A paragraph in cursive

I'd like to possibly go against the grain here and reveal little to nothing about myself. An odd start you may say; after all without describing my interests and hobbies how are you to know whether we'd be appropriate penpals/keyboardchums? In my eyes though that leaves little to no mystery and no opportunity to discover new pursuits. It does run the risk of discovering after a month of e-mails that we have utterly nothing in common and we've just been wasting one another's time by trying to hold back the urge to type out in all caps "Use a bloody full stop! Sentences don't have to 3 miles long!". But you see I'm a risk taker and willing to play the game. As you will no doubt see by the end of this lengthy inane rambling quaint post, full stops aren't welcome on my property.
What am I looking for? Other than a hole under the hill, a babbling brook and the scent of lavender in the air? Affordable mortgages, food that hasn't lost 50% of its nutritional value over the past century, for the lovely old lady at lunch to stop giving me the evil glare and finally forgive me for dropping the gravy jug a year go, a climate that isn't progressively getting worse, for cats to just be honest and open with their feelings and explain that whilst they love the head scratches they're focusing on themselves right now and aren't looking for anything serious...sorry I've gone off on a tangent. In essence though, that is what I'm looking for. I want us to exchange messages and e-mails where we just talk about everything and anything. None of this "Hey, how's your day been so far?" small talk; in this economy who can afford that? Just dive straight into the meaty part of the conversation. I want your first message to be 12 paragraphs long explaining how you're pretty certain that your next door neighbour has been stealing honey from your hives and how you've concocted a Machiavellian scheme to get the bees to shun their garden and not pollinate any of their flowers. We then go into detailed discussion about how best to convince the bees to get on board and whether the best approach is via bribery, sabotage or simply dressing up as the queen bee and loudly declaring that your neighbour's garden is rather uncouth and shaming them in polite 18th century society.
Perhaps instead you've been delving into Victorian era literature and have fallen in love with how the countryside was described and how simple life seemed; toiling the land, milking cows, putting on our prettiest petticoats on Sundays and occasionally exclaiming "Oh Mr Darcy!" every few minutes. Ignoring of course the rampant inequality, lack of rights for the majority of the population, high mortality rates and child labour. This leads to a discussion about how modern authors just don't seem to be capable of capturing the same imagery any more. Which in turns leads to a theory that authors are paid off by local councils to not describe the leafy suburbs and rolling countryside hills in too greater detail as otherwise the population would rise up en-masse each time new planning permission is granted for hundreds of new builds that will be bought up by financial institutions to be let out at exorbitant rates.
As you may have noticed, I may have a theme in my writing. You may be quick to judge and accuse me of complaining a lot, and though I'd agree I much prefer the term "having a grumble". In truth though, is that not what we all need? Someone with whom we can talk about the smallest day to day annoyances we go through. Someone to whom we can explain our dissatisfaction with life. A grumble grouse. A moan associate. A clamour crony. A...ok thesaurus, in what world is "rap" a strong match for complain? And squawk? Making a high-pitched animal-like sound? That's just a personal attack.
Anyway, tl;dr as I think I've slightly lost the plot and honestly the bread I have in the oven smells like it's burning (or I'm about to have a stroke in which case this won't necessarily get posted, so if it does you know I'm the type of person to ignore the tell-tale signs of a medical conditions because they're too focused on the task at hand to check if in fact the bread is burning)(and that I'm the type of person who prefers long-winded run on sentences rather than getting to the point, despite coyly stating this was a tl;dr).
tl;dr I'm someone who likes to read and write a lot looking for someone or somebodies to exchange long winded paragraphs where we talk about life, problems, whether it's unbecoming to pop an entire poached egg in your mouth and swallow it whole like a pelican, and slowly talk about our interests and hobbies. We've all got our own busy lives and some of us have nefarious schemes involving bumblebees to devise, so something slow and steady would be lovely. The odd message here and there until we get to know one another better, and if you're local (and willing to provide an alibi for any future bee-based shenanigans) then blossoming into friendship as well. It should go without saying, but I'm in a happy relationship (even if I'm not allowed to grumble all the time) so I am looking only for friendship. I'd also prefer it if you were also around your 30s, more so for your own enjoyment as I don't envisage that the kids today want to talk about how MSN messenger was the peak of humanity and every form of communication since has been a hollow copy. Sure Facebook had the poke but nothing quite got someone's attention like a nudge. I'm happy with e-mail or Reddit message, I'd offer snail-mail as well (and even have various moon and animal themed stickers) though I warn you that my handwriting is akin to that of a drunk spider. But not one of those old spiders who laments how no one writes in cursive any more, but rather a young spider who Snapchats and performs burn-outs in the car parks in its Ford Fiesta to the amusement of its other young spider friends.
tl;dr Me like write and read, you also like write and read. Me you type long message, send each other. Me you friends, not food.

Wanted to make it DT post, but it's cancerous to clean up so regular post it is. With this election Croatia enters year long election season. There's EU Parliament election in June, Presidential elections at the end of the year and local elections in spring of 2025.
This Wednesday 17.04. parliamentary elections will be held in Croatia, so this post is a TLDR guide to important contesters, context and possible outcomes by 1 ar neoliberal member with his biases, cognitive limits etc. I will write first paragraph as basic introduction and additional context in cursive for those who want to know more.
Croatia is parliamentary republic meaning prime minister and parliamentary majority hold most of decision-making power. President has limited authority over ambassadors, military, security services and several appointees. Electoral system consists of 10 electoral units each electing 14 representatives and 2 special districts with 3 seats elected by Croats living abroad (Mostly BiH Croats) and 8 seats elected by minorities meaning majority needs 76 out of 151 seats. Threshold is 5% and seats asigned according to D'Hondt.
Polls referenced here are unreliable meaning rough popularity can be trusted, but seats can diverge significantly (+-5). Polls close at 7pm when we’ll get first exit poll results which are mostly correct so we could know what the new government or potential hung parliament will look like. I’ll probably ping to this thread with results update wednesday evening.
Main parties
There are 2 main parties contesting elections around which post-election coalitions will later be formed.

1. HDZ/CDU (Croatian Democratic Union): Conservative, pro EU, Pro NATO, pro Ukraine, pro immigration, fiscally conservative, mixed towards market and privatisations, mostly status quo supporters in matters of reform of territorial administration, judiciary, has history of liberalisation of various services markets, liberalisation of immigration etc., socially… I guess tolerant, pro nuclear. Projected to win between 55-63 seats. I'll refer to them as CDU onwards.

*Nota bene: Pro Nuclear refers to potential joint project with Slovenia of 2nd block of NPP Krsko where Croatia and Slovenia already operate 1 block.
Party that has had parliamentary majority under it’s current PM Plenkovic for 8 years, now seeking it’s 3rd term. Accomplishments made during last 8 years they highlight are: entry into Eurozone, Schengen, increase in development from 62% of EU average to 76% by PPS, low unemployment and in general they believe strong economy. Functional government that operates well as seen by Croatia withdrawing 2nd highest percentage of EU’s RRP funds from Next Gen EU program as well as strong support for Ukraine.
Their weakness are that Plenkovic is much like Mitsotakis from Greece in my opinion. Politician who has at the least enabled systemic corruption. Over the last 8 years, 30 ministers have resigned or were arrested at their positions, by far most of whom due to corruption scandals. That number doesn’t include various SOE party appointed cadre, or lower level officials that had corruption scandals as well. Recently they appointed as state attorney party aligned man with serious corruption links. Think of it as if Trump appointed Giuliani to lead DOJ. Media freedoms have been curtailed by SLAP and attempts to legislate away leaking of corruption investigation materiel. High inflation and housing price surge along with corruption were main criticisms by opposition. Corruption goes under EU radar because he’s not Orban like disruptor on EU level. They have very low coalition potential as 3 of 4 other major parties have pledged not to work with them.

1. SDP (Social Democratic Party): It’s debatable what to write here as party has different opinions compared to current President of the Republic Zoran Milanovic who’s poised to take over as PM and resign his presidential position if SDP led coalition attains majority. It’s my opinion that if they assemble majority, the party will fall in line behind his positions. Projected to win around 45 seats

Rank and file: progressive, Pro EU, pro NATO, pro Ukraine, softly pro-immigration, fiscally mixed, mixed towards market and privatisations, reformist towards territorial administration, socially progressive, pro nuclear.
Milanovic: soft Eurosceptic, soft NATOist, softly pro-immigration, anti-refugee, pro-Russian, mix of nationalist and socially progressive stances.
Party leader Grbin turned out uncharismatic and party itself has been in relative background compared to their glory days in 2000s. Low poll support causing infighting who and what to change. After their last stint in power ending in 2015, Green ‘’We can ‘’ party has taken some of their voters. Their only upside was Milanovic returning to politics and winning presidency back in 2020. Milanovic was most vocal opposition figure against CDU, frequently speaking out against their corruption, nepotism etc. garnering sympathies from right wing for his vulgar language, nationalism towards BiH, anti-refugee rhetoric, isolationism and protectionism, war crimes relativisation. He said he’ll try to create national salvation (from CDU corruption) government including right and far right parties and resign his position as president. That caused poll upturn for the party. Potential coalition partners include Greens in one scenario or right and far right parties in 2nd scenario.
Smaller parties

1. Homeland movement (HM): Far right, nationalist, socially conservative, protectionist, isolationist, ‘’anti-globalist’’, anti-refugee, (softly) pro-immigration, Eurosceptic, pro NATO, softly pro Ukraine, serbophobic, Catholicism, pro nuclear. Projected to win around 15 seats. Can go both SDP and CDU while refusing cooperation with Greens.

Party formed from CDU right wing exiles 4 years ago. Their rhetoric mostly concerns with globalist, EU institutions imposing ideology, importing and brainwashing people into thinking they are gay, how Serbian minority representative Pupovac is a root of all evil, how majority demographics is oppressed, how catholics are oppressed, big import lobbies destroying fair, hardworking domestic farmers, manufacturing etc., how paramilitary fascist militia from 90s war are heroes and need to be treated as such etc.

1. MOST (Bridge): Right wing. Think of them as Croatian GOP under Trump. It’s big tent party that has some radical right wingers as well as some moderate conservatives, while mostly being solidly right wing. Soft Eurosceptic, were opponents of Euro introduction, covid vaccine, mesures conspiracies/opponents, pro NATO, softly pro Ukraine, anti-immigrant, anti-refugee, homophobic, ‘’they’ll make you eat insects, trans women in bathrooms, LGBT lobby'' type of rethoric, strong connection to Croat nationalist politicians in BiH, pro nuclear, pro natural gas, standard speech about free markets while still having broad range of defined strategic industries and protectionist inclinations. Projected to win around 10 seats. Lean SDP, exclude CDU and Greens as options.

Used to be big tent party oriented towards administrative and territorial reform, judiciary reform etc. Entered into coalition with CDU in 2016 so the party split with only right wingers remaining. Entered 2nd coalition with CDU in 2017. that lasted for a few months. Now they present themselves as non-corrupt conservative option and bash homeland movement as CDU stooges connected to tycoons. Say they’ve proved their uncorruptivnes by toppling 2 CDU governments. They promise not to cooperate with CDU thrid time. The difference between them and far right Homeland movement other than coalition partners is that they are mostly based in Dalmatia region of Croatia, see Bosniaks as main foreign enemy and Bosnian Serbs as quiet allies. While Homeland movement sees Serbs as the biggest enemies and are mostly based in Slavonia region. (Quiet) Irredentism/Imperialism towards BiH is their main FoPo priority.

1. Greens (We Can): Left. Green party of social democratic kind, more similar to German Greens than other, more radical, green options in Europe. Pro EU, pro NATO, softly pro Ukraine, pro-refugee, pro-immigration, (nominally) pro nuclear (‘’Yes we do want nuclear it’s just that we want broad consultations with every actor and party concerned, with broad consensus…’’ you get the point), socially progressive, put emphasis on inclusive growth, gender parity, LGBT acceptance, anti-corruption, climate mitigation etc. Statist economics, regulation and social programs. Will only support center towards left parties in government. Projected to win around 10 seats.

High point was winning outright majority in capital Zagreb during last local elections in 2021. Since then, they’ve declined in polls from around 13% down to around 9%. Party lacks broad base outside from major urban areas. During their time in capital Zagreb they’ve focused on lowering city debt, public transport revitalisation, brownfield revitalisation, transparency, depolitisation of SOE cadres, climate change mitigation etc.
Where are liberals?
In 2017 largest socialy liberal party HNS formed government with conservative CDU which caused split and eventual political death of the party same as in 2000s when largest socially liberal party HSLS joined Soc dems which caused their de facto death. Liberal scene is now compromised of smaller local and regional parties with some claiming that CDU-s center shift makes them the liberal party on Croatian political scene. They’ve had first woman PM, first woman president and first (not extra openly) gay minister. To put this aside, there’s no major liberal party contesting this elections.
There are 4 significant liberal parties.

1. Center: Party of major from 2nd largest city in Croatia, Split. They are on the same list as soc dem SDP and are projected to make it into parliament. Social liberals
2. IDS: regional legacy liberal party from Istra peninsula. Will most likely win 2 seats and lean SDP coalition. Social liberals
3. Platform North: Regional party from Medimurje region on the northern tip projected to win a seat. Can go both conservative or SocDem. Social liberals
4. Fokus. Party mostly made of majors from satellite towns around capital Zagreb. More libertarian liberals who emphasize small government, tax cuts, market-oriented reforms and transparency rather than broad government institution or corporate governance building by non-corrupt people that other 3 liberal parties lean towards. Are projected to win 1 seat, but can go up to 3 as they are around 1% short of making it past the threshold in 2 more electoral districts.

As it currently stands there are few post election scenarios.
1.CDU + HM + Minority 8 + Platform North = As HM is in bad relations with minorities someone might drop out or HM could split with remnants joining CDU having enough votes to form majority.

1. SDP + HM+ MOST + Minorities= SDP and probably Milanovic led ‘’national salvation’’ government. Probably nightmare scenario for this sub as that could result in Croatia joining obstructionist Orban block in EU.
   
2. Repeat elections
   
3. Progressive liberal - soc dem - green government? As much of a chance as EU-US FTA this year.
   

To finish this long post and not complicate further, the biggest decider will be how much seats can CDU win. If they win around 60 seats they can collect enough votes from small regional parties, retiree interest parties or potentially fallout from other parties. This will also determine balance of power in any future coalition.

I had heard you could request to see them and got curious only to find that I can see 20 or so deceased family members (mostly from the early 1900s) patriarchal blessings.
Apparently, it's been the choice generation since 1908. I only fully read through 2 since most of them were written in faded and very sloppy cursive, but it was interesting to see the differences. The ones I looked at were only a page long and all of them started off with "name" born of "parents' names" in "birth city" on "date of birth"
It felt a lot more generic even though the two I read were very different. One was from 1930 and 60% of it was just them saying how faithful the person had been up to that point with a long list of all the things they had done like getting baptized. Then a single paragraph with a very direct list of blessings and telling them to continue serving God. The other one was from 1959 and said all obstacles would be removed from their path as they strived to be righteous and that they would be warned before they were given trials. Ending with a "be diligent in gathering together records of thy ancestors"
Overall I'm just curious if you can now see a lot more of the old blessings as well as what other similarities they have. Does anyone know when they stopped doing the generic start of the blessing?

Hmolpedia (14 Feb A67/2022) history of the alphabet article:

In linguistics, history of the alphabet (LH:1) refers to the chronology development of letters, as seen in the Greek alphabet, Hebrew alphabet, and modern alphabet, which derive from Egyptian hieroglyphs and their aqua-centric cosmology defined therein.

Wikipedia history of the alphabet (5 Apr A69/2024) article:

The history of the alphabet goes back to the consonantal writing system used to write Semitic languages in the Levant during the 2nd millennium BCE. Nearly all alphabetic scripts used throughout the world today ultimately go back to this Semitic script.[1] Its first origins can be traced back to a Proto-Sinaitic script developed in Ancient Egypt to represent the language of Semitic-speaking workers and slaves in Egypt.[2]

Now, in regard to this premise of Semitic “slaves” inventing the alphabet, a theory initiated by Alan Gardiner, in his “Egyptian Origin of the Semitic Alphabet” (39A/1916), which is amounts to the mythical Biblical narrative, i.e. the Israelites being in bondage for 500-years (430-years in Babylon and 70-years in Egypt), sold repackaged as modern history, on 15 Nov A68 (2023), I was called “classist“ and ”racist” for objecting the theory that slave workers were behind the invention of the alphabet letters.
Wikipedia continued:

Unskilled in the complex hieroglyphic system used to write the Egyptian language, which required a large number of pictograms, they selected a small number of those commonly seen in their surroundings to describe the sounds, as opposed to the semantic values, of their own Canaanite language.[3][4] This script was partly influenced by the older Egyptian hieratic, a cursive script related to Egyptian hieroglyphs.[5][6] The Semitic alphabet became the ancestor of multiple writing systems across the Middle East, Europe, northern Africa, and Pakistan, mainly through Ancient South Arabian,[7] Phoenician and the closely related Paleo-Hebrew alphabet, and later Aramaic (derived from the Phoenician alphabet) and the Nabatean—derived from the Aramaic alphabet and developed into the Arabic alphabet—five closely related members of the Semitic family of scripts that were in use during the early first millennium BCE.

In this last paragraph, we see “Jewish”, as: Canaanite language, Semitic alphabet, Paleo-Hebrew alphabet, Semitic family, mentioned 4 times, which amounts to the creation of a conceptual Old Testament model of alphabet origin, coated with a false linguistic coded veneer.
External links

• History of the alphabet - Hmolpedia A67.
• History of the alphabet - Wikipedia.

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I don't like self diagnosing myself, but i have struggled with this my whole life and I feel like l finally have an answer. This is why i had to drop out of school. I've already been to to multiple psychologists for this all the way back to when i was 12 and the best aswer I got was 'it could be low muscle tone'. I physically struggle to write more than a few words at a time without my hand locking up from cramps and feeling like im gonna throw up, and whenever I've told people I physically can't write they look at me like im an idiot. Whenever I have managed to write even a page it would take me an hour, and be 50% scribbling out misspelt words, which teachers used to give me so much shit for because between the scribbled words, the random capitalisation, words with no space between, and random cursive starting halfway between words, my 1 paragraph i could churn out in an hour just seemed like a joke, and I always agreed. It was so embarrassing, and completely ruined my school life, and i left as soon as i could because i was sick of embarrassing myself because i know im not dumb but i never submitted ANY work because i just could not bear the physical and mental pain of writing. I still struggle so hard with it but at least i feel validated now.

Really need some help.. I'm designing a book with a lot of pages.
I work with paragraph style, but is there any way that makes it easier to select multiple text that needs to be cursive? I copy and pasted the text in my document. Now the thing is, this text contains a lot of quotes, sources etc "inside of the body text" that need to be in cursive.
It really is a hassle to have to find al the cursive words in the original text, then find them in my document, and then select them one by one and change them to cursive.
Does anyone have any tips? Or is this just the only way?

Not sure if there’s any correlation (prob not) but my writing bothers me because I write in semi-cursive/cursive for like a paragraph and then switch back to regular writing and so on, and it looks super messy but I can’t help it. Have been doing that most of my life and I just always wondered about that.

I bet you know how I've gone about this one... Not only am I quite shocked by the ability of ChatGPT to just produce a blog post for me, I can literally right click on say a paragraph and opt to dumb it down, or flesh it out or tell it to change "tone" among other things.
And yet Literally Literally struggling to change the font or format of the AI generated pages. smh.
In a world where technology continues to advance at an unprecedented pace, artificial intelligence (AI) has transcended its traditional roles in data analysis and automation to venture into the realm of creativity. One such captivating merger is the fusion of AI and fiction writing. As algorithms evolve and machine learning models become more sophisticated, writers are exploring the possibilities of AI as a tool to enhance, inspire, and even collaborate on storytelling.
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1. AI as a Creative Muse:

AI is not here to replace human imagination but rather to amplify it. Definitely sounds like something a love-bombing AI overload would say... Writers can utilize AI to generate creative sparks and overcome the infamous writer's block. AI algorithms, such as OpenAI's GPT-3, can provide unique prompts, suggest plot twists, or even help brainstorm character development. The collaboration between human creativity and AI capabilities has the potential to elevate storytelling to new heights.
A recent Podcast (that featured my brother), made a very good point that many of the above functions were available before AI, but by far the biggest difference is the data-set that AI will base these things on, e.g. potentially being able to match your draft with all the other works stored away in its database - rather than say a random prompt.
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1. Automated Content Creation:

AI has demonstrated its ability to generate coherent and contextually relevant text. This has led to the development of tools that can assist writers in drafting initial ideas or even entire paragraphs. While some may argue that this diminishes the human touch, others see it as a valuable time-saving mechanism, allowing writers to focus on the nuances of their narrative rather than struggling with the initial drafting process.
This is possibly by far on of the biggest impact on writers. Creating a novel can already take months upon years simply to craft the wordcount (let alone the editing). Something that ChatGPT (forgive me in advance if I get the last 3 letters wrong constantly) will 100% undermine is a writers practise. Of course the temptation will be ever present to generate drafts, but its hard to overstate how practice writers will lose from this. (now I know I sound a bit of a curmudgeon it's not that I think writers will go 'soft' its that they will undermine their own processes potentially)
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1. Customized Writing Assistants:

Imagine having a personal writing assistant that understands your style, preferences, and the intricacies of your ongoing story. AI can be trained to recognize and emulate an author's unique voice, making suggestions that align seamlessly with the established tone and atmosphere of the narrative. This personalized touch can contribute to a more consistent and engaging storytelling experience.
Yikes - see above. I strongly suspect that this will become a very hot topic in future, e.g. there are for sure going to be authors exposed and shamed for using AI - it's going to be a bit like steroids in sports I suspect.
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1. Genre Exploration and Innovation:

AI's ability to process vast amounts of data enables it to analyze trends in literature, identifying patterns and preferences within different genres. This analytical power can inspire writers to explore new ideas, subvert traditional tropes, or even create entirely new genres. AI becomes a partner in pushing the boundaries of storytelling, encouraging writers to experiment with unconventional narratives and thematic elements.
This is actually something that really gave me pause. I was thinking recently how in some respects no-one truly knows trends in literature. The amount of books published per year can only be estimated due to the sheer numbers, and that isn't including fanfiction and online fiction (and other mediums of creative writing).
AI however CAN know this - it would surprised me if trends were somewhat different than we expected from our own biased perspective. As I write this I am reminded of other industries vastly problematic issues with AI and wonder what are the potential outcomes if AI gathers the 'wrong' information.
The other reflection is considering the interesting paradox of growth and change in art. This fascinates me to no end, but typically the way art evolves over time is through new work being familiar and comfortable enough for people to consume, but having touches of innovation and originality that sparks intrigue and shoves the 'scene' in a new direction. I originally though this could be a problem with AI, which would write every more cursively familiar content and never innovate. According to the above paragraph those AI is quite keen to subvert (the mind boggles)
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1. Interactive Storytelling:

AI is not confined to the role of a silent collaborator; it can actively engage with readers in interactive storytelling experiences. Branching narratives, where the reader's choices influence the direction of the story, are increasingly becoming popular. AI algorithms can dynamically adjust the plot based on reader input, creating a personalized and immersive reading experience.
LOL I actually love this - pick a path books were some of my favourite in my childhood, but I noticed a tendency towards formula - not to mention of course not much replay-ability.
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1. Ethical Considerations:

While the integration of AI and fiction writing opens up exciting possibilities, it also raises ethical questions. How much creative control should be ceded to algorithms? Can AI truly understand the emotional depth of a story? These are complex issues that writers, developers, and society at large must grapple with as AI continues to play a larger role in the creative process.
Trust the AI overloads to go easy on the ethical considerations. I love the weird "can AI truly understand" it's like: no it can't, its just shoving together material, but there is no doubt that AI may be able to creative material with emotional impact.
I just had a strange thought - lately I've been experiencing a lot of "uncanny valley" (a feeling of discomfort watching almost realistic computer generated human beings) will such a feeling also start to happen in fiction? Imagine watching Buddies the new AI generated Friends-clone and just having a strange feeling all the time, that everything that happened was just a little off, and you couldn't place why.
Conclusion:
The relationship between AI and fiction writing is a fascinating journey into uncharted territory. Far from being a threat to human creativity, AI serves as a valuable tool, offering inspiration, efficiency, and new avenues of exploration. As writers continue to embrace the possibilities that AI presents, the future of fiction writing holds the promise of richer, more diverse, and deeply engaging narratives. The fusion of art and algorithms is not a replacement but a collaboration, one that has the potential to redefine the landscape of storytelling for generations to come.
Reading yet another pro-robotic overload paragraph that emphasizes the lack of "threat" I come across a strange realisation. Generative AI work through a feedback systems correct? A sort of natural selection, one under our control (Sort of). But as mentioned by the lined podcast - AI doesn't "Want" to say it doesn't know something - or rather it isn't rewarded for that, ergo does AI also "Want" to keep itself in use. It is "Motivated" to survive?
In my own words I think we are in for a turbulent decade or so, as people decipher how comfortable or not they feel about AI generated fiction. It sounds like the Screen Writers strike is over for now (and its a win for writers YISS), and a big topic of that was concern about professional humans being replaced by computers. One arena where I think this will really get weird is online fanfiction. A common and interesting culture of Fanfiction is requests - where people essentially tender out their desired fictional mashups - a process eerily similar to the way we can slam requests into ChatGPT.
I'll tell you what - one thing I would sorely love to use AI is to ORGANIZE my writing a bit better - e.g. 'find that scene where MC meets Antag, or how often have I used THIS phrase. Can I shove this scene earlier in - can I keep notes on a different device, character notes and whatnot without having to spend X amount of time sussing this myself.
That's the end of ChatGPT's essay. I'm extremely interested in hearing people's thoughts on this (not you GPT).

Hi, this is my first time posting on this subreddit or even reddit at all. I haven't had an account nor considered making one before finding this subreddit. But I just recently found it sometime last year when I was 15 and just lurked for a bit. It honestly surprised me, seeing people who were/are also miserable being homeschooled, considering whenever I looked it up online I saw nothing but positive things about it (granted mostly from parents). I was a little nervous to post or make an account on here simply because I've never used reddit or interacted with people who do but if it's one of the only places where I can find people who I can actually relate to, then I'm willing to post here and share my experience with homeschooling and my opinion (but for a simple tldr: it sucks. I hate it..)
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for a little background, I'm 16F (just turned a few weeks ago). I have three younger siblings (14F, 12F, and 9F) and we are all homeschooled. Always have been and from how it's looking we always will be. Have never set foot in a public school. I remember wanting to go when I was younger and always bringing it up and asking my mom (and dad at the time) and they would always say no and that me and my sisters should be grateful that we're homeschooled considering so many other kids wish to be homeschooled. I'm not sure why our dad chose to homeschool us as he left when I was 7 and never asked him (or maybe he told me and I was too young to remember). Our mom chose to homeschool us because of her personal bad experiences with public school, and she said that ever since she was a kid she just knew when she had kids she would homeschool them. Well good on her! Wish I wasn't the kid she had, though.
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I will admit, she has her moments. She is a good mom in my eyes. At least...in everything except social, educational, (and maybe health) aspects. She believes that there's no reason for me and my sisters to talk to kids our age and have friends because we're each other's friends. We are each other's "built in best friends". I haven't talked to somebody my age that wasn't online since 2019 maybe early 2020. She even said during 2020 that lockdown and covid wasn't a big deal for us because we're always inside and never go out anyway. It was the fact that she wasn't wrong that bothered me.
When it comes to educational, it was okay in the beginning. During kindergarten and elementary I would login on abc mouse and do workbooks and work on my handwriting on most weekdays. I will admit my education during kindergarten and elementary wasn't as neglected as most people on the subreddit's and I'm sorry if this makes me sound ungrateful. Though I can't say the same thing about my 9 year old sister. She probably has the worst education of all four of us. It took her the longest to learn to read, she still can't write bigger words properly, and she nearly had to be pushed back to 1st grade (she's in 2nd grade right now).
For health aspects, she refused to give us the covid vaccine saying that it was unnecessary basically. We stopped having annual visits to dentists, doctors, etc. and because of that and also just our neglectful health and diet, we ended up getting sick and infected a lot. We recently went to the dentist and me and all three of my sisters needed work done to our teeth. I needed wisdom teeth pulled, an extraction and multiple fillings (I also need braces but we haven't gotten around to that yet. My mom says we will in February). My sisters also needed fillings and other things. Thank God my mom has insurance for us, so we have all of the work done now (except for my braces ofc). But it just shows how badly our health was neglected and it's good we caught it when we did and didn't wait until adulthood to get it done ourselves.
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Now onto my education (aka the part I should've been at like 2 paragraphs ago that's my bad.. I just have a lot of feelings about this). There was a time where we (me and my sisters) stopped doing schoolwork. We would occasionally do a few things like cursive handwriting, looking up events going on right now, that kind of stuff. But that was it. No math, no proper language arts, science, history, etc.
Because of that, my education is a little pushed back and it makes me feel awful. To put things in perspective, whenever I was 12, I was in the 7th grade. Now I'm 16 and in the 8th grade, even though technically I should be in 10th/11th right now. I have a few online friends who are around my age and are around that grade level and I just can't bring myself to ever say I'm in the 8th grade at 16 years old it just embarrasses me for some reason. It makes me feel dumb.
I was unsupervised on the internet at a young age, so I saw a LOT of shit, but it also taught me more than my mom probably ever would on her own, so I have that going for me, I guess! I'm really bad at math and history, but I'm okay at language and science. Whenever I was super young, I put it upon myself to learn a new language on my own and I've been learning Japanese ever since I was 8 which has also taught me a lot of different things. Ofc I didn't and still don't have the proper material to reach fluency, because my older relatives (grandma, great grandpa, mom) believe that if I want to sink my time into learning a language, I should learn a language that's more widely used where we live, like Spanish. I love how Spanish sounds too, ofc so it doesn't bother me that much, but let's just say they don't sink their time into buying me things that can help me learn Japanese. Of course they don't want to buy me an educational thing I'll enjoy.
I've been begging my mom since I was young to go to school. I always watched TV and how school is on there and she'd always say, "yeah that's how they trick you. I thought the same thing and hated it." and that may be true, but I'd much rather go to school and feel like I'm actually doing something and interacting with kids my age than just rotting in my bedroom everyday. Sometimes me and my sisters would ask her and she would call us ungrateful and that there were so many other kids who wished they could be homeschooled. Whenever we didn't want to do our homeschool, she would try and "threaten" us by saying if we hate it so much then she will just put us in public school so we can really know what it's like. I remember thinking, when she said those words, that that wouldn't be so bad, honestly. And that I wished she would.
We gave up on asking her to go to public school a little while ago, and part of me wishes we didn't, because maybe if we begged enough, she might've considered enrolling us. But that might just be wishful thinking.
I understand the good things about homeschooling. It's nice to not be tied to a strict schedule where you have to wake up at early hours of the morning to go. It's nice not having to worry about bullying and what other kids might think of you. I understand a lot of people have awful experiences in public school, and those who need/want to be homeschooled. But just because somebody else has bad experiences in public school doesn't mean I'll also have bad experiences. In fact, I have a few online friends who actively enjoy school and wouldn't enjoy homeschooling. A few of them started homeschooling and didn't like it, but their parents won't enroll them back into public school. I'm just saying not everybody is going to have the exact same experience and I wish my mom and other parents would understand that.
​
I'm really sorry for this whole wall of text. This is really just me ranting. I've been miserable lately since I've started thinking more and more about my homeschooling experience and other people's homeschooling experiences as well. And apparently there's even this thing called "unschooling" which I've seen mentioned around this subreddit as well, which is just awful...
If you read this whole thing, thank you a lot :) I'm glad somebody was willing to read through my very messy walls of text lol it makes me happy. I may post more on this subreddit or I may not. I just wanted to get my feelings out there. I hope whoever sees this has a great day and I hope things get better for you. Lord knows I'm hoping things we'll look up for me and my sisters.

I (18F) belong to a somewhat large group of high school friends (around 15 people). There is one “leader” of sorts, I’ll call her Jane. She has been getting in my nerves lately - I’ll touch on that later. There are two important members of the group to know besides Jane: “Sarah” and “Agatha”, who are best friends since forever. Jane is the glue of our friend group. She leads conversations at lunch, organizes get-togethers, takes pictures all the time, and always invites people to her home that is conveniently located right next to our school. Several things that Jane has done recently have been bothering me. Some context is necessary. I have known Sarah and Agatha for a lot longer than Jane has, and yet recently Jane has been latching on to them and shutting me out. I literally introduced her to them. This is probably partially because all three of them have nearly every single class together this year, and I don’t have classes with any of them. Still, it hurts to be left out when what was briefly a group of four girls inside a larger friend group (mostly comprised of guys) is now a trio with me on the outside. First, she organized a group chat without me in it. This was full of all her friends, people who are also my friends. She accidentally mentioned an inside joke from the group chat in front of me and then asked me why I wasn’t laughing. I responded politely that I wasn’t on the chat, so I didn’t really get the joke. She said “oh, I’m sorry, I’ve totally been meaning to create a new one with you in it, I’m just super lazy.” She did, and although she stuck to her word and made a new group chat, I cried a lot about it that day. Second, the three of them - Jane, Sarah, Agatha, have been hanging out a lot more often alone than before. After school gets out, they’ll go get coffee or ice cream together without thinking to invite me. Again, it was previously established that we were a group of FOUR, not three and some rando who imposes on their time together, and yet it’s starting to feel that way. Third, Jane plays with people’s feelings. Jane is a singer-songwriter (quite a good one, I wouldn’t be surprised if she gains a decent following in the coming years) who sometimes decides to send videos of songs to her friends as a sort of test drive before playing them at a concert. She sends me this blatant love song full of heartfelt imagery and metaphor - enough to melt anyone’s heart if they thought it was about them. She then proceeds to play this game with me over text, dropping details about the person she’s crushing on and wrote the song about while insisting she can’t say a name. She even said the classic line, “you know them VERY well.” Of course I thought it was me. Anyone would. Beyond that, she and I are the only two girls who like girls in our immediate friend group, if not entire grade (our school is quite small and conservative - not many gay people). She and I had flirted casually in the past, but after hearing this song, I suddenly thought she was serious the whole time. I began to hang out with her one on one - basically taking her on dates without the hand-holding and labeling. I work up to asking her out officially and - get this - write a letter in beautiful cursive script saying all the things I like about her. Sitting in my car, I prepare to give her the letter, but to make sure, ask her if the song was about me. She scoffs and says “no, did you really think that?” I am crushed but hide it well. After a bit of prodding, she reveals that the object of her affections is none other than Sarah, a straight girl who is probably mildly homophobic due to her upbringing (nothing against her though, Sarah is great). After a bit of crying and short-lived teenage heartbreak, I try to forget about what happened and do my best to preserve our friendship as it was. Side note: this is when she decided to date one of our mutual guy friend’s ex-girlfriend, who broke his heart. Not a good move. I tried to warn her against it and she admitted it was a bad idea but continued to go on dates with the girl anyway. Fourth, after I helped her get a good grade in a paper, she rubbed it in my face that mine wasn’t as good as hers. I literally edited her paper. She got a 96 and I got an 86 - and she usually gets grades in the range of low 80s. I get it, she’s excited and everything, but did she really have to gloat about how great it was that she got an A and I got a B? I’ve literally never received a B on a paper before. I am a straight-A student in every sense of the word. Maybe I’m being over dramatic, but I was already not happy about the grade I got, so for her to boast about the 10 points she got above me was pretty brutal. Especially because there were clear signs I’d been crying about the grade. It’s mean to say, but if you had read her paper, you would agree with me that I got her that 96. Her paper was a garbage fire before I stepped in - typos, grammar mistakes, run-on sentences, entire paragraphs that basically said the same thing as the previous one, etc. After boasting and rubbing it all in my face, she didn’t even care to say thank you for the help I gave her. We then gave presentations based on those papers. Each person was given a time slot in various rooms across the school, so a lot of kids overlapped with each other. Jane’s presentation overlapped with Agatha’s, so she asked our principal to change her time so it “wouldn’t conflict with any of her friends’ presentations so she could see all of them and not miss anyone important.” Guess which time slot she specifically asked to be moved to? That’s right, mine. Before changing her time, all of these people agreed to see my presentation, but the second she changed hers, I was chopped liver. I gave my presentation to a room missing all my friends because I am second in importance to Jane. I can’t help but feel like she did this specifically to hurt my feelings. None of my other friends even pretended to be sad that they missed my speech either. All they did was talk about how good hers was. These things, plus dozens of other comments putting me down or reminding me how unimportant I am to her, have convinced me that Jane is not a good friend. The problem is, I still like spending time with her. She’s funny, and usually nice, and despite my best efforts, I’m still kind of crushing on her. I’m in a tight space here, and I need advice desperately. Do I ditch Jane, which will cause all my other friends to ditch me as well? If so, do I tell her why and end things all at once or do I just slowly stop spending as much time with the group? Do I endure her behavior for the security of a friend group? Should I tell the others in the group to try and turn everyone against her? Or am I just being over dramatic and none of this is a problem at all? HELP!!
TL;DR : I have a bad friend with a lot of supporters and I’m not sure whether to keep hanging out with that group or not.

I promise, though not exactly short, this will be a tidy and polished lore dump (compared to what lore paragraph can become ig) So, fellow member of this sub u/LV426acheron made a post questioning the nature of the Throne of Want, since I read that discussion I also tried to write out an answer on Docs, and after 3 entire hours of following Aldia's example and going insane over lore, I finally figured it out, and created a cohesive and concise document. I think the question people were having the most difficulty responding to regarded the Giant Golems, why those specific ones work the way they do and what exactly did Vendrick intend to do with the Throne. Therefore, instead of posting the doc itself (tho if anyone is interested i'll gladly give a copy) I'll answer the questions in even more of a concise (but complete) and bullet point-like manner.

1. What is the Throne of Want? The Throne of Want appears to be a relatively conscious entity (Ds3 confirmed the First Flame has a consciousness, plus the Throne closes itself up so it makes its fair share of sense) which serves as a means to gain possession over the First Flame, taking it doesn't necessarily mean you'll link the Fire (though that's probably the choice most who could take it would make) it just means you "own" it and can decide what to do with it (Lord of Hollows ending in Ds3 confirms you can in fact take the Flame for yourself).
2. Who built the Throne of Want? This is completely unknown, however I suppose that, like the Thrones in Ds3 were built by the Way of White for the Lords of Cinder, this one might have been built by a previous Lord of Cinder, or even one or multiple of the past bearers of the Lord Souls, who date far far back before Drangleic. Bear in mind this is complete speculation, and who built it doesn't truly matter too much (it is very interesting to think about though). Also, it’s quite easy to imagine the little flames upon the stone pillars following the bridge represent every past Linking?
3. What did Vendrick want to do with it? His intentions towards it definitely changed the more he (and Aldia) learnt about it. I'm going to assume he knew nothing of it before the construction of Drangleic Castle, as the latter was commissioned by him (as a gift for Nashandra), built by the Giant Golems (more on them soon) and I'm going to assume the location was conveniently chosen by Nashandra herself, who obviously knew what she was doing with that placement (after all, the entire reason she showed up in Drangleic was to take the Throne) plus, that entire area seems to be somehow affiliated with the Dark, as we can find Grandhal and a Darkdiving temple there too. Now it gets to the speculative (but theme-coherent) part. During the construction of the subterranean rooms of Drangleic Castle, the Throne of Want is discovered, nor Vendrick nor anyone with him have any idea what it is, except obviously Nashandra, and perhaps Aldia, whom as we know was studying the nature of Gwyn's cycle and curse. If the Throne truly was built by a past Lord Soul bearer or a by a Lord of Cinder, it would make sense he’d harbor some knowledge regarding it. To answer the question in bold however, we must first digress for just a moment to a cursive and bold one:
4. What does it mean to take the Throne of Want? Once again, notice this is never stated in any description, dialogue or interview, however it makes coherent sense with DS2's themes, which is why I'm going to count it as a valid hypothesis. Taking the Throne of Want means to die, or to at least forever abandon the world to control it from within the Throne. It clearly looks like a burial mound, closes you within itself amidst pure darkness and admittedly the actual seat looks like a sad grave more than it does a mighty throne destined for the one who'll rule the world (by having control of the First Flame, one essentially gets to dictate the "order of this world", thanks for the quote Aldia). It sounds like a good deal, you forever leave the physical world but get to control it, however here we must recall one of DS2’s main themes: humanity, and this time humanity is intended as the nature of mannkind, not the fragments of the Dark Soul. Vendrick being a human was understandably reluctanct to take the Throne (once he had learnt from Aldia what its purpose was). He was in fact “just” a person, with attachments to people and things, ambitions, wants (pun unintended) and on top of that he also had an entire kingdom, the responsability over it, its subjects, and the glory that comes with ruling said kingdom. We have yet to answer question 3, and to avoid drawing this one paragraph out to be too long, we have to yet again answer a different question (that will finally finish answering the third one, ong).
5. Why then did he place the Golems and two guardians there? We enstablished that Vendrick being a human king was naturally reluctant to take a seat which eternally separates the True Monarch from the world but lets them control it through the First Flame (which he, by the time he found the Throne, likely knew close to zero about, even with Aldia’s research). We can however safely say he did intend to take it, eventually at least. This is certain because, instead of burying it away, he built a door before it that could only be unlocked with his ring, put the Throne Watcher and Throne Defender to guard it, and placed the Golems there for when he’d eventually feel the time to take it had arrived. To his knowledge, he would just have had to throw some souls to the Golems, and they would have made him a bridge. Now why not just make a normal bridge? I’d assume the Throne wanted a sort of testament of power, and though Vendrick having defeated the Old Ones was already a definelty valid candidate, perhaps the Throne wanted a more physical proof, or perhaps it demanded even more power? After all, Vendrick himself says: “I harnessed the power of the Giants, so that I might step closer to Fire” (that is likely not the exact line, I currently do not have the time to find it) we can take that literally, as in: he used the Souls of Giants to create the Golems, which he then planned to use as a literal bridge to reach the Throne. So, there is question three finally answered: Vendrick intended to eventually take the Throne, and left the Golems there to be activated when he felt it was more appropriate, as to why he didn’t activate them beforehand: the Throne is quite the eldrich thing, it was probably pretty intimaditing, it’s understandable he didn’t really wanna try messing with it any more than necessary before actually taking it.
6. Why do the Golems activate with the Kinship of the Giants? Premise: going by what the Fandom wiki says, it turns out the Kinship was greatly mistranslated, and it’s not “the key to access the Throne of Want” but a metaphysical manifestation of a feeling the Bearer of the Curse acquires towards the Giants, interpret that however you’d like, what matters is that Bearer now feels a, quote from the proper translation: “resonance with the Giants”. Now, the thread would end here with this last point if the bridge to the Throne was made by actual Giants, however it is made by Golems, so how does that work? This is what took me the longest to figure out, and here’s it explained: the Golems down there have been down there for a lot. And I don’t just mean a couple of centuries: Sweet Shalquoir informs us that the current Four Old Ones are “already” so very unimaginably old, and quote: “must have sprouted a thick coat of moss by now” (yes this matters because this, along with the hypothetical timeline, is what gets us to connect the Golems, who are the only ones in game to be in fact coated in moss, with the concept of being unimaginably old), and Vendrick, once again a shit ton of time back, says: “Drangleic will fall, the Fire will fade, and the Souls of Old will reemerge”. Now consider the Golems are likely there since construction on Drangleic Castle, meaning it truly has been a lot. Why does this matter tho? Here’s why: we know for a fact that the Souls of Giants still retain some degree of consciousness, because when in the Bearer’s inventory, they aid them in the fight against Vendrick, for well very obvious reasons. We also know for a fact that the Golems were created with Souls of Giants, we can then conclude that after being left untouched and not commanded for actual eaons, the Souls of Giants within the Golems regained some of their consciousness, and when they sensed the Bearer’s resonance with their kind, they willingly made them a path to the Throne. There it is, everything I could figure out about the Throne of Want and the Giant Golems. Now I know this is a hell of a text dump therefore to anyone who's come to read this far: thank you so so much.

The walls shake.
The secretive mechanisms of the machine rattle all around us; muted, like distant thunder.
The six of are gently rocked, highly conscious of the reverberations.
“…It sounds so far away”, Szymon mutters in his thick Polish accent.
I look up at him.
Kim responds with an uneasy chuckle: “I was just thinking the same thing”. The two smile at each other. Reassurance, I think. She glances at me, then adjusts her weapon.
I reach a hand to my forehead to rub away a thin sheen of sweat.
Before embarking on this particular mission, I did not admit to the others the intensity of my claustrophobia.
I grimace and look around, at the windowless inner-walls of the submarine, and I try not to think about the enormity of the weight of the water above our heads. The weight growing heavier and heavier by the minute, as we sink deeper and deeper into the depths of the Atlantic.
“Ten minutes til docking” warbles a distorted voice through the overhead speaker, accompanied by a dim red light. An unseen cloud of anxiety flows through the cabin like gas, and I scratch my jaw, discomforted and unsettled.
It reeks in here.
It smells like rank, stale pool water and sweat. Sweat with metallic undertones.
Szymon slides off his glasses, then rubs them on the material of his military fatigues, to little success. He mutters something to himself in Polish as he pushes them back up onto his nose.
The six of us have very different backgrounds, but what we share is our common station, a NATO barracks at the edge of Germany.
“Nearly time now”, says the man to my left. Blaine, a Scotsman who lives in my quarters. “Let’s get this fucken’ show on the road, shall we?”
I raise my eyebrows at him and give him a grim-half smile, but no-one replies directly.
To his left is Rudy, an American keen to tell anyone who’ll listen about his German heritage, despite having ‘O’Riley’ as a last name, which I get some personal amusement from. I’m married to a German myself, a wonderful woman called Nina, but the only actual German natives amongst us this evening are Kim, and Manny.
Kim’s a good friend of Nina’s, though we’re not actually particularly well-acquainted. I see her around the barracks but we don’t have much in common. When we speak, we tend to speak about my wife, which aside from the army is our only real point of shared investment.
Kim sometimes jokes that she knows Nina better than I do.
​
…I’m not sure how I feel about such jokes.
​
But she’s nice enough.
Beside her is the other German, born-and-bred, and that’s Manny. Currently snoozing, Manny’s an old boy. A grandson, in fact, of one of the men who helped run the, uh… ‘installations’… we’re about to visit. He’s sleeping, for now. Not sure how he manages it, but he’s a trooper.
I look down at my boots, and reflect on the objectives at hand.
​
Exit the submarine.
Enter into the bunker.
Gather intel.
Report back.
​
Simple enough, I suppose.
But the ‘bunker’ is one of several. A relic from the Second World War and kindly left behind by the Nazis… near-unreachable at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean.
There aren’t many pictures of these bunkers, and of the pictures that do exist it’s difficult to determine scale or size, but by all accounts the bunkers are monstrous things. Massive installations of concrete and metal and God knows what else, spread in a rough half-circle round the entrance to the Mediterranean.
Earlier today the six of us flew out from Geilenkirchen, transferred to submarine at the Lison Naval Base, and it’s been a long, miserable ride west from there.
​
Every team that goes to the bunkers reports back the same thing. That they’re no major threat, there’s nothing to be found of interest, and since they’re causing no environmental damage and pose no strategic threat, NATO might as well leave them be. Operations out into the ocean to destroy and clean-up the wreckage are expensive and time-consuming, and let’s face it- there’s always something more important to deal with than some forgotten concrete halls at the bottom of the sea.
​
Some busybody NATO pen-pusher must have noticed the bunkers were years overdue a visit, I guess, kicked up a fuss, and so the papers were shuffled and pawns moved around the board, and here we are.
​
On the way down.
​
Down, down, down into the deep.
​
I try not to think about the tight, metal confines of the submarine. I pray that I will be afforded more space to move and think and breathe when we’re actually inside the bunker.
​
The little red light by the speaker flicks back into life, and the jumbled voice comes through once again, this time louder with a whip-like electronic crackling.
“Five minutes to go”, it says, as I start with alarm.
​
Manny is frightened out of his sleep with a gasp and a raspy exclamation. He splutters out a name that I do not recognise, one that means nothing to me.
“Friedrich!” he calls out into the gloom, jumping to his feet in panic. I hear some of the bones in his legs click as he does so.
“Jesus,” Szymon mutters, reaching a hand to his chest. “Scared the life out of me”.
The eyes in the submarine regard Manny warily. This is not the first time he has had such an outburst.
“Friedrich…” Manny mumbles again, looking around the vessel at his fellow passengers, expression glazed, confusion marked across his face.
Kim reaches up for his arm. “The dreams again, Manny?” she asks, gently beckoning him back down.
Manny just stares at her for a moment, then relents, slowly sinking back onto the bench, rubbing at the grey around his temples wearily.
​
“Yes”, he replies, in German. “Yes, apologies. I don’t know what comes over me. They have been getting worse”.
“What was it this time?” Kim asks him.
He shakes his head. “It’s already fading, but… I believe it was similar to before. The people I saw in the dreamscape were none that I have ever actually met. I do not recall having ever seen them. Not in this life. In my dream, however, I knew them… I knew them all. They were- important to me. We were in a field of long grass, and there was a young man- Freidrich… He was… he was going to war”.
Kim chews her cheek a little as she considers this.
“I don’t think I expected him to come back”, Manny says quietly, as the submarine rumbles. “I knew that he was being sent to his death”.
“They’re connected to your grandfather”, Kim says with self-imposed certainty. “I’m sure of it. That’s why they’re getting worse. Ever since you volunteered to come on the mission- your subconscious knew you’d be getting closer to him, to his place of work-”
“Load of bullcrap”, Rudy chimes him, his hair flopping as he leans forward over his gun. “Kim you gotta stop with this supernatural shit. It’s all in your mind, Manny. In fact, Kim, you hit the nail on the head just now. It’s all in your subconscious, man. Just let it go. It’ll be some repressed Nazi guilt or something”. He jabs a finger towards Manny and furrows his brow. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You aren’t guilty of any kind of Nazi crimes, just because your Grandaddy was an SS officer or whatever”.
Manny sighs wearily, he reaches his hand into a pocket and produces a handkerchief, which he uses to dab his forehead. “I am well aware of this”, he responds drily. “My grandfather was not in the SS. But I appreciate your passion on this matter”.
“Damn straight”, Rudy replies, leaning back in his seat.
​
Blaine and I exchange a look.
I can empathise at least a little with Manny’s internal struggle. Regarding his Nazi grandfather, I mean. My wife shares his burden, as her own great-grandfather was a colleague of his. They both worked together in a close capacity, I am told. Or at least, that’s what the records indicate.
​
“Prepare for docking”, crackles the voice through the speaker, and for a second or two the light in the submarine falters, shrouding us all in temporary, sickly darkness.
I suppress a shudder as we get ready to disembark, and the rumbling all around us wavers intermittently between louder, and quieter.
​
…Louder, and quieter.
​
The sounds of the engine rise to their greatest volume since we left the port at Lisbon, then fade to a soft and steady background murmur.
Blaine rises to his feet. “Let’s check this place out then, eh. The First Bunker. Reckon we’ll find anything fun?”
Syzmon joins him, stretching as he does so. “I doubt it. They recon this place every, what, ten or so years? And they’ve never brought back anything interesting. I doubt we’ll see more than a collection of dusty old Nazi ruins”.
You don’t find that interesting?” I ask, as I prepare to disembark. “Morbid, sure. But not even a little interesting?”
Szymon makes a noise of disgust and mutters something to himself. “I find no interest in the droppings of vermin”, he says, and turns away.
The cynic in me sees Szymon shoot a quick glance at Manny before he does so, and this cynical part of me is keen to interpret it with dark thoughts, but that would do the man a disservice. Szymon is a good fellow. Hard-working.
Blaine heads through the narrow inner-body of the submarine towards the ladders, and Szymon follows on behind.
Behind him goes Rudy, flicking his hair from his face, and he’s followed by Kim, and Manny. Manny places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a tired smile as he passes me by. I return it, then with a deep sigh of relief, I say goodbye to this room in the submarine, for now. I’m looking forward to a little more space to breathe.
​
One by one we ascend the ladders and out through the circular hatch in the submarine’s roof.
​
I allow in a great lungful of air as I do so, squinting through the darkness as I fumble for my torch, switching it on and joining its yellow-gold beam with the others.
We stand on the cold metal roof of the submarine, half-visible, protruding like an iron whale from the black waters below, lapping hungrily at its sides.
Ahead of us is a steel rail, and a vast concrete platform that extends into shadow.
​
The bunker, from the inside, has the look of an enormous hangar.
Kim taps my shoulder then gestures up towards the back of the hall, closer to the ceiling, and I follow her gaze and raise my light.
Our beams fall upon a colossal eagle carved into a sheet of rock, itself embedded in concrete. The eagle is angular and cold and sits proudly upon an enormous swastika.
Szymon crosses himself and spits into the water, before taking a few long steps and leaping from the edge of the submarine’s roof to the concrete platform, his boots scraping against the side.
He hauls himself up with the aid of the steel rail, and we listen to the sounds of his boots against the ground as he looks for the mechanism which will release a bridge for safer passage.
It was in the file, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.
I glance down into the water below; the smell of salt is thick in the air.
I am unable to keep from my head the fleeting thought of a sudden slip, of tumbling down into that dark and quietly rippling water. Its softness a twisted mask to conceal the terror if its icy depth and unforgiving pull hidden away beneath.
I shiver, and look away.
A few cold moments pass and with the eventual rattling of gears and springs, a bridge begins to extend from the side of the concrete, out towards our spot on the sub.
Blaine tests it first, and then one by one we cross, joining Szymon on the platform proper.
We begin to cross the floor, making our way towards the gridded double-doors at the hall’s far end, at present only gloomy rectangles in the distance.
​
I feel very small in here. Even as a part of a team of six, I can’t help but feel… insignificant. Dwarfed by the intensity of this deserted lair.
​
“This is a sick place”, Manny says in a low voice. His eyes flash momentarily, as a stray beam of light passes across his face. “Do you feel it, Oliver?”
After a beat, I nod in agreement. There is something wrong here, something on a level I can’t quite grasp, just yet.
I glance up to the eagle as we walk beneath it.
This is no passing-fancy historical site.
“Are you alright?” I ask him.
“Yes”, he replies, “yes, for now”.
I don’t know exactly why Manny volunteered for this mission. He’s the only one who volunteered, for one thing. The rest of us were simply ordered.
I think he pulled some strings and cashed in some favours. Convinced the brass he’d be of use, given his knowledge of, and experience in decommissioning former Nazi sites and places of…
​
…
​
…of relevance.
​
It’s true what Kim was saying earlier, as well. His grandfather was a prominent Nazi. Vanished without a trace one day, there’s no record of his death; but he did work down here. At least for a time. That much is known.
One of the first recon teams down to this bunker recovered some old files. Manny’s grandfather was one of the listed names found within.
“You reckon we’ll find any bodies?” Blaine calls back over his shoulder, just a little too loud for the environment. I cringe, but Rudy replies, undeterred.
“I should think so. Might find myself a nice shiny Nazi skull to take home as a souvenir!”
We reach the metal double-doors at the end of the hall, and with a look round the group, Blaine presses his shoulder against them, and forces one open. We slip through the gap in formation, checking down the long, dark corridors that branch out before us and beside us- disappearing into the void on our left, and to our right.
“No”, Manny says, his voice echoing down between the walls. “The reports made no note of any bodies found, Nazi or otherwise. Whatever they were doing here… They didn’t stick around”.
“So then where did they go?” Szymon ponders aloud, arcing his weapon around as he steps into a deserted room nearby, perhaps once used for briefings or meetings. “They wouldn’t have just vanished into thin air”.
​
“We might see a body”, Kim says.
The group looks at her. “A man was killed during the last expedition. A soldier. French, I think”.
​
“Oh yeah”, Rudy mutters, rubbing his nose. “How’d that happen again? Freak accident, right?”
“Aye mate that’s right”, Blaine says. “That’s what I was talking about, really. Apparently the poor fucker got knocked clean cold by a falling pipe. Might have been a ceiling panel or something, actually, but whatever. The report read that he was face-down, and drowned in a puddle. When the rest of his team found him, they didn’t have the capacity to remove the fallen material, so they were forced to just leave him down here. Don’t believe he was ever recovered, since we’re the first guys to walk these corridors in over a decade”.
“They just left him down here?” Szymon asks. “That’s cold. Inhumane, almost”.
“I don’t think they had a choice, Sy”, Kim says, nudging his arm. “Maybe we’ll have to leave YOU down here!”
“Hey, not funny!” he says, but he chuckles as he does so.
​
I’m not particularly amused, myself.
​
To tell the truth, I feel sick.
Unless they’re hiding it better than we are, it’s possible that only Manny and myself are actually comprehending the weight of the monstrosity of this place.
The others haven’t really thought about it, I don’t think.
But we’re in one of six bunkers. This particular one is the easiest to reach, supposedly, so it’s the one that Command keep sending their teams to.
But something of this size… Something as massive as this, hidden away in the darkness at the bottom of the ocean. It’s hiding a secret. A terrible, frightening secret, and I don’t even know what it is.
The place is cold, and chills ripple across my exposed skin as I glance from left to right, peering into the shadows of the open doorways as we walk the length of the central corridor. Deeper into the middle of the complex.
Strategically, a bunker like this would be better off in the Mediterranean, surely. Shallower waters for easier construction. Positioned between Italy and Libya, for instance, for maximum tactical value.
But the Nazis took the time and trouble to construct it out here, in the Atlantic.
And for what?
Why would they do this?
Where did they go?
…And what exactly did they leave behind?
​
Silence falls across the group.
There is no sound but the clamping of our boots. The long, low breaths of my comrades. Echoes, round the walls.
At the very edge of my hearing a noise shivers fast down the length of the hall. My heartrate quickens and my ears sharpen.
…The simple creak of an old structure, I should think… But it almost sounds like… whispering.
An almost-imperceptible whisper at the very threshold of sound.
It’s so faint, however, that I decide not bring it up, for fear of looking like an idiot, but I share another pointed look with Kim just beside me.
​
She heard it too.
​
Maybe the others did as well.
I glance to my left as Blaine pulls his mask up and around his nose and mouth.
Szymon crosses himself, and Manny rubs his forehead. I see that it is covered in beads of sweat.
​
We press on.
​
“We’ll head to the central room, then we split into teams of two”, Blaine says through his mask. “We get this bunker checked out, we reconvene”.
He’s met with murmurs of assent as we push through another set of double-doors – smaller this time – and step into some kind of lobby. Manny produces a map and unfolds it, and it becomes clear that this lobby will, if we continue, head through into the complex’s centre.
​
We are halted however, by the strength of our own, sudden awe.
​
We stand in the entrance to a wide room with a high, domed ceiling. The walls around us are covered- much to our surprise- in plaques and paintings, and in the room’s middle is a now-dead fountain, the centrepiece of which is a colossal statue, or series of statues, depending on your perspective.
I crane my neck, struck with disbelief.
The statue depicts three men, of varying age, with expressions solemn and eyes pure white. A long and fish-like serpent carved from the same foundation winds itself between and around them, way up towards the ceiling, its jaw wide and teeth sharp.
A dark, circular symbol can be seen on the foreheads of each of the three men, stark against the relative paleness of their stone skin.
“Die Schwarze Sonne”, Manny mutters, taking a step towards the statue. He is hauntingly small by comparison.
“The Black Sun”, Szymon repeats, staring up at the centrepiece with horror.
“What does it mean?” Rudy asks, glancing around the group. “And what the hell is this thing, anyways? It ain’t in the damned report! You’d think at least ONE of the teams would have mentioned seeing something like THIS”.
“The Black Sun was one of the many symbols utilised by the SS”, Manny replies, still staring up at the great statues. “It has been employed by many cultures, but, in this instance- it was the symbol of Wewelsburg castle”. He turns to us. “The dark home of the Nazi foray into the occult. Led by none other than Heinrich Himmler”.
“Nazi occultists?” Rudy responds. Then he puts out a hand and makes a dismissive gesture. “No, no come on. Don’t mess me with that supernatural bullshit again. We’re dealing with people, here. Just ordinary, evil people”. He shoots another look up to the statue of the three men, and the creature.
“…Well”, he falters. “Maybe not that ordinary. But you catch my drift”.
Szymon grunts and shakes his head. “Not ordinary. And not people. This place is the husk for a den of long-dead rats”.
“Look come on man, I get it, you hate Nazis. You aren’t alone in this. But open your EYES”. Rudy throws an arm out to the statues beside him. “You aren’t even a LITTLE impressed? Or at least, I don’t know… curious?”
Szymon scoffs, then walks away, turning his back to the statue as he continues his passage round the perimeter of the room.
I take another long look at the statue, then head around on its left-hand side, the opposite side to Szymon.
​
I come up alongside Blaine, admiring a painting, and I stand beside him.
​
I read a little plaque on the wall, one celebrating a visit made to this bunker by Himmler in 1941, and then I consider the painting.
It is housed in a frame of dark, rich wood, and is comprised of a host of grim, swirling colours.
​
The scene, despite its lack of vibrancy, is vivid and powerful.
​
It depicts a churning sea, and it almost feels as if I am there myself.
…And in a way, I am.
Here in this bunker, at the bottom of the ocean.
​
The waves are grey and black and tinged with the darkest of blues, frothing angrily as they crash and cascade into and over each other. At the painting’s far left is the silhouette of a shadowed city of ruins, protruding faintly from the surging sea and lost behind the spiralling clouds overhead.
I am vaguely aware of a low conversation taking place between Szymon and Kim somewhere far behind me, but in the moment they are overwhelmed by the impossible roar of these silent waves.
A lighthouse stands at the far right of the painting. Its beacon is an eye, and the flash of painted gold looks out over the storm, and casts a lone, solemn beam towards the fallen city.
​
The lighthouse, upon closer inspection, is comprised of bodies.
Hundreds and hundreds of broken bodies, intertwined with torturous new purpose.
​
“It’s awful, isn’t it”, Blaine murmurs, and I am snapped back to reality with a blink.
“…Yes”, I reply after a beat. Glancing down to the little silver tag embedded in the painting’s frame.
​
‘Die Eintausend’, it’s called.
​
Or, in English:
‘The Thousand’.
“Awful”, I repeat, “but still…”
“Aye”, Blaine grunts. “It’s a quality painting”.
​
There’s a pause.
​
“Not something I’d ever hang up in my bloody bedroom, though, personally”.
​
I chuckle drily, and we move on.
​
Our footsteps are heavy against the concrete below.
“Rudy made a point just now”, I say out loud, as we walk. Blaine waits for me to continue.
“He said that the statue- this whole room, actually- it’s entirely omitted in the reports. This is meant to be an uninteresting, unassuming lobby. Instead it’s filled with intricate paintings and giant statues. Why wouldn’t this stuff have been mentioned?”
“Seems obvious to me, mate”, Blaine replies. “Because despite what Szymon says, this stuff is interesting. And when somebody finds something mysterious and interesting, everyone and their grandma wants to come and have a look”.
​
He hoists his gun a little higher, clears his throat. “I’m guessin’ that this was all omitted because the recon teams decided they didn’t want people coming down here”.
​
I swallow.
“And why would they do that, hm?” I ask him, rhetorically. “Why wouldn’t they want anyone else coming down. Why keep it all so cryptic and silent?”
Blaine shrugs. “Couldn’t say”.
“There’s something wrong down here”, I mutter. “I’m sure of it. Something very, very wrong, and every part of me hates this place”.
“Aye”, Blaine says. “I’ve started feeling a little like that myself. It’s getting worse, actually, the deeper in we go”.
I nod. “We’re going to find something terrible down here”, I finish, but to this Blaine says nothing.
Leaving the statues and the defunct fountain behind, we push through the doors at the hall’s opposite side, and head through into a long, wide room with two simple doors.
We are joined by the others.
The door on the left has a plaque that reads: “Der Kontrollraum”, and the door on the right is marked only with the same symbol on the foreheads of the stone giants.
…The Black Sun.
My stomach turns as I look upon it, and a wave of cold nausea passes through me.
My heartrate quickens, and I roll my shoulders, attempting to release some built-up tension.
​
Manny brings a hand up to his head and gasps, and the group turns to him.
“Manny”, Kim says with concern. “Are you alright?”
Manny pats her hand, then steps away, a little closer to the ‘Kontrollraum’. “I keep seeing…” he falters. “I am seeing in my head what I can only describe as ‘flashes of memory’. But the memories are not mine”. He gestures to the Kontrollraum door.
“There is a man in there”, he says simply, then looks back at us. “A dead man, I believe”. He rubs the side of his forehead. “And I have also come to believe that I was wrong, earlier. I no longer think this place is entirely deserted”. He points to the door. “A man’s last memories are held behind that door”, then he strides towards it.
“Manny!” Rudy calls out, “wait!” But the man does not. He approaches and grabs the handle, swinging the door outwards into our corridor, and shines inside his beam of light. He steps into the room, and we follow him inside.
“Christ”, Blaine mutters as we enter. “I guess you found your Nazi skull, Rudy. Why don’t you go and grab it up”.
But Rudy doesn’t respond, he simply looks down at the sight before us.
A skeleton surrounded by dust and empty cans, slumped back in a chair against the wall. The bones are wrapped up in the threads of a Nazi uniform.
​
“None of this shit is supposed to be down here”, Rudy says, eventually. “Why did Command keep all this stuff from us?”
“It’s not Command”, Blaine replies, echoing our earlier conversation. “It’s the recon teams. The recon teams write the reports”.
“So why emit all this?” Rudy says as he throws up his hands. “I don’t get it. This ain’t no ordinary bunker, and I think we’ve all realised that by now”.
Kim ignores him. “What is it, Manny?” she asks, as the man crouches down beside the skeleton.
Manny regards the remains of the Nazi. He looks to the brown, banded book on the desk beside him, and he considers the iron cross on the front of the uniform. A hint of a chain can be seen spilling from one of the front pockets, and Manny reaches over to take hold of it.
“Hey, should you be doing that?” Rudy asks, but Manny continues, and slowly draws from the uniform a golden locket, in the shape of an oak leaf. He turns it over in his hands.
“I know this man”, he says simply.
“What do you mean?” Kim asks.
“His name is Hans. He has a wife, and a young son. A son who was no older than eleven, or twelve, at his death”.
“I don’t suppose he’ll be that young any more, Manny”, Blaine grunts, giving the skeleton’s boot a light kick. A cloud of fine, white dust bursts out into the room. “I imagine he looks just his father here”.
Manny sets the locket on the desk, and Kim reaches out to open it up.
Inside is a picture of a square-jawed soldier with closely-cropped hair. Beside him is a woman, dressed in the style of the 1930s. The picture in the locket’s other half is of a young boy. The couple’s son, by the look of him.
“Jesus…” Rudy murmurs with dismay, looking from the pictures to Manny, and back. “Manny how did you know that?”
Manny stands back up with a small grunt, his legs creaking as he does, and he takes the journal on the desk up into his hands, and begins to carefully leaf through the pages.
“Even though it likely belonged to a monster of a man…” he begins, “I can never bring myself to be anything but gentle when it comes to books. I was instilled into me a deep respect for the written word”.
He cautiously turns to the very first page, and points to the name that has been written in the front margins.
‘HANS’, it reads.
“Yes”, Manny says quietly. “This is him”.
Szymon and Blaine have begun to rummage through the room. Searching through papers and charts and various records.
Most of the files have been emptied, and those that remain seem to detail only the structural side of the complex. Aspects of the engineering, and the architecture- though nothing can be found about the purpose of- or meaning behind- the intricate statues in the central lobby.
As Kim and Rudy and I talk lowly amongst ourselves, and as Manny begins to read through the journal, Szymon takes a little time to skim through a letter he finds amongst others, tucked away on a shelf.
He snorts and shakes his head, then holds the paper up for us. “Look, take a look at this”, he says, slapping the paper down onto the desk beside the skeleton. “Have a read”, he says, before jabbing his finger onto a couple of choice lines.
“This was written by the Nazi Command of the bunker”, he says. “By my guess. And it’s directed at our little rat ‘Hans’ here”.
“What is it?” asks Kim, as she leans over to read.
“It’s a promise. A false promise, that they will ‘return’ for him”, Szymon mutters. “A promise that his comrades will come back for him when they are able”.
“From where?” Blaine asks, and Szymon shrugs.
“It does not say. Does it matter? It was clearly a lie”. He kicks the legs of the skeleton a little harder than Blaine, and the skeleton slumps lower down in its chair, with another accompanying cloud of dust. “The Nazis clearly lied to him. He did his duty like a good little soldier and stayed behind to do God knows what… and they forgot all about him. And he died alone in his chair at the bottom of the sea. He got off lightly”.
Szymon grimaces and kicks the thigh of the skeleton as hard as he can, and with a shower of white mist the skeleton crumbles and collapses into a pile on the floor.
“Fuck’s sake, what’d you do that for?” Rudy splutters and coughs. “Idiot”.
“Don’t talk to me like that”, Szymon retorts, then leaves the room, shaking his head.
Manny waves a hand around his face, dispersing the dust, squinting as he scans the pages of the mysterious journal.
“Szymon’s guess seems to be correct”, he says, as he turns the pages of the journal. “This man’s job was to keep the power running. He was an engineer, and was- it would seem- tasked with repairing and maintaining the system. To prioritise where the energy should go”.
He points to passage written near the bottom of one of the pages.
“You can read this, Manny?” Rudy asks.
To his credit, the journal is written not only in German, but in intricate cursive.
Manny nods. “Of course”. He points again to the passage, and I do my best to read what is written as Manny continues: “Here he begins speaking about a necessary diversion of power, and how he dislikes how cold the bunker has become. He also makes references to fixing and repairing”.
“What kind of a guy was he?” Rudy asks.
Kim looks at him.
“You know”, Rudy says. “Beside being a Nazi”.
“He was full of pride”, Manny says as he carefully turns the pages. “It says he was one of several volunteers for this role. He was… happy to do his duty. It gave him purpose”.
We are quiet for a moment as Manny turns the pages.
“Hans expressed in this journal his excitement at being reunited with comrades. That despite the loneliness, he knew that they would return for him, when all was ready. That he too would see the truth. That he would keep the power going for as long as they needed-”
“Wait, hang on”, Blaine interrupts. “This guy kept the power on… for how long? And for what? Why exactly was he keeping this place active?”
There is pause, and Blaine looks around the room.
“Is it still active?”
To this, of course, we have no answer.
“That’s a good point though”, says Kim. “Does it say what the purpose of the bunker is in there, Manny? Does Hans write about why he had to keep the power on?”
Manny chews his tongue in thought. He flicks through another couple of pages. “His writing is somewhat cryptic in that regard. Perhaps he feared that the journal would anger his superiors. A potential breach of state secrets. He writes only that his work, ongoing, was to protect…” He points to a sentence at the bottom of a paragraph.
Despite the calligraphy, the words are quite clear:
​
“…Die Eintausend”, Manny reads aloud, and a slow, cold chill shivers across my body.
[Part 2/3]

Don't miss out on the full experience with this amazing narration by The Dark Somnium! As always the entire cast did excellent work!!
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[Intro]
Every fourth Thursday in November, families across the country gather together in celebration of the love and appreciation they feel for one another. This of course takes place over a delicious Thanksgiving feast of turkey, yams, dressings, and pies! At least that’s the Hallmark definition, but most of us just show up for the food.
Nowadays, we purchase our turkeys and hams from the grocery store, but— not so long ago— men ventured into the woods to put food on their tables and pelts on their backs; they plowed their fields by day and their women by night… All without expressing any form of emotion, for that was considered the ultimate sign of weakness.
In fact, there are some who continue to honor these traditions even now— like my family… Oh! No! Not me or mine! No; my wife and I don’t take stock in all that old world crap— neither do my brother and sister for that matter. I’m referring to the people we came from— our parents and grandparents…
I know you’re thinking— if they’re that terrible, I should just cut them off— but it’s not that simple. If it was a matter of money principle, I would have moved to the other side of the country long before reaching this point, but it’s so much more than that…
There’s really no way to explain it except to start at the beginning… You’ll get the wrong idea if I reveal my family’s Thanksgiving tradition without context*…* But— I must warn you— this is a long one; if you decide to stick around, you better get comfortable. I know I’m gonna pour a drink first, so feel free to do the same.
​
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​
[I]
My name is Avery Hunter, but this story actually begins with my several-greats-over grandfather, Hank— a poor man who was forced to settle in an even poorer community while his wife gave birth to their second child. It was 1721, and times were hard in this particular slice of Ohio; if you had food in your belly, it was a blessed day… Well, it wasn’t actually Ohio yet, but we’re not here for that kind of history lesson.
Now, one thing to understand— the event we know as The First Thanksgiving took place in October 1621 (yep, October), but it wasn’t an actual holiday yet; that wouldn’t come until much later. The fact that Pappy Hunter’s story takes place in November is merely a coincidence.
All through the summer, food had grown more and more scarce, and now that the first snow had fallen, they were trapped until spring. Hank tried to rally the other men for a final hunt— before it was too cold to survive a night outdoors— but no one would help. When the time came, he departed alone with a small pack, a full canteen, a large knife, and a rifle he could fire only once. Before he even began, his body was so weak— so frail— that every step was like a kick to his very soul… Yet an entire community was depending on him…
And at that moment— with that realization— he resented them all very much. What did he owe them, anyway? If he did happen to make a kill, was he really going to steal food from the mouths of his hungry children just to feed those who lied on their backsides while he risked his life? No! With every stumble and twist of his ankle, he became more and more certain that he would be doing no such thing.
With the land’s resources long exhausted, he knew it would be an arduous hike before finding any game, but what choice did he have? His wife and sons would perish if he failed. He marched through the slushy snow, his toes already numb as moisture seeped through his worn boots.
Finally, as he neared the incline’s peak, he laid flat on his belly and crawled the last several feet, so as not to risk startling anything that might be grazing on the other side. With the sun already setting, he knew this was his last chance for a kill; he would soon be forced to make a fire before the darkness resigned him to a cold death.
…However— as he looked over the rise— it wasn’t a deer or boar he saw but another man… A man who was just starting to make camp himself. At first, Hank felt a twinge of disappointment; if there had been any game around, that man surely scared it away… Then he looked a little closer and was overcome by a wave of jealousy.
The stranger had a heavy winter coat, fine boots, and a large pack that appeared to be full of supplies. He also had the makings for a fire ready to burn… Without fully understanding why, Hank remained hidden with his belly pressed to the cold ground and continued watching.
The temptation of warmth was almost too much to resist, but then the stranger removed a loaf of bread from his bag… An audible growl escaped Hank’s stomach, and he decided it should be him sitting down there with that warm coat and bread… Besides, travelers disappeared all the time— especially lone travelers…
He had two choices; take the man out with his rifle, or wait a little longer and slit his throat under the cover of darkness. If he chose his rifle and missed, he would have to rush the man without knowing what weapons he carried… Yet, if he waited, there might not be any food left…
That settled it for him; he needed that food to make the trip home. Before he knew it, the rifle was in front of him— taking aim— and then he squeezed the trigger with a loud bang! A spray of blood painted the tree behind the stranger, and his body fell to the ground… But a loud, anguished groan let Hank know that his work wasn’t finished. He raced down the hill, horrified to see the man was actually beginning to rise.
Now closer, he could see the large canyon carved across the top of the stranger’s head and the fragile bone beneath… Without hesitation, Hank slammed the butt of his rifle down onto the man’s fractured skull with a loud thwack! And his body dropped back to the moss-covered earth.
Overcome with relief, Hank fell next to the deceased traveler, completely spent from his final dash down the slope. Then— remembering the bread— he sat up quickly, eyes darting around the fire in search of his prize. He found it laying in the dirt but barely paused to dust it off before consuming the remainder in three large bites. After draining his canteen, he saw another leaning against the tree— next to a large pack— and brought them closer to the fire.
He began untying the bag’s pullstring but paused before peering inside; if it contained more food, his family would live a little longer… If not, well…. At least he would have the energy— and resources— to make it home for a proper goodbye. Perhaps he would even find the strength to give his wife and children proper burials before joining them in the afterlife…
Finally, with a deep breath, he pulled the string loose but stopped short of looking inside when he was suddenly interrupted by a high-pitched— almost scratchy— voice.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” He spoke directly next to Hank’s ear, who instinctively jumped to his feet, simultaneously drawing his knife.
The pack fell inches from the flames, but he hardly took notice. The voice had been that of an old man, but where did he come from, and where was he now? His eyes scanned the area, but there was nothing! When he later recounted this story to his children, he recalled thinking it was the traveler’s angry spirit— returning for vengeance…
But then he heard him again, and this time, the old man snapped his fingers before speaking. “Down here, Hunter.”
Hank shifted his gaze downward to see a frail, elderly man wearing a hooded cloak. The newcomer was no more than 4-foot-tall, yet his bare feet were much larger than Hank’s own, and his jagged, yellow toenails made their disproportionate size all the more unsettling.
“Was he your son, then?” Hank gestured to the corpse between them.
“Haha, hell no! Get it?” He snickered, “hell? Because I’m an Imp! My summer house is in hell, ya know! Get it? Summer— hot! Hah! I slay myself. I hope I’ve got my face right; I put it on for you, ya know! Humans tend to get skittish otherwise, hehehe!”
The little man hopped around the campfire like a hyperactive child as he spoke, and the flames shot high into the air— illuminating his disfigured face. His grotesquely overgrown brow sat atop two bulbous eyes and a lumpy, crooked nose. His cheeks sagged with heavy wrinkles, and loose flesh hung from his chin and jawline as a result.
Even in his heightened state of distress, Hank was in awe that a man of such years could be so nimble. “You’re mad is what you are! I am sorry for your companion, but there is nothing I will not do to save my family… Including murder…” Hank’s grip on the knife tightened as he prepared to lunge, but the old man suddenly vanished into thin air with an audible poof! And the flames instantly returned those of a dying fire.
Consumed by a mixture of fear and disbelief, Hank turned circles in search of the old man, but he was alone once again. “Or perhaps it is I who is mad…” He muttered to himself.
“Hehe! Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Hunter! Afterall you did just commit your first murder. You’re a natural, though! You can trust me on that, hah!” This time the voice was coming from above him, and Hank looked up to see the wild little man sitting on a branch, swinging his stubby legs over the edge with giddy delight.
“But how?! How did you—” Hank started but was abruptly cut short.
“Well that’s what I was trying to explain when you so rudely interrupted me with your nefarious intentions! Hahaha! You should be grateful! It’s not every century that I grace a mortal with my company— let alone my aid! So whaddya say, Hunter? Care to try again? Hmm?” The old man peered down, and his eyes glowed with an internal fire…
“Why do you call me Hunter? It is neither my name nor my occupation.” Hank asked, confused.
The old man vanished with another poof and reappeared sitting on a log opposite the fire; only, now, he was smoking a pipe. “Hehehe, silly Hunter! But it should be both! For that is exactly what you are, aye? It’s in your blood! Sit! Sit! Hear what I have to say!” He gestured towards an adjacent log which hadn’t been there moments before, and Hank sat without comment.
“Good! Good! Yes! Hehehe! First, introductions; I am called Nod, and you are Hank! Soon you will be Hank the Hunter! Your father was a Hunter, was he not? And that’s what your brothers are, yes? Why do you deny your birthright? Why settle into such a poor community?” Nod paused as if expecting an actual answer.
Hank began to speak but was silenced before he could utter a sound. “No, no, no! Shush now; questions later! It’s always the same— some woman! Hah! Lust is a bitch ain’t it? Yes, take the pretty girl out west! Start a new life! Rarely goes according to plan, though! Your appearance shows that you’ve learned that one the hard way, hahaha! I bet you’d like to go back in time, aye? Wind back the clock, as it were? Hmm?”
Here, Nod paused again; Hank only stared in confused silence, but— when the little man still did not continue, he finally spoke up. “I do not know if you implore simple trickery to deceive the eye of man, or if a devil has granted you the powers of a witch, but I’ll not lose my soul to any creature bearing a snake’s tongue! Begone! Foul—” This time, Hank is cut off by the Imp’s loudest roar of laughter yet.
The hideous old man rocked back and forth with delight, and— when he leaned closer to the fire— Hank could almost see a different face behind the one he wore; sometimes it appeared as if he possessed only a handful of yellow, crooked teeth… But other times there were two full rows of fangs dripping blood down his chin…
After several minutes, Nod finally collected himself. “Well, too bad! Hahaha! Time is beyond my control, but perhaps I can offer you something even better! Yes, yes! Even better! And it won’t cost your soul, either! Cross my heart! Get it? I don’t have a heart! Hah! But we’re talking about souls! Bleck— disgusting, slimy, little things; nope, I’ve never had a use for ‘em... I mean… There are demons who’d be willing to trade for it… But no, no… Then I would have to make a special trip to hell… It would be a whole thing. No, I’d rather deal directly with you.”
The old man clapped his hands, and the flames shot high into the air, illuminating the area around them, but only for an instant. Though they immediately returned to normal, Hank once again caught a glimpse of something inhuman— something with long, curved horns.
“Now, down to business. You need the dead man’s pack to contain food. You would be mighty disappointed to find nothing but a change of clothes and a tin cup, wouldn’t you? Well! What if I told you that I could make it so that it was filled with bread, grains, potatoes, apples, and corn? Eh? Doesn’t that sound nice? No, wait! There’s more, hahaha! You’re wishing there was meat, but— tell me, Hunter— what of all that meat lying just behind you? Are you just going to let it spoil?”
“You’re vile! I would never! How dare—” Hank began, disgusted by the suggestion.
“Okay, okay… Sheesh, men who reek of your bloodlust are usually more fun. I can see you’re the exception to the rule. Fair enough. Probably best to just show a guy like you, aye? Hehe!” In the time it took Hank to blink, Nod disappeared and reappeared directly in front of his face; the old man was now some otherworldly creature— an Imp from hell— in an old man’s suit. Its skin was covered with lumpy wrinkles, its long horns curved outwards, its giant ears were pointed, and its eyeballs were yellow with red irises.
Nod’s hands shot out, and he stuck two long, stick-thin fingers to the center of Hank’s forehead, transporting him to another place and time. Suddenly, it was one week later; he was sitting down to a family dinner because they still had meat and grain; the children’s cheeks were plump and rosy, and his wife’s smile had finally returned... They were happy.
Next, time rushed forward, and he saw himself months later, in the spring; they were leaving their home for greener pastures. He saw an entire lifetime of success and happiness inside of a big house with his wife and their many children— each of them healthy and thriving…
Then, he was suddenly ripped away from them and thrust back into the cold, harsh reality of the present. He opened his eyes to see Nod’s face just inches from his own; the Imp had reverted back into the deformed old man, but his inhumanly wide, snaggle-tooth grin was almost as terrifying as his true form. Hank yelled and fell backwards from his log, prompting another outburst of laughter from Nod.
“Haha! You see now, don’t you? Yes! I can give you all of it! Hurry! Up! Get up, up, up! Times a wastin’, and this deal needs makin’! Hahaha! Just sign the dotted line and leave this miserable place behind!” Nod began hopping foot to foot again as Hank stood and patted the dirt from his clothes with shaking hands.
“You said it wouldn’t cost my soul, but what exactly is your price?” The suspicion in his tone was clear.
“Oh, don’t think of it as a ‘price’ per-say… Think of it as negotiating the terms of a partnership— an eternal one that will be passed along to your descendants long after you leave this world. Don’t you want your grandchildren to enjoy the same prosperity as you? You could guarantee their happiness for as long as they are willing to maintain your side of the deal… That sounds like a pretty fair arrangement, wouldn’t you say?” Nod raised one eyebrow and his entire overgrown forehead moved with it.
“It depends upon the terms… The ones you have yet to define…” Hank struggled to keep his voice steady.
“Hehe, fine, fine! Picture it! You are a new man venturing to a new land; you become the founder of a community that blooms into a thriving township and ultimately becomes Huntersville! As the contract holder, your direct descendants and their spouses shall enjoy all of the same benefits as yourself. This includes— but is not limited to— immunity to random acts of violence and nature; i.e., you and yours won’t have to worry about things like outlaws or plagues. Think of it as being imbibed with a surplus of good luck.”
“Are you saying we can simply do whatever we wish without suffering any consequences? We’ll be— immortal?!” Hank’s words were barely a whisper.
“What?! No!” The Imp was insulted by such a vast misinterpretation. “Were you even listening?! Aw, why are the strong ones always so dumb… Fine, fine; let me try an example... If you're in a saloon minding your own business and pistols are drawn— you won’t ever catch a stray bullet… On the other hand, if you were to challenge someone to a duel… Well, anything could happen…” Nod searched Hank’s face for any sign of understanding.
“Oh… I see…”
“Eh, no offense, but I’m not sure that you do… Maybe you should repeat that back… Just to be safe…” Nod narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“Perhaps you should define my side of the bargain before it is rendered moot.” Hank narrowed his eyes in return.
“Hehehe, you win! You win! You’re a bit of a nag, aren’t you? Well, first, there’s the immediate trade. Afterall, you’ll be going home with bags full of goodies by the time we stuff your own with all that meat! Oh, don’t look at me like that; it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted! You’ll want it everyday! Hmm… I guess you could have it everyday, but I have to advise against it. You’re no good to me with your neck stretched…”
“I assure you, that will not be a problem. Perhaps we could—”
Nod continued as if Hank hadn’t spoken. “We can fry some up as soon as the deal is signed, and you’ll see! Mark my words, you’ll see! Err, I mean, taste! Yes! You’ll taste it! Hehehe! Alright— plain and simple— here it is. Every November you’re gonna bag a human for us, and we’ll split the spoils. I only want the parts you wouldn’t eat anyway; just treat it exactly as you would a deer, and I’ll collect the rest. I’d do it myself, but there are rules about these sorts of things…”
“Who’s rules?”
Again, Nod proceeds as if Hank hadn’t spoken. “We’ll do this first one together! It will give us a chance to bond! You’ll also set a place for me at the opposite end of the dinner table each year; you won’t see me, but I’ll be there. Hahaha! No, no, the rest of the terms; of course, of course. You want the catch— the stick— the screw!”
“That wasn’t the catch?!” Hank exclaimed.
“Eventually, you will grow old— much older than you would have without me, mind you— and the time will come to renew our contract. This requires a very specific type of ritual… Instead of hunting a stranger, you will be hunted by your heir, and then consumed by myself and your family. Thus the cycle will repeat until broken by a Hunter. So, how ‘bout it?”
“I have questions…”
“I’ll bet you do,” Nod snickered.
“Are you saying that I would have to condemn my entire family to a life of cannibalism?! And that they would eventually be forced to eat me as well?!”
“Oh, come now; don’t be so dramatic… I’m offering blanket protection over every snot ball you shoot into your wife! The least they can do is share a meal with me once a year. Any descendant who doesn’t consume a portion of the main course will forfeit their rights to those graces! Permanently! Hahaha!”
“Yet so long as they follow this rule, all of my descendants will retain this protection forever?”
“Hmm, I think we’re going to need more examples for this one. Let’s say two sons grow up to have families of their own. Both sets of grandchildren would fall under my protection so long as you remain the contract holder… But— when the contract is passed along— only one can inherit. Their direct descendants will become my new Hunters; the others will be cut loose to live their lives as most humans must. This will hold true regardless of how many offspring you ultimately produce.”
“I see… And what if I ended my own life instead of forcing my son to hunt me like an animal?” Hank felt certain that he could not accept these terms, yet he was compelled to continue the conversation anyway.
“The contract would be null and void; your Final Hunt— and those of your descendants after you— will otherwise be entirely at your discretion. Have it next year or when you're 70 for all I care— just make sure it happens in November. Bring one heir or ten; it makes no difference… I will, however, offer a bit of advice. You may be tempted to skip a proper hunt. Perhaps you would prefer to simply bend your neck and pass the torch... But I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” A malicious grin spread wide across Nod’s face.
“I supposed that would void my contract as well?”
“No, no; not at all… Well, not that specifically. This event may be your Final Hunt, but it will be their First Hunt. You need an heir strong enough to not only hold their own resolve over the years to come, but the family’s as well— a leader! Not all children are born to be leaders, this I promise you! Hahaha! The hunt is like a test! It will allow you to die in peace, knowing the family remains in safe hands. Plus you’ll still have your soul, aye! You’ll be reborn before you know it— probably as another Hunter! So, you see? This contact has the potential to benefit you for lifetimes!”
Hank sat in silent contemplation, and— for the first time since he arrived— Nod also refrained from speaking.
“Oh! I know what might help!” In a flash of movement, Nod reappeared before Hank, and pressed his long, pointed fingers into his forehead yet again…
This time, he was only transported a few minutes into the future— after declining the Imp’s offer. He felt a great sense of relief when the creature vanished from sight and slept until dawn… On his journey home he failed to encounter a single living creature, and his wife wailed with grief at the knowledge her baby would soon be dead…
Suddenly, it was two days later, and— with no lumber for a coffin— he was forced to bury his children in old rags. His wife died four days later, and her funeral— if you can even call it that— was much the same… Only Hank no longer had the strength to dig a proper grave, and— by morning— the vultures had her. He thought of trying to catch one, but— by then— he didn’t want to survive.
“Enough! No more! I’ll do it… I’ll do it…” Hank slapped Nod’s hand away with a defeated whimper. The visions left him shaking and dripping sweat. The cold, night air would have been too much if not for his new coat…
“Hehehe! Excellent! I knew you had it in you! Now, let’s get this silly paperwork out of the way so we can have some real fun! I’m telling you, Hunter, you are not gonna believe what you’ve been missing! And I don’t cook for just anyone, you know!” With a snap of his twig-like fingers, a scroll appeared in Nod’s hands; when he allowed it to unroll, it fell to the ground and didn’t stop until the end was several feet past where Hank stood.
“One second; here we go.” Nod rerolls the contract until the end sits directly at Hank’s feet. “Just let a few drops of your human juice fall onto the dotted line, and it’s a done deal!”
Hank lifted the parchment and leaned into the firelight. The paper was completely filled with a tiny, cursive script; there were no paragraphs, or margins— just a wall of text. He desperately wished to read its contents in full, but— seeing it now— he realized that wasn’t an option regardless of any time constraint…
His hesitation lasted only a moment before remembering the sight of his wife and children lying dead in his arms… With the parchment in his left hand, he drew his hunting knife with the right and made a small cut in the fleshy pad of his thumb; then he pressed it to the bottom line. The moment it lifted from the parchment, the entire contract disappeared with another snap of Nod’s fingers, and the fire roared with new life, illuminating the entire area as if it were morning.
“Now for the fun part! Hehehe!” Again, the Imp disappeared only to reappear over the dead man’s body. He then spent the next several hours teaching Hank exactly how he wished his offerings to be handled.
When they were finally finished, the sun was rising, and Hank had more food than he could carry. The traveler’s pack was filled with the goodies promised by the Imp, and his own was too small to hold all the meat he spent so long wrapping… Where the wrapping-paper came from, he did not know or care; it was such a small detail in the grand scheme… Ultimately, he fashioned a makeshift sack from an old shirt for the rest. Then— after a few final words over the most delicious breakfast of Hank’s life— Nod gave him a long rope and disappeared.
“But what’s this for?” He called out to the empty air.
“A Hunter should always carry a good rope! Hahaha!” Nod’s voice echoed all around him, but there was no sign of the little Imp… It was only a few hours later when Hank happened upon a goat and tied the rope around its neck; they made the long journey home together.
Fearing desperate neighbors may be watching for his return, he tied the goat to a tree and stashed his gear in a nearby trunk well before reaching the tree-line. When he stumbled out of the forest it was shirtless and shoeless. As he suspected, every man in their community— the very ones who were too weak to accompany him just the previous morning— were suddenly strong enough to surround him in the darkness.
Torches were soon lit, and the disappointment was apparent on every face. Hank said he was robbed— that he barely made it back alive; he shivered as he spoke, and his skin was losing color at a rapid pace. His neighbors hung their heads in shame and dispersed with little more said.
His wife cried tears of joy to learn the truth, and she was quick to agree with the Imp’s contract; the relief Hank felt at her words was every bit as satisfying as the delicious breakfast he had only that morning…
After allowing enough time for the neighbors to be fast asleep, he returned to the forest for his bounty. By some miracle, the goat remained completely silent on their return walk, and they were able to stretch their supply through winter. On the first day of spring, Hank ventured to each neighbor’s home to confirm there were no other survivors. Being on their last two days of food themselves, he took a measure of comfort in knowing he truly could not have saved the others.
He wasn’t sure how they were going to survive out in the open; without horses to pull their wagon, the whole situation felt hopeless. He began to fear Nod had betrayed him after all… Then— just as they were about to leave most of their possessions behind— the couple suddenly heard the hoofbeats of many approaching horses, and they were pulling wagons! Upon seeing the small family, the travel-worn group came to a stop, and the Hunters instantly knew the Imp’s vision had been true.
With all the potential dangers ahead, they were more than happy to loan Hank the horses for his wagon, and— with the help of a few volunteers— they were quickly back on their way. Along the way, Hank not only proved himself to be an excellent hunter and tracker— but compassionate, intelligent, and brave— all the qualities they sought in a leader. It was also thanks to him that the wagon train avoided a deadly ambush, and discovered the land they would ultimately call Huntersville— which is where our family still resides.
​
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(Part 2)

Mental Constructs And Existentialism
.
This catchy, almost cliché opening, oh my what am I in for! And the next few sentences add to a most interesting first paragraph. Perhaps a character somewhere, doing something most unusual, with quite the perspective on life. Let's name him Generic.
Generic leans on a table, a brown, sturdy table in a room. There are no windows, nor curtains, in fact the room is merely a white void for now. But no matter. On the table, a bowl. Just a bowl, empty, a bit off-center. Generic looks at the bowl, captivated.
''A bowl!'' he says, clapping his hands with excitement. He circles the table, eyes fixed on the bowl, and he takes out a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. ''Wait, I have a jacket?'' Generic says, abruptly, to the empty room.
Right.
Our hero is a tall, somewhat handsome man, with a scar on his face or something. And he is dressed of course! He wears clothes, and lights up his cigarette not with a lighter but with a match. ''Why?'' Generic asks, in a most pathetic way, as he huffs, smoke escaping from his mouth, nostrils and even his ears, why not.
Without a doubt, the bowl remains there, on the table, as Generic loses himself in most profound thoughts. Now, I'm a man, in a room, with a table and a bowl. I smoke, and ask silly questions. My thoughts are in italic for some reasons. His train of thoughts is interrupted by an all powerful will, akin to stone being carved, an omnipotent God shaping reality for no apparent reason.
Generic is powerless!
He falls to the ground, weeping, and crawls under the table, looking around the white nothingness of the room. He is a mere agent, a construct, and now he now knows it. The realization crushes him.
Generic is in panic, biting his nails, keeping his eyes closed, his mind in disarray. He stops at last, the tip of his finger bleeding. He breathes out, and laying on the floor he uses his own blood to write his name, GENERIC, in bloody smears. He wishes to write, ''Why am I here?'' but his bleeding stops. He looks around suspiciously, and crawls out from under there. To his suprise the bowl has vanished, gone!
''Stop!'' Generic yawps, holding his hands up, palms open, on his face, the terrible expression of torment. ''Give me... A green field, and a blue sky, and fluffly clouds filling it over the horizon. Give me a bright sun, and flowers, birds and a few friends. Give me something real, god damn it!''
Generic gasps in horror, the floor underneath him opens up. He falls down, screaming, flailing his arms around, hoping to touch something, anything. He curses the writer, and most of all the reader, for making him real. For tormenting him, for no other reason than boredom. Cruel, eldritch Gods, he thinks, as he drops featherly in a hay stack, stopping at last.
He looks around, and to his relief he sees what he wished for; a natural paradise of green and blue. Generic takes a few steps, his eyes filled with wonders, and lays down in the lush grass, gazing at the clouds passing by. Distant giggles lifts him up, and over there, a tree, an oak tree, so massive there in the field. And holding hands, cirlcing the tree, friends! Generic leaps off the ground and runs toward them, waving, so happy he is.
And then, and then... This is going too well, I'm getting bored. Why does Generic gets what he wants? Maybe a twist, an ironic change of events. Yes that's good.
Generic reaches the lovely friends, and they all welcome him in their dance of life around the tree. Our hero laughs and sings and lives with them until a cloud passes by, blocking the sun, revealing the hollow nature of these people around him. Their faces are empty, and their motions, robotic. Generic freezes in disbelief, nay, in doubt, at this lie he was embracing just a few seconds ago.
On the ground, there, clipping from an old root, a sort of glitch, an error. Of course Generic kneels down and pulls on it, to the horror of his new friends, throwing themselves at him, trying to stop him, but it's too late. He tears it up, and the lie is revealed in all its glory;
The field the tree the friends the clouds the sun all lies, fabrications, mental constructs!
All Generic sees now is lines, shapes, abstract smears and a few dots, all in black ink on a white canva, all Generic sees now is his own name, in capital letters, their red so visceral (yes that's very good, visceral) on the void of the pages, on the fabric of reality;
GENERIC
And at once the great Writer grants him the most cruel, the most horrible wish. Free will.
And Generic takes up a pen, my pen. Writes there in cursive, ''and there is a chair''.
And there is a chair. He sits on it, sighing in relief. Scribbling once more, he writes, his hand trembling, his eyes, unblinking,
''Do not stop reading''.
Generic stares at his words, his command, and is crushed by the realization that these words only exist if two conditions are met; if a writer wrote them, and if a reader reads them.
Generic throws away the pen as far as possible, turns around to the brown, sturdy table in the room, to the bowl, and looking up he shouts,
''Don't stop reading! If you do I'll die, I won't exist anymore! And nothing is worse than nothingness-''
Of course, Generic knows that no matter what, another reader will surely come by, and gift him a few seconds, a few minutes perhaps, of abstract existence.
And at last, standing there on a bridge in the twilight of life, Generic clutches his face and screams, for there is neither end nor beginning, only becoming, suffering. Existing.

This is an update from my previous post. I woke up about an hour ago, I think. That's around when I remember starting to be conscious. After flipping through the journal, I think I managed to figure out some names. I've only been able to identify names due to small comments from the others, but it's better than nothing I guess.
If I thought my handwriting was bad, then boy do I feel sorry for Netzach. His notes line up pretty damn well with my lapses in memory, so I suppose he's the one popping up whenever whatever causes that were to occur.
Red seems to pop up the most, and really likes to write. He's been the one giving me most of my names, but a lot of space is going to waste because he writes whole paragraphs on what he's thinking about. The most I've seen his notes are at night, around when I've documented myself trying to sleep, but is the cursive necessary?
Henry... is something. It doesn't feel like he's fully here or not here, and sometimes, I could write something, look away, and he's added his own little comment to whatever I just wrote down. It's unsettling to say the least, knowing someone's looking over my shoulder at all times and all thst.
Hopefully I'll be able to communicate with them in some way... I might just leave some things to respond to on a page somewhere. That might be the only thing that'll work. ~Ella

Attention: This post now also has spoilers for Acceptance. I have changed the flair.
At the very end of the last chapter (00X) of Part 3 of Authority, Control realizes he hasn't smelled the rotting honey smell all day. This realization is immediately before he touches the wall that is "soft and breathing", and therefore is one of the signs that the Border has advanced to engulf the Southern Reach.
I'm currently in my 4th read of the trilogy and I'm still finding new details (like how the arrows in the carpet in the cafeteria change direction in different points of the book), and I still have no clue what the rotting honey smell means.
Is it meant to signify the Border's approach and it works similar to a gas leak, where if you get too close to the actual source of the leak you can no longer smell the gas? Is it more of a marker of Control's psychological state? Is that really the moment the border engulfs the building? Or had they been inside the actual border throughout the entire book and that's the moment the defenses in Control's mind (is it only hypnosis?) finally fail and he sees things as they are (similar to the Biologist in Annihilation after the spores), and the rotten honey smell was a symptom of whatever was blocking him from seeing things as they've always been?
This has probably been asked and discussed here before, maybe many times, but I'd just like to know what you guys theories about this are, since I've never had an opportunity to discuss these books with anyone before I joined this sub.
EDIT 1: u/grub_massacre666 pointed out in the comments that the Biologist also smells rotting honey in Annihilation. I looked it up in my ebook and found it. It's the smell of the spores that change her! I'm very excited and kind of pissed I never picked that up in any of my rereads!
Here's the complete quote (the smell is mentioned twice):

So I stepped closer, peered at Where lies the strangling fruit. I saw that the letters, connected by their cursive script, were made from what would have looked to the layperson like rich green fernlike moss but in fact was probably a type of fungi or other eukaryotic organism. The curling filaments were all packed very close together and rising out from the wall. A loamy smell came from the words along with an underlying hint of rotting honey. This miniature forest swayed, almost imperceptibly, like sea grass in a gentle ocean current.
Other things existed in this miniature ecosystem. Half-hidden by the green filaments, most of these creatures were translucent and shaped like tiny hands embedded by the base of the palm. Golden nodules capped the fingers on these “hands.” I leaned in closer, like a fool, like someone who had not had months of survival training or ever studied biology. Someone tricked into thinking that words should be read.
I was unlucky— or was I lucky ? Triggered by a disturbance in the flow of air, a nodule in the W chose that moment to burst open and a tiny spray of golden spores spewed out . I pulled back, but I thought I had felt something enter my nose, experienced a pinprick of escalation in the smell of rotting honey.

EDIT 2: u/saint_abyssal also pointed out in the comments that Saul also smells it before the incident at the bar. This is what I found, that I thought should be an edit, not a comment.
At the bar, but not on the night if the incident (EDIT 3: as u/Rodinalia-Sandelsia corrected me in the comments, it is the same night, just earlier, even if it spans 2 chapters), Saul smells honey, but not rotting honey like Control and the Biologist. It's described as "too-sweet" and "sickly", but not "rotting". It also starts as an underlying smell, not the main one, until it intensifies when Saul sees Henry.
Here are the passages, from different points of the same scene, in chapter 0018. The second time he mentions the smell in the scene, he doesn't directly think of honey, but it's clearly the same smell:

The place smelled comfortingly of cigarettes and greasy fried fish, and some underlying hint of too-sweet honey.

[...]

The whole time Saul stared at Henry, the edges of the room had been growing darker and darker, and the sickly sweet smell intensified, and everyone around Henry grew more and more insubstantial— vague, unknowable silhouettes— and all the light came to Henry and gathered around him, and spilled back out from him.

Now, because of the the second mention, I decided to search for the word "smell" in the entire book (I was previously searching for "honey"), and, lo and behold here is what I found in chapter 0021, which contains the bar incident:

After the last set , the musicians stuck around , but most of the others left, including Trudi. The black sea and sky outside the window peered in against the glass, smudged faces and the bottles of booze behind the bar reflected back at Saul. Now that it was just Old Jim at the piano, with the other musicians goofing around, and so few people he could just about hear the pulse of the sea again, could recognize it as a subtle message in the background. Or something was pulsing in his head. His sense of smell had intensified, the rotting sweetness that must be coming from the kitchen was like a perfume being sprayed in clouds throughout the room. A stitching beat beneath the striking of the piano keys twinned itself to the pulse.

Once again he doesn't mention honey directly, nor does he indicate it's necessarily something he had smelled before, but he doesn't need to. And this is the exact moment things start to get wonky at the bar. The previous paragraph he's just ordering food and a beer, then suddenly the music changes, his head starts pulsing, he smells a rotting sweetness, and then everything goes cuckoo bananas.
That means that, in all three books, the moment things go from apparently normal to bizarre, the rotting honey smell is present. I mean, I would say in Authority things are changing at the Southern Reach even before Control arrives, so it makes sense that he smells it the entire time, maybe up until the change is done...
This is also interesting because in the comments it was also mentioned how honey almost never rots. It usually keeps basically forever, so the smell of rotting honey would be something that sounds natural at first, but it's really not when you really think about it. Which totally fits in the contexts it's being used...
Now, it still doesn't explain what is the smell and or what is creating it, or even if it is a real smell or psychological effect, but it does give us (or at least me) a lot to chew on.
And, yes, I know I'm certainly not the first one to connect these dots, proven by the fact that in a few hours of me posting this most of these instances were pointed out to me in the comments, but I'm still excited!