house where Bruno is hiding, the man is caught totally off guard. He's making a fortress out of furniture, and fire arms, and preparing himself for whatever this Jack the Ripper type guy is.
He tells them about Spider, his connect, who is keeping him supplied. He also mentions how it's only the Reverb dealers disappearing. Just then he hears a noise, but nobody else hears it, except for Botello who took the reverb earlier.
what I used for the Hound of Tindalos - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRjM9QFhzpA
Bruno runs off, barricades himself into a room, and fires off two shots. Then comes screaming. When the agents get inside, Bruno is gone, and half the room is demolished. The shotgun lies on the floor.
Ask Jeeves
Fisher hits the early search engines for wisdom. They come up with little. A GM luck roll, hidden from the group comes back a failure. Fisher is told that the demons that protect the Liao flower are afraid of the colour Yellow. The team hit the local thrift stores and come out in a weird ensemble of yellow. Local gangs spy the two white men, the mexican lady, and the vietnamese senior citizen, and wonder if this is some gang of batshit locals out to rival the Crips and the Bloods. Their response is to point and laugh.
Washington Park
Spider has dug himself into an abandoned hotel near Washington Park. The place is used for drug parties, prostitution, and gang meetings. When the four of them infiltrate, they're quick to spot the cameras Spider has set up, and they avoid them.
As they pass one apartment door, they hear a baby screaming. It sounds abandoned or neglected. Fisher chooses to ignore it, and this is the first bad SAN loss of the past two missions. Crit fail, 8 SAN. He rolls 4WP loss to knock it down to 4 SAN, but his bond (Brother) takes a hammering. They push on.
Entering the room, they find Spider high as a kite. He cannot remember much, beyond encountering a strange woman who told him to smoke his whole stash. At this point I toyed with the idea of Dr Bian being the sorceress, but then I remembered, not every question should have an answer.
They interrogate him, but the passive smoke from his joint infects everyone with a tint of Reverb. Their interrogation goes nowhere, and then BAM, the screams of the Hound of Tindalos fill the room.
It kills Spider in no time at all. The group open fire. I hold nothing back... but the dice roller misses four times in a row. During this time...
Cao escapes out the window, 1 floor down into the alleyway.
Mann shoots, realizes yellow does nothing when he throws a yellow blanket at it, then runs off with Cao.
Botello throws Liao flowers, shoots, and shoots again. None of this works. Finally she sees the gas stove in the apartment kitchen, turns it on, and begins flooding the room.
Here's an interesting part.... 3 of the 4 attacks by The Hound went randomly for Fisher. All 3 missed. By coincidence, he had the perfect 3cm glass orb on him, so the dice roller told the story that the orb was discombobulating the creature.
The beast launches a final attack and hits Fisher in the gut for 8 damage, damn near eviscerating him.
Fisher tries a flashlight (light does not work), then throwing the joint at it... this does nothing. It tears at his clothes and exposes the orb. The Hound goes bananas. This buys them enough time to flood the room with gas, throw in a lighter, and run off.
The blast does not kill the hound, but it loses interest in the agents, and fades into a sharp corner of a shattered coffee table.
A luck roll is failed. The fire spreads, killing 5 party goers upstairs, and the baby next door.
CONCLUSION
The player of Botello was a bit disheartened, feeling they'd made no difference. I explained that now Delta Green knows how Reverb works, they could save millions of lives. Drones will target Liao plantations if any exist, and there is now little chance of it being used as a bio-weapon in America's water supply, or a hundred other ways it could trigger an army of Hounds.
Fisher recovers in the hospital. Dr Grisetti, expert surgeon was fortunately close at hand. When she phones his next of kin, his brother comes to collect him. They have a huge argument. The injury is explained as falling through a glass window.
Agent Mann is rewarded back at the FBI. He's moved up from the basement, given more exciting cases, and this floor has a coffee machine that actually works.
Agent Cao goes back to the Tcho Tcho community. Was he steering the agents away from the real threat? Is he infiltrating Delta Green?
Mission Accomplished
Casualties: 1 wounded agent, 6 dead civilians, 3 confirmed dead dealers.
Cover Blown: Negative. Agents were exceptionally discreet.
​
Next Week: Puppets Shows and Shadow Plays
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submitted by Tendi_Loving_Care to DeltaGreenRPG [link] [comments]

2024.02.14 17:36 Consistent_Bee_3241 Crips got financing ? Episode 2

Grimm Loc from the Rollin 40s Ave naybkorhk40d Crip From Stanley Ave in Yonkers N.Y. here and our lesson for today is growing high grade weed aka hydroponic weed like drop and purple haze. When a set has no money or guns then they have to send someone to school or prison to get they knowledge. The set sent me prison now I know how to grow purple haze and hydro. To hydro you use your closet and a 40 watt ultra violet light bulb it's called a blacc light. Then you plant about ten plants in your closet a project is ten pounds and better you get close to a quarter pound to a pound per plant once it fully grows and yield buds. 1. You use peat moss for your soil do not use regular soil regular soil means it's not hydro. 2. For water you use a plant nutrients solution called big bud, micro, grow, and bloom nutrients solution. You should be able to find big bud nutrients solution and micro nutrients solution grow and bloom nutrients solution at amazon.com 3. Next you water your plants with the nutrients solution for 3 months or until the weed is fully grown. 4. You snip and cut the weed leaves off the plants when the plants gets fully grown and has fully buffed and hang the branches upside down on a clothes line or in your closet. 5. You begin by remembering to give the plant 12 hours of light and 12 hours of darkness 6. Do not give the plant the big bud nutrients solution until the plant has just began to grow leaves. 7. To grow purple haze u follow the same procedure as if you were growing hydro but you take 3 air conditioner or 2 air conditioner and adjust the temperature to 50 degrees. Room temperature in your closet has to remain at 50 degrees and the.bud will automatically begin to turn purple naturally and the THC level will increase. You turn the room temperature in the closet to 50 degrees from the begin of when you plant the seeds. This is how you grow purple haze remember to give it water but to give it the plant nutrients solution such as big bud , micro, bloom , and grow. This concludes our lesson for today and if you listen to these instructions you will grow high grade exotic weed plants . This how you grow hydro weed and purple haze weed. 40^
submitted by Consistent_Bee_3241 to crips [link] [comments]

2024.01.13 21:36 tmfg10 Lenses and considerations for lego stop motion?

Hello Everyone!
I hope you are doing great!
I have been away from photography for some years so I am a bit rusty with my knowledge. I am sorry if my questions are a bit noobish. I have done a lot of research this last few days but i am a bit overwhelmed with all the information and a bit confused.
I am planning some Lego stop motion projects but i am a bit lost on what is the best way and gear to approach it.
I have a canon 70D with two lenses, a 18-135mm zoom lens and a 50mm prime lens, both Canon. Are these good enough? Because in a quick test shot I did the other day when i try get closer to the Lego minifigures it looks so blurry. Is there something in the settings i need to change? Is the focal distance in these lens not good? What things i should be looking for in a lens for this type of work?
I am looking to have deep DOP. I want the whole image to be crips.
For now i also don’t want to make a big invesntement since i have to save for other things at the moment. Because i think the to go investment would be a macro lens right? But i think they are a bit our of budget for me atm.
What advices do you have? What i an missing and what should i have in mind and pay attention in a project like this?
Thank you so much for your help!
submitted by tmfg10 to AskPhotography [link] [comments]

2023.12.29 21:28 TheMaskedOne2807 The Plague Doctor Chapter 63 (I’m Not Like You)

Other stories by TheMaskedOne2807:The Oil Chapter 1 (Getting Back)
[First] [Previous] [Next] [Wiki]
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“And that is how your body breaks down food, separates the nutrients, and gets rid of waste,” Kenneth finished. “Any questions?”
Aloko rasied his hand and said,” Umm… It’s not so much a question, but I just don’t think I get it.”
“How so?” Kenneth inquired, “Is it the process after the food gets digested by the stomach acid or just before it finally enters your bowels?”
“I just don’t think I understand it?” Aloko shrugged. “I think I’m only getting half of the words you are saying.”
“Only half, you say,” Kenneth mumbled to himself while stroking his chin. “Do you feel the same way, Kica?”
Kica, with a disinterested look, answered. “Everything you’ve taught before I could paint in my mind, but the more you talk, the harder it gets.”
Kenneth mulled it over for a bit as he slowly came to the realization that everything he knew about the functions of the human body was so basic knowledge to him that he hadn’t fully considered that Aloko and Kica wouldn’t get what he was trying to teach.
“I see my mistake,” Kenneth admitted. “I’ve only been telling you and making you try to understand, but it seems I have to teach with a little more material present.”
“Okay next lesson, we are going to need a cadaver to open up. I’ll show you all the internal organs, what they are called, and how they function. It will even be a good opportunity to teach you about organ transplants.”
The two guards, who had barely been listening, glanced at one another as Aloko asked. “What does transplant mean?”
“Oh yes, of course, you wouldn’t know such a word,” Kenneth chuckled at his own stupidity. “Well, it’s quite simple. When you have an organ that isn’t working like your kidneys, then you are going to need a new or you die.”
“So what we do is put you and a doner to sleep cut the doner open, take one of their kidneys, and put it inside the person who needs it.”
Instantly, the room fell silent, and all stared. Some in shock, others in fear, and a very few in confusion.
The one to break the silence was Pilu. “What kind of cruel madness infests you! Taking the insides from others and putting them inside someone else while they are still alive! It’s disgusting! It’s something only a heretic would do!”
“If you feel so strongly about it, I probably shouldn’t mention my kind didn’t stop at organs; we also did hands, arms, and legs,” Kenneth said casually.
Slightly horrified, Kica asked, “Your kind cut off arms and legs and stuck them onto others? What were you trying to do? Make horrid monsters?”
“No, nothing like that,” Kenneth said in protest. “People like me, a doctor. What you call a healer, were just trying to help people. And if you got a dead body with fully intact arms and legs, why not use them.”
“As far as limb transplantation goes, I wouldn’t say it’s that ethically immoral, but it’s very hard to do. Personally, I’d prefer re-attaching one's own libs back onto their body rather than someone else's.”
Kica, Aloko, the two guards, and even Pilu shared looks among one another as though telepathically, they tried to confirm all of them had just heard what they thought they had just heard.
“Kenneth, did you say what I think you just said?” Kica sort of unsure asked. “Can you heal an arm that has been cut off?”
Kenneth thought about it for all of one second before giving an answer. “Well, it’s gonna be difficult to do, re-attaching blood vessels and nerves, but as long as the cut of body part hasn’t started to rot, I suppose I could do it.”
Once more all Aki in the room looked at one another in seeming disbelief. Even Pilu didn’t seem antagonistic for a few moments.
Noticing all the strange looks everyone was sharing, Kenneth felt inclined to ask what it was about. “So, does anyone wanna share with the whole class, or should I just make one of you come up here a whole two steps and tell the entire class and spectators.”
Everyone once more looked at one another, this time in slight confusion, before Aloko said, his voice filled to the brim with astonishment. “Kenneth, you just said you can heal a cut-off arm and leg.”
“So,” Kenneth said, slightly confused.
“I can’t do that!” Kica interjectly exclaimed. “No healer I have heard of has ever succeeded in doing so.”
“Really?” Kenneth questioned with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve seen you work wonders. Healing shallow and deep wounds in seconds, make some awaken from unconsciousness.”
“You are really telling me you can’t just stick an arm and leg back in the right place, healer it, and then it’s as good as new?”
“Teacher, it’s outlawed for healers to even attempt such an act of healing,” Aloko explained. “Any healer could do as you’ve just mentioned, but no one who’s chosen to keep the arm or leg has ever lived for long.”
“Well, what do you know,” Kenneth said, feeling a slight unset of glee and intellectual pride. “Well, next class is certainly going to be a drawn-out one with the things you are going to teach you.”
“So take some time and be well rested for tomorrow.”
Aloko blinked twice in confusion as the words reached his brain. “Next lesson. What about this one?”
“There’s still so much more you can teach.”
“Well, unfortunately, I am going to need to get my hands on a dead animal, which will take time, so instead of just making you wait, I might as well cut class short for now,” Kenneth explained, as a thought crossed his mind.
“However, if you still want to learn, I do actually have one thing I just thought of we can do. And I do hope one of you will be willing to participate.”
With great excitement, Aloko responded, “Yes, anything.”
Kenneth calmly pulled out a needle from the bag and showed it to everyone before explaining what he had in mind. “Well, it’s quite simple, actually. I’m gonna need to know what kind of blood types you have, so I’m going to stick this in and take a bit of blood.”
“At the same time, I can also figure out where your veins are. However, it might take a few tries since that fur of yours gets in the way. ”
“How many times?” Aloko a lot more hesitantly asked.
Kenneth gave a shrug as he reached out for Aloko’s arm. “Ehh… could be one, could be ten. Won’t know until I try.”
“You know what? I’m just going to rest for the next lesson,” Aloko nervously yelped before running out of the room.
“Classic case of trypanophobia,” Kenneth muttered as he put away the syringe, grabbed his bag, and walked out of the room, with Nokstella quickly following after him.
“So, how was your first lesson?” Kenneth asked as both of them exited the great hall.
Nokstella was still quiet, making little if any sound at all as Kenneth led the way through the outpost heading toward Selisio.
Once there, Kenneth knocked on the door twice before entering. Inside, Selisio was standing by the crip and looking down before noticing Kenneth standing in the doorframe.
“Oh… hello Kenneth, what brings you by?” Selisio asked gleefully.
Kenneth walked inside and closed the door behind him. “Well, I always enjoy your company, and I was hoping you might be able to do me a favor?”
Smiling happily, Selisio responded with no hesitation. “Well, of course, anything for you.”
“Great,” Kenneth said, feeling Nokstella standing behind his legs, holding onto the right one. “I heard Hali brings you skins from animals after he cooks. I was just wondering what you normally did with them?”
“Thanks for taking an interest in me,” Selisio responded, smiling sweetly. “But it’s little to no work. A lot don’t even think that it is working at all.”
“I just make sure the skins and furs are cut perfectly. The commander told me they sell better to the merchant when they only have even lines.”
“So you just cut off the unnecessary pieces and nothing else?” Kenneth asked. “If so, it’s kind of a bummer because I was hoping to give her something more practical to wear.”
“Hmm… who?” Selisio curiously questioned before teasingly asking. “You got a lady friend you wanna give a gift to? The time of union is approaching, you know.”
Kenneth took a step to the side, revealing Nokstella for a moment to Selisio. “You can say that, but she is more of a child.”
“Oh my,” Selisio gasped. “Where did you find this little one?”
“I got her from the merchant,” Kenneth answered. “And I was hoping there might be someone who could help me give her something a bit more practical to wear.”
“I see why,” Selisio said as she slowly approached Nokstella. “She’s hardly dressed at all. We can’t have that now.”
“I’m glad you agree. So, do you know anyone who’d be willing to help me?” Kenneth asked.
“No need to ask anyone else,” Selisio said in an oddly reassuring and prideful tone of voice. “It may not be the work I’ve been assigned to do, but I couldn’t call myself a proper woman if I didn’t know how to sew.”
“So you know how to make clothes?”Kenneth asked.
Selisio’s more prideful posture quickly dissipated at the question. “Well… when you say it like that, no, but I do sew up the holes in everyone's clothes… well, all who come asking.”
With thankfulness strewn across his voice, Kenneth said.“If you think you can do it, please go ahead.”
Selisio, seeming gleeful about the prospect, calmly walked closer and eventually kneeled down to greet Nokstella. “Hello, I’m Selisio. What should I call you?”
Nokstella peeked her head a bit to the side as she carefully observed Selisio. Yet even with how calm and friendly she looked, Nokstella still stayed silent.
“You don’t want to talk, little one. Well, you won’t hear any complaining from me,” Selisio said sweetly, tilting her head to the side to meet Nokstella’s eyes. “But I bet you’d like to get out of those filthy, ragged scraps of clothes and put on something a bit more covering.”
For a moment, Nokstella felt the rags with her flat fingers before walking out from behind Kenneth’s leg.
Selisio exstended her hand to Nokstella and said. “I’m going to make you look so pretty.”
Nokstella, a bit hesitantly, reached out her hand as she looked up at Kenneth, whom she, of course, couldn’t read any facial expression from. Yet, nevertheless, she took Selisio’s hand.
“Just this way,” Selisio said as she led Nokstella over toward the back room, walking somewhat hunched over.
Kenneth took a single solitary step before Selisio turned around, stopping Kenneth. “Sorry, but she’s a little girl, so no men allowed. You are a man, right?”
“Well, I have only yelled it in the middle of a crowd a few times,” Kenneth said, rolling his eyes. “But I don’t mind waiting outside the room.”
“That way, Nokstella, you can show off your fine new clothes once they are done.”
Nokstella lowered her head, possibly because of shyness as her scales, identical in color to her mother’s, slightly changed color, becoming a bit lighter, going from light green to very light green if not slightly pale green.
Selisio didn’t seem to notice at all, but Kenneth just watched on in surprise, having never guessed she was able to do that and even wondering if the light was playing tricks on his eyes until they disappeared into the back room.
Knowing it was probably going to take a long time, Kenneth sat down at the nearest wall and thought to himself. ‘I’ve got a lot to learn. I just hope I’m able to handle it.’
For a long time, Kenneth just sat there waiting and thinking about tomorrow's lesson and how, if he wanted to, he had to talk to either Jinki or Hali about borrowing a carcass.
The thought did cross his mind every once in a while to just leave and get it done while Selisio was working. However, every time the prospect became closer to an actual action, Kenneth felt his organs twist in nervousness.
Selisio was probably the kindest and sweetest person in the outpost, and he knew she wouldn’t try and do anything that would hurt Nokstella, and yet her upbringing was a factor Kenneth couldn’t ignore.
As a doctor, Kenneth knew all too well the kind of monster that hid just beneath the surface of a worried expression, fake smile, and friendly words.
Suddenly, the door leading outside the building flew off its hinges, landing with a heavy thud.
Completely shocked, Kenneth jumped to his feet before his eyes landed on a very familiar light brown furred foot.
Letting out a sigh of frustration, Nya said. “Another door. You know you can open them normally.”
Loud and booming as ever, Ulric responded. “it’s faster my way.”
Ulric narrowed his eyes, scanning the room before quickly locating Kenneth half standing with a hand on the ground. “We need to talk.”
Still a bit surprised, Kenneth calmly and fully extended his legs and straightened his back before giving his answer. “Umm… sure.”
“I want an explanation,” Ulric demanded as he calmly walked further into the house, never once breaking eye contact with Kenneth. “Why do you let a heretic walk freely without chains and attack your sworn brother?”
“Oh.. that,” Kenneth said in a calm and serious tone of voice as he crossed his arms. “I didn’t attack anyone. I simply made sure all of them understood what happens when they touch someone they shouldn’t.”
“And as for the chains, I told Nya as much yesterday. She’s just a child.”
“A child that heretic may be, but that makes her no less of a heretic,” Nya interjected. “Your pity is kind but misplaced. And a heretic without chains will yearn for evil more than freedom.”
“The chains are needed.”
Kenneth calmly turned his head and looked at Nya through the cracked glass in his mask. “Of course, you’d say that.”
“Regardless of the chains, a more important matter regarding the heretic is your insistence on making them a student,” Ulric said in his booming voice. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t think this is treachery.”
“Treachery?” Kenneth repeated as his eyebrow twitched. “One action and you suddenly calling me a traitor regardless of all I’ve done, endured, and MOVED PASSED.”
“Hmph… you’ve done much. No one is denying you that,” Ulric agreed. “Healing the burning death all by oneself in such a short time as you did. Such a feat will no doubt bestow you with the title of great healer.”
“However, this doesn’t change anything regarding the heretic, even if it’s only small. Your actions are suspicious and borders on the line of treachery.”
“Are you truly such a bigot that you haven’t even considered another reason for why I’m doing what I’ve done?” Kenneth asked.
“Enlighten us then,” Nya demanded. “Tell us your reasoning.”
Ulric banged the bottom of his spear against the wooden floor. “The truth has better be worthwhile; otherwise, things will change.”
Kenneth closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself as much as he could before reaching behind his head and opening up the zipper.
He hated taking off the mask and dawning the invisible one of neutrality. Yet what he needed to say was too important for Ulric to have any doubts if he was lying.
With a neutral gaze on Ulric, boarding on cold, Kenneth gave his response. “I’m. Not. Like. You.”
“I don’t hate the Nok and Sil, not as you do. When I saw the slaves in chains, I didn’t think, evil heretics. I don’t view them as heretic at all. To me, they are just people. People no different from you or I.”
Ulric tightened his grip on his spear and grinded his teeth as he let out a low growl. “YOU DARE! You dare say these heretics and us are the same!”
“They are nothing but evil monsters who started this war four hundred years ago and have killed countless in that time!”
“And how do you know they started this war?” Kenneth questioned. “Did you learn that from books that say as much or people who read those books and accepted them as fact?”
“You are really going to say that!” Nya interjected. “You saw what they did to my outpost, and it’s people! How can you not see them as evil monsters!”
“And Jinki led and sneak attack on a group of hunters who were only trying to bring back food to another outpost,” Kenneth countered. “How long must that outpost have waited before realizing they weren’t coming back? And how long did they mourn them?”
“I finally understand,” Ulric growled. “That heretic! That PARASITE! It’s poisoned your mind with its foul magic. Making you believe those words.”
“Otherwise I know you wouldn’t be this disloyal to the Aki course. To Akina. Not after you honored her so much and this outpost.”
“When are you going to get it through your thick head? I’m not like you,” Kenneth persisted. “She’s just a child, one that I would not let be in chains any longer. I didn’t care if she was a Nok or Sil; I would have done the same regardless.”
“And saying she was my student was just an excuse so I could keep her safe as much as possible. And from the way both of you are acting, I’m more certain than ever it was the right choice.”
Barely containing his anger, Ulric opened his mouth, “Are you--"
“Hold it!” Nya suddenly yelled as she loudly sniffed the air. “This is bad.”
“What is it?!” Ulric quickly asked.
Her hearths beating as fast as that day, Nya answered. “Smoke.”
A moment later, a distant yell could be heard all over the outpost, one that was echoed by others the moment it was heard. “BURN RUNNERS!!! ENEMY ATTACK!!!”
With nary a thought to the current situation, Ulric and Nya rushed out of the house.
A moment later, Selisio peeked her head out the door. “Are they gone?”
“Yes,” Kenneth replied as he quickly put the mask back on.
“I knew it must have been the commander when I heard the door fall,” Selisio said as she fully opened the door.
Hearing the shouting from outside, Kenneth knew what he had to do, but before he did, he looked back at Selisio. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m no fighter,” Selisio answered, shaking her head. “I’ll stay here and keep her safe for you.”
“Thank you. I’m going to… I’m trusting you to keep her safe then,” Kenneth said feeling conflicted as he noticed Selisio’s hand slightly quiver. “For now, I’ll tend to whatever wounded there are.”
---
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submitted by TheMaskedOne2807 to HFY [link] [comments]

2023.11.19 22:45 khaliltegee NorCal Culture: San Jose aka Shark City🦈! SJ is known for their Chicano/Chicana culture(King & Story Rd), San Jose Sharks , Vietnamese culture & etc . As always, much love to NorCal 🤙🏽

NorCal Culture: San Jose aka Shark City🦈! SJ is known for their Chicano/Chicana culture(King & Story Rd), San Jose Sharks , Vietnamese culture & etc . As always, much love to NorCal 🤙🏽
  1. King & Story , a historical area that show’s & highlights the Chicana/Chicano culture! This pic was a March during the early 1970’s.
  2. Sons of Samoa 🇼🇸🇦🇸, SOS is located on the Eastside ! They have been in SJ since the mid to late 1980’s & are still there today. Making them the biggest Polynesian hood there
  3. San Jose Sharks, SJ’s most beloved sports team! This is the only major sports team in the city. Always had fire gear!
  4. 7 Trees GC, this might be most well known Black hood in SJ. Seven Trees is a neighborhood in SJ.
  5. ABZ, Poco Ways Crip & Vietnamese Boyz, San Jose has one of the largest Vietnamese populations in Cali. Little Saigon in SJ is one of the biggest in the world. 🇻🇳
  6. Varrio Norte Pride, many Norte hoods in SJ. I’m not to knowledgeable on them though
submitted by khaliltegee to CaliConnection [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:17 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to TalesOfDarkness [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:16 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to stayawake [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:16 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to spooky_stories [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:15 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to SignalHorrorFiction [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:15 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to RedditHorrorStories [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:15 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to Nonsleep [link] [comments]

2023.10.24 05:14 Erutious Fraziers Fall- Lost Altar

The Boy hated to see his father in such a state, but there was nothing for it.
His Daddy was sitting on the porch with the heavy jug of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby as he looked out hopelessly at the dying crops in the field. It was his bounty and his shame. It hadn't been his fault, but he had only himself to blame. The Boy was blameless in all this, but that didn't change the fact that he, too, would suffer.
He was an unwilling passenger on this ride, though he didn't think his father knew that he knew that.
His crops had been planted a little too early, a slight oversight on his father's part, but he believed it would be fine. "The almanac says it should be okay," he had said with a shrug as if to remind himself that the seeds were already in the ground so there was nothing for it now. What would be would be, and what was unfortunately was.
The rains that had fallen three weeks later hadn't been in the Almanac either.
The August rains had been heavy that year, coming down constantly for nearly a week, and they had saturated the earth too much. You would say that water would be a good thing, the boy had thought his daddy would be happy for the rain, but he had spent most of his days watching the rain and drinking sourly. Daddy wasn't like some of his friend's fathers. They got drunk and beat his friends. They got drunk and they got mean. Daddy didn't do that, though.
When Daddy drank, he got sad.
He sat quietly on the porch and looked at the swollen and rotten vegetables as they bloated in the field, bloated as the tears that rolled down his face and pattered to his shirt.
When the crops had begun to grow despite the heavy rainfall, Daddy had been hopeful. Maybe the crops would be okay, Maybe the corn and beans and tomatoes and such would come in after all and the money they made would be enough to pay off the tax man so they could keep their land for another year. Daddy would still have to go back to the mill, of course, but maybe this would be the year that he could cut his hours down to part-time and spend more time doing something he loved, like tilling the land.
But when it began to grow, Daddy's hopes had begun to rot on the vine as well.
The vegetables looked rotten, their skin discolored and spotted, and most of it proved inedible. Daddy's friends had told him he'd have to rip it all out and plant again. The ground was fertile, rain-fed, and would grow new crops if he planted them. He would have to do it right away, he couldn't waste any time, because if he waited even a little bit he wouldn't be able to harvest them before winter came.
His Daddy, however, had fallen into despair.
He had been like this since last winter.
He had been like this since momma had taken ill and passed in mid-December.
The Boy didn't like to think about time. Momma had been their rock, and without her, Daddy had seemed lost and unable to find his path. He tried to farm, tried to work, tried to bring things back to normal, but then he would find something of hers that he had missed and would fall into a powerful sadness all over again. The crops were just the newest element of his sadness. Momma had loved the farm and had loved to grow things. Often while Daddy was working in the Mill, The Boy and his mother would go to the fields and tend to the crops. The money they brought in helped the family, and Momma liked to be of help to Daddy.
The Boy wished she were here now.
Daddy could use a help now more than he had ever needed one before.
Daddy could use a help that The Boy might be able to give him.
As Daddy sat on the porch and wept, The Boy set out to get him that help.
He had a name, as most people do, but he had come to think of himself as The Boy over the past year since his mother's death. His daddy had stopped calling him by it, just calling him Boy or The Boy when he spoke about him. Sometimes The Boy sat by himself and whispered his own name to himself, touching his lips as the name sounded foreign to his ears and made them tingle with each repetition. Sometimes when he went to school his teacher would call his name three or four times before he would remember that it belonged to him. Sometimes it felt like the boy who owned that name was a different person, a person who had died along with his mother, and his father was the only one who realized it.
The Boy walked into the woods behind the farmhouse without fear, wanting only to be done with this task so that Daddy might be happy again, so that he would stop crying and begin acting like himself. In the depths of his heart, he somehow believed that if his father wasn't sad then his mother would come back from Heaven or wherever and they could all be happy again.
He was old enough to know better, but the heart has a way of tricking us into being hopeful.
He was old enough to know that magic wasn't real, but the presence of the altar was something that flew in the face of that knowledge.
The altar was something that he had discovered after his mother had died. He had spent a winter in the house with the wraith his father had become. He had found excuses to be out of the house, his father standing at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the fields much as he had when the rain had started. The Boy often felt that he was living in a haunted house, and The Boy had begun exploring the woods in a way he hadn't since he was very young. His father was disinterested in the chores that had once been a rude clock for the both of them, and The Boy found he had time for activities he had once discarded.
He was walking the skeletal trails of the January woods when he first found the Altar.
It was in a part of the woods that he had never come to before, a part too far for him to come to comfortably justify going to often. It was over a mile from the farm and The Boy didn't dare go too far lest he be missed. Now that there was no one to miss him, however, The Boy found that he had time to range farther than ever before. He had fled from it at first, hearing the strange voices that shivered against him like a winter breeze, but he found he returned there more often as the voices whispered for him to come and see. The voices led him to a strange collection of stones, something not formed by any tectonic movement that he was aware of. The shapes had been wrought by the hands of a madman, and the angels were rude and mesmerizing.
Inside the altar was a tiny house, a small cottage with windows that seemed to glow if he looked at it. It was all nestled within a grove of skeletal vines and thorny branches. The Boy had ducked beneath them carefully, not wanting to get pricked, and it almost appeared that someone had been trying to hide it behind all that spikey greenery.
The whispery voices had cheered him on every step of the way, and as he finally stood before the beautiful monstrosity, he heard them clearly for the first time. They told him they were the remnants of a forgotten religion, a shrine to a misplaced deity, and with The Boys' help, they could be again. The Boy listened, the boy absorbed their words, and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. He returned many times that winter, cutting back the vines and cleaning up the altar as he tried to make the space holy once more. The Boy had never been religious before, his parents had attended church but none of them had been what anyone would call devout, but as the voice washed over him, he felt seen and important in a way he never had before.
He spent a lot of time at the altar listening to the voice, hearing the history of the forgotten God it represented. They told of a strange place, a place outside of time, and a place where the Green Man did battle with the Pale Lady, his eternal enemy. The two were locked in a struggle as old as time itself, and would likely be intertwined until the universe itself collapsed. The Boy found that he liked listening to their stories, leaning his head against the altar and feeling the vibrations in his bones.
Once spring came, however, his father needed him in the field and he was able to spend less and less time in the woods. He still maintained the altar and still visited when he could find time, but he was lucky to get to the spot once or twice a week. The voices thanked him for helping them, and The Boy continued to listen to their history. He heard about places strange and foreign, and his mind was opened to the possibility of something beyond his simple town and simple life. His family had existed in Frazier for generations, the farm they owned had been his great great great grandfather's reward for surviving the Civil War and being allowed to return home mostly whole. None of them had ever gone far from the farm. His father had a brother who had gone to college, a brother who lived far away and rarely visited, but most of the family lived close and rarely went beyond the borders of their own farms.
Suddenly, The Boy longed to see these places.
Fortunately, the voices told him how it could be.
Unfortunately, The Boy knew that he couldn't leave his father right now, no matter what the voices said. His daddy had just lost momma, and The Boy often found himself cooking for him so he would eat. His father might very well waste away without him. He wanted to go, but he was torn between the unknown and the real tragedy of watching his father suffer.
The voice had assured him that there was time, that they would be here when the time was right, and promised The Boy a boon for his efforts.
"When the time is right, we will grant you anything your heart desires, but only when you are ready to give yourself fully to our cause."
The Boy had noticed that the voice was not as strong as it had been when spring came around, and in Summer it was little more than a whisper. The growth around the altar came back stronger in the hot months, sometimes growing back overnight, and The Boy had to be diligent to keep it cut back. He didn't mind, the altar had become his joy in life, and he longed for the times he spent there. The stones told him how they appreciated his tending of them, and as summer wained and Fall began, the voices built in strength again. That was good because The Boy had been worried that something had happened to it. As it came back to life after the end of the hot months, it began telling him again how he could have his reward, and more, if only he would take his place at the side of the Green.
The Boy had resisted, but after watching his father suffer, he felt he was ready to accept his boone.
As The Boy came upon the glen where the altar lay, he knew now that the time had come.
The voices welcomed him, and rejoiced at his return, and when he made his request, they asked if that was all?
"Yes," The Boy told them, "I just want my Daddy to be happy again. I want his crops to grow, I want him to feel hopeful, I want him to stop crying. Please," he begged before that alien receptacle, "Make my Daddy happy, and I will help you in whatever it is you need."
The voices chattered amongst themselves, and when they returned they agreed to help the boy.
They agreed and they gave him a token to wear, a token of their Lord's favor.
"Put it on and come with us, for there is much preparation to make."
As the gourd slid over his head, The Boy was at peace.
As His voice filled his head, The Boy forgot his name in truth and became a vessel for the Green.
 * * * * *
Daniel Mossel awoke the next morning to find that a miracle had happened as he slept.
He stretched the ache from his muscles, the cost of sleeping on the porch in late September, and discovered that the bloated and worthless vegetables that would likely make up his late-season crop had been replaced by hail and hearty plants that would likely survive the depths of winter. Corn so crips you could taste it with your eyes, beans hearty enough to grace a dozen tables, squash and yams and potatoes and things he didn't even remember planting and all of it ripe and ready for harvest.
He had been as amazed as The Boy had been, but as he set to picking, something seemed wrong. Someone should be here with him, someone should be helping him with these vegetables, but he couldn't think who. His mind immediately went to his wife, but she couldn't help him now. She was dead, had been dead for half a year and more, and it had only ever been the two of them. He wished he had a son to help him now, a son to carry his legacy when he was bones in the ground as well, but wishful thinking would no more make him a son than it would bring this harvest in, and Daniel set to the job with gusto.
He was already counting the money that Wane Howser would hand him at the Farmer Market after her loosed his long, low whistle at the sight of all that gleaming produce in the back of his truck.
From the edge of the field, The Boy looked on through the diamonds of his new eyes. He smiled beneath his pumpkin head, the coquetish mouth turned up in a stitched-on smile. His father was happy, happier than he had been in a long time, and he would be happy for the rest of his days. The Green Man would see to his happiness now, The Boy was certain of that, and when the voices called him back to the woods, The Boy went without hesitation.
Fall was already upon them and Winter would be there before they knew it.
It was time to get started.
The Green would be served, and the Green Man would be honored.
This would be a Halloween that Frazier would never forget.
submitted by Erutious to MecThology [link] [comments]

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