Fades for boys images

Jack had a decent time as a newborn compared to his aunt, uncle, and father. Being born during the 2000's of course. He was a hybrid of an infected human, rhat being Felix, and Gwendolyn. Luckily for him, it made most of his teetg, except for the molars, sharp. That, and his incredible stamina and weather resistance.
The first four mounths of his life came to horrible turn as his mother, Gwendolyn Kayuri, was killed. Luckily for him, she was able to hide him before Felix arrived.
The next 14 years of his life was hiding. Mostly in basements or hiden rooms, never to see another person than his father. But that's all he needed in life. His father provided a surprisingly good education for Jackson, however not babying him too much.
Now at 14 (1st image) Jack had found it strange that he wasn't allowed outside. Felix didn't have the heart to snap at his son, the poor boy's innocent eyes eating away at him. Felix then told Jack to pack up what little he owned, and for the first time in his life, he saw the outside.
Only for a brief moment however, his poor eyes were adjusted to the dark. His eyes slowly adjusted, mostly thanks to a pair of sunglasses, and laid his eyes upon his worst fear... People. He noted how ghostly pale his skin was. How they looked so "normal" compared to him.
Felix drove him out into the woods, it was far more beautiful than the movies and games he's seen. Than after some rough terrain, he saw an impossible sight... A fort made of logs, and within a town. His father explained that they had made their own community to fight a corrupt government.
Jack was terrified at the prospect of living with hundreds of other people. And all within a single town... It took him weeks to adjust to breathing the same air with other people. That's when one day, he noticed an elderly lady in some black and white robs was struggling into a church.
Being the innocent respectful boy he was, he lended her a hand. As she invited him in. He felt a strange calmness as his cowardice fade. He realized he was in a catholic church, for him it was calming. He felt welcomed there, and soon became a catholic.
2 years pass as Jack was 16 (Image 2). He had a small group of friends. One of which being Maria, who was quite the explorer in the woods. Jack had a feeling he never quite understood... It wasn't a bad one, but a pleasent one. One he only felt around Maria.
Jack finally confessed these feelings to her, revealing she felt the same. Than it hit Jackson in the head, his heart thumping out of his chest. He was in love. But at that moment...
He noticed a commotion outside. Going to one of the fort walls, he watched as a bloody fight ensue between his father, a large muscular woman,a short, pale man with strange fleshy tentacles, and an older man who bared a resemblence to Felix.
He ran outside, quickly stopping Felix from the 4 killing each other. He spoke from his heart, finally setting his foot down. The fight finally de-esculated. However, the older man fell, clutching his chest. Muttering out an apology to Felix and the others. Than Jack finally pieced it together... They were his family, and the old man was his grandfather.
Before he could say anything, Morgan went limp. Jack saw someone take their final breath for the first time. He was in deep shock as Felix walked back inside, not caring about his father's death. However, he saw Felicia and Télios bawling out for their dead father. Rather than leaving the two out there, he led them inside.
The two were overjoyed on meeting their nephew. Jack had opened up a bit more to them, showing them around and showing them to Maria and his friends. Felix however, wss displeased. Thinking the two were using his son to gain intel. Felix quickly kicked the two out, but not with Jack giving them his phone number.
A few hears pass as Jack was 19 (Still image 2, just imagine him a bit more matured). He was enjoying his day until one of Felix's right hand came up to him. Felix was killed, thus leaving Jack the leader of the rebellion.
Before Jack could even mourn, a fire in the surrounding woods broke out. That, and a full-scale FBI and CIA raid was upon them. Jack, with no idea how to lead, panicked. He had no clue on what to do, luckily, most of the rebels knew their positions from drills.
But it wasn't enough, the fire was bad enough but all the enemy units surrounding them? All hope seemed lost until a shout of pure rage and agony was heard. Out of the flames came the scorched corpse of Felix. Jack instanly knew it was his dad, bursting into tears.
Felix was now back at the helm, ordering his men around as they pushed the enemg back. Felix had taken so much gunfire, it was a surprise he was still even standing... Suddenly, Maria was shot. Jack's heart was pumping with adrenaline as he ran for her. He carried her, surprising for his slimmer stature, and ran to safety. Luckily the bullet only hit her leg, but the agent who shit her followed.
Jack noticed, and grabbed a gun. He had the shot but... He couldn't take a life... One of the other rebels shot the agent down as the war finally began to die down. They repelled the enemy and saved the fort from burning! However... Felix collpased, he wasn't immortal, just damn hard to kill.
Jack held him in his arms as he realized there was no saving his father... Not wanting him to suffer, Jack put a gun to Felix's head. Jack muttered a prayer through hesrt-wrenching tears as Felix finally confessed how proud he was. And with a loud bang... His father was free from torment.
The blood on his hands and face... Yes it was the right thing but... It didn't feel like it... He passed the role of leader to Felix's right hand before leaving the rebel life with Maria.
Jack was now im his 20's (3rd image), he was living happily with Maria in (generic city #4). He had been volunteering at any time he could, helping aid the agony of the world. Maria worked at a resteraunt, bringing the two left-over meals. But that's not how they paid rent...
He went over with Felicia and Télios when he could. Spending time at the fight club made hin sick, seeing people laugh at such violence... However, Felicia had made a fortune out of it. She was a bit stingy, seeing that she wanted to save for a mansion, but gave Jack rent money.
However, after a few months of this, Jack was disgusted about his actions... He looked in the mirror, he wasn't a innocent boy. He was a young man, a young man who took a life and now lives with blood money...
He made a plastic mask, fitting snuck on his face. And at long last... He saw that boy again. But the eyes... The eyes don't lie...

New Chapter on every MWF (Monday, Wednesday,Friday)
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Chapter 21: Reborn
Gribble sitting alongside his grandfather, Gorp, at a serene lake nestled in the heart of a lush forest. The gentle lapping of the water against the shore and the melodic chirping of birds create a peaceful atmosphere. Gribble's small, green hands grip a fishing rod, his eyes fixed on the unmoving line, frustration etched across his youthful face as time passes without a single catch. The sun's warm rays dance upon the lake's surface, casting a golden glow on the tranquil scene, yet Gribble remains oblivious to the beauty surrounding him, consumed by his growing impatience.
Gorp, a wise and patient goblin with a wrinkled face and kind, knowing eyes, notices his grandson's mounting frustration and offers a reassuring smile. With a gentle touch, Gorp places his weathered hand on Gribble's shoulder, his presence alone seeming to calm the young goblin's restless spirit. In a voice filled with wisdom and understanding, Gorp imparts a profound piece of advice that will forever shape Gribble's perspective: "Patience, my dear Gribble, is the bridge to success; when coupled with an unwavering belief in oneself, it becomes an unstoppable force, capable of overcoming even the most daunting of challenges."
As these words resonate deep within Gribble's mind, the peaceful scene begins to fade, the colors blurring and the sounds growing distant. The harsh reality of the present situation comes crashing back, and Gribble finds himself torn from the comforting memory, thrust once more into the dangerous reality of the cave and the looming threat of the Thundercat
Gribble lies on the cold, hard ground of the cave, his small body battered and bruised from the Thundercat's relentless assault. The air is thick with the scent of blood and the tang of fear, as Gribble struggles to catch his breath, each inhalation sending shockwaves of pain through his weakened frame. The Thundercat looms over him, its massive form casting a sinister shadow across the cavern floor, its electric blue fur crackling with barely contained energy. The creature's eyes gleam with a predatory hunger, its gaze fixed upon the helpless goblin, as if savoring the moment before delivering the final, fatal blow.
Gribble's heart races, his pulse pounding in his ears like a frantic drum, as he stares into the face of death itself. The Thundercat's hot breath washes over him, carrying with it the stench of primal ferocity and unbridled power. Gribble's own breath comes in short, desperate gasps, his lungs burning with the effort of drawing in the damp, musty air of the cave. The cold tendrils of fear wrap around his soul, threatening to suffocate him with their icy grip, as he confronts the terrifying realization that his life hangs in the balance, dependent upon the whims of the savage creature that towers above him.
In this moment of absolute horror, Gribble's mind races, desperately searching for a way out, for some glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming darkness. He knows that he must act quickly, that hesitation will surely spell his doom, but his body feels leaden, weighed down by the burden of his injuries and the paralyzing fear that grips his heart.
In a last-ditch effort to save himself from the Thundercat's impending attack, Gribble musters the remnants of his strength, drawing upon the very last reserves of his power. He calls out to the earth, seeking to summon the dormant life that lies beneath the cave floor, hoping against hope that his earth vine powers will answer his desperate plea. Gribble's mind races as he focuses all of his energy on this single, crucial task, his brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes squeezed shut as he wills the vines to burst forth from the unyielding ground.
The thick green vine is sluggish in its movements, its progress hindered by the unnatural environment of the cave, but still, it inches forward, guided by Gribble's unwavering determination.
Gribble's heart leaps with a sudden surge of hope as he watches the vine snake its way towards the Thundercat, a small, defiant spark igniting within his chest. He knows that this is his only chance, that the success of his plan hinges upon the strength and speed of the vine, and he pours every last ounce of his will into the endeavor. The vine quivers and strains, as if struggling against an invisible barrier, but Gribble refuses to yield, his mind locked in a silent battle of wills with the very earth itself.
As Gribble watches the vine's sluggish progress, a sudden flash of inspiration illuminates his mind, and a daring plan takes shape. With renewed focus and determination, he directs the vine's growth, shaping and molding it with his earth magic, willing it to take on a new, more deadly form. Slowly, the tender green tendril begins to elongate and narrow, its tip sharpening into a wicked point, until it resembles a crude but effective spear, poised to strike at the heart of the Thundercat.
Gribble's eyes narrow as he concentrates on the newly-formed vine spear, his body trembling with the effort of maintaining his mental grip on the volatile plant matter. The spear quivers in the air, its tip aimed squarely at the Thundercat's broad, muscular chest, as if seeking out the creature's vital organs with a hunter's precision. Gribble's breathing grows shallow and rapid, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he prepares to unleash the improvised weapon, knowing that this single strike may well determine the outcome of the battle, and perhaps, the very course of his life.
With a final, desperate surge of energy, Gribble thrusts his hand forward, his fingers splayed wide as he channels every last ounce of his power into the vine spear. Time seems to slow to a crawl as Gribble watches the spear's progress, his heart in his throat, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear, as he silently prays for the success of his gambit
The vine spear’s sharpened tip finding its mark with a sickening thud as it pierces the Thundercat's muscular chest. The creature lets out a deafening roar of pain and surprise, its voice reverberating through the cave like a clap of thunder, as it staggers backward, its electric blue fur standing on end. The Thundercat's eyes widen in shock and disbelief, its gaze fixed upon the slender green tendril that protrudes from its body, as if struggling to comprehend the reality of its own vulnerability.
Gribble watches in stunned amazement as the mighty Thundercat, the very embodiment of primal power and ferocity, begins to falter, its movements growing sluggish and uncoordinated. The creature's massive frame shudders and convulses, its muscles rippling beneath its fur as it fights to remove the vine. The Thundercat's breaths come in short, ragged gasps, its eyes growing dim and unfocused as the life slowly drains from its body, until at last, it collapses to the ground, a final, shuddering sigh escaping its lips.
The cave falls silent, the only sound the steady patter of the rain outside and Gribble's own labored breathing, as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his victory. He stares at the Thundercat's lifeless form, scarcely daring to believe that he, a small, unassuming goblin, could have felled such a formidable beast. A mixture of relief and exhaustion washes over Gribble, his limbs trembling with the aftershocks of the intense battle, as he slowly begins to process the implications of his triumph.
Gribble crawls towards the fallen Thundercat, his movements slow and painful, each breath sending a fresh wave of agony through his battered body. As he nears the creature's lifeless form, an inexplicable urge takes hold of him, a primal desire that he can neither explain nor resist. Before he can question the impulse, Gribble finds himself drawn to the Thundercat's still-warm chest, his hands moving of their own accord as they seek out the beast's most vital organ.
With trembling fingers, Gribble carefully parts the Thundercat's thick fur, revealing the smooth, blue skin beneath. He hesitates for a moment, his mind reeling at the thought of what he is about to do, but the compulsion proves too strong to ignore. With a deep breath and a quick, decisive movement, Gribble plunges his hand into the Thundercat's chest, his fingers closing around the creature's still-beating heart. The organ pulses in his grasp, its rhythm slowing as he carefully extracts it from the Thundercat's body, a faint crackle of residual electricity dancing across its surface.
Gribble brings the heart to his lips, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation, as he contemplates the enormity of the act he is about to commit. The coppery scent of blood fills his nostrils, mingling with the damp, earthy smell of the cave, as he parts his lips and takes a tentative bite of the Thundercat's essence. The taste is overwhelming, a flood of rich, primal flavors that dance upon his tongue, setting his senses alight with a rush of power and vitality unlike anything he has ever experienced. The world narrows to a single, focus point, as if the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what awestriking abilities Gribble will gain from this bold act of consumption.
As Gribble swallows the last morsel of the Thundercat's heart, an electrifying surge of power courses through his veins, setting every nerve ending alight with a tingling, almost painful sensation. The goblin's small frame begins to tremble and convulse, his muscles twitching and spasming as the creature's essence merges with his own life force. Gribble gasps as he feels his body start to change, subtle shifts taking place throughout his musculature and skeleton that quickly escalate into all-consuming physical transformations as the potent powers from the heart take hold.
Gribble's once small, wiry muscles begin to bulge and swell, expanding with newfound strength and vitality, as if the Thundercat's raw power is being transmuted directly into his own cells and sinews. His scrawny limbs thicken and lengthen, the sudden growth of his body accompanied by shooting pains and cramps, as he undergoes an accelerated metamorphosis. The goblin's stature increases rapidly, his height multiplying at an astonishing rate, until he towers over his former self, a new, imposing figure of raw power and potential.
But the changes do not stop with his musculature alone. Gribble's senses sharpen to a degree he would never have thought possible, his eyes able to penetrate the thick darkness of the cave without hindrance, every detail of his surroundings now clear and sharp as if bathed in the bright light of day. The goblin's ears twitch and thrum with a newfound sensitivity, able to pick up the tiniest sounds and vibrations from the depths of the cave. Most astonishing of all, sparks of brilliant blue electricity emerge through the hairs on Gribble's arms, dancing and pulsing with a life force that both fascinates and terrifies him. He has been reborn, a product of the powers that now surge within, his body and mind irrevocably altered by the essence of the Thundercat.
As the initial shock of the transformation begins to subside, Gribble becomes aware of a soothing warmth spreading throughout his body, a sensation that stands in stark contrast to the pain and exhaustion that had plagued him mere moments before. The goblin looks down at his battered and bruised form, his eyes widening in astonishment as he watches the myriad wounds and gashes that mar his skin begin to knit together before his very eyes, the flesh mending itself at an impossible rate.
Deep lacerations seal shut, leaving behind only faint, silvery scars that quickly fade into nothingness, as if erased by an unseen hand. Ugly purple bruises that had blossomed across Gribble's body, testaments to the savage beating he had endured at the claws and fangs of the Thundercat, now rapidly diminish in size and color, until they vanish entirely, leaving his skin unmarked and pristine. Even the bone-deep aches and pains that had settled into Gribble's joints and muscles dissipate, replaced by a newfound sense of strength and vitality that courses through his veins like liquid fire.
As the healing process nears its completion, Gribble slowly rises to his feet, marveling at the ease with which he can now move, his body no longer weighed down by the burdens of injury and fatigue. He flexes his fingers experimentally, feeling the raw power that thrums just beneath the surface of his skin, a barely contained energy that whispers tantalizing of limitless potential. A sense of invincibility washes over the goblin, the knowledge that he has not only survived the brutal encounter with the Thundercat but emerged stronger and more powerful than ever before. Gribble's gaze hardens with a newfound sense of purpose, steadied by the certainty that he can now overcome any obstacle that dares to stand in his path.
Even as Gribble revels in the rush of power and the exhilaration of his miraculous recovery, a faint shadow begins to creep across the edges of his consciousness, an unsettling presence that lurks just beyond the reach of his newfound senses. It is a darkness that seems to emanate from deep within his own being, a nebulous entity that tugs at the corner of his thoughts, whispering of hidden costs and unspoken dangers.
The goblin tries to shake off the growing sense of unease, pushing the troubling thoughts aside as he focuses instead on the incredible changes that have taken place within his body, marveling at the raw strength and vitality that now course through his veins. Yet, even as he seeks to bask in the glow of his transformation, the darkness persists, hovering at the edge of his awareness like a silent, watchful specter.
As Gribble moves through the cave, his steps imbued with newfound purpose and power, he cannot escape the nagging feeling that something fundamental has shifted within him, a subtle alteration that goes beyond the physical changes he has undergone. It is as if the essence of the Thundercat, now intertwined with his own lifeforce, has brought with it a touch of something primal and untamed, a wildness that threatens to consume him from within. The goblin's heart begins to race, a sense of trepidation rising in his chest as he ponders the implications of this strange, unsettling presence, wondering what price he may ultimately pay for the powers he has so eagerly embraced.
Driven by an instinctive need to escape the confines of the cave and the lingering presence of the fallen Thundercat, Gribble makes his way towards the entrance, his steps steady and purposeful, imbued with a newfound sense of strength and determination. As he nears the mouth of the cave, the sound of the pouring rain grows louder, the steady patter of droplets against stone echoing through the cavernous space like a ghostly drumbeat.
Gribble steps out into the downpour, his body immediately assaulted by the cold, stinging droplets that fall from the sky in an unrelenting torrent. The water sluices over his skin, running in rivulets through his hair and down his face, yet the goblin barely registers the sensation, his body thrumming with the power of the Thundercat, the electricity that courses through his veins keeping him warm and insulated against the chill of the rain.
He tilts his face upwards, his eyes closed as he allows the water to wash over him, a silent, almost meditative gesture that speaks of a desperate need for cleansing and renewal. The rain beats down upon Gribble's body, as if seeking to purge him of the darkness that has taken root within his soul, to wash away the lingering traces of the Thundercat's essence that now mingle with his own. Yet, even as the water pours over him in an unending stream, the goblin knows that some stains are too deep to be cleansed by mere rain alone, that the changes that have been wrought within him are irrevocable and permanent.
As Gribble stands there in the pouring rain, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby puddle, the image distorted and rippling with each falling droplet. The face that stares back at him is at once familiar and utterly alien, a strange amalgamation of the goblin he once was and the creature he has become. Gone is the scrawny, unassuming figure that had entered the cave, replaced now by a being of raw power and untamed potential.
Gribble's once wiry frame is now corded with muscle, his body honed and sculpted by the Thundercat's essence, every sinew and fiber imbued with a strength that defies belief. His eyes, once a dull, unremarkable shade, now glint with a predatory intensity, the pupils narrowed to vertical slits that seem to pierce the very darkness itself. The goblin's skin, too, has undergone a transformation, the surface now alive with tiny bolts of blue electricity that dance and crackle with each movement, a testament to the power that flows through his veins.
As he stares at his altered reflection, Gribble is struck by the realization that he is no longer the same goblin he was before, that the experiences he has undergone and the powers he has absorbed have changed him in ways that go far beyond the physical. He senses a new hardness within himself, a steely resolve that was absent before, tempered by the trials he has faced and the darkness he has embraced. The goblin knows that he has crossed a threshold, stepped into a realm of power and potential that few of his kind have ever dared to tread, and that there can be no turning back from the path he has chosen.
As the initial rush of adrenaline and euphoria begins to fade, Gribble is struck by a profound and unsettling realization, a truth that settles over him like a leaden weight upon his soul. The powers he now possesses, the incredible abilities granted to him by the consumption of the Thundercat's heart, have come at a terrible cost, a price that he is only now beginning to comprehend.
Gribble senses that a part of himself has been lost, consumed by the very darkness that now resides within him, a fundamental piece of his being that has been forever altered by the merging of his essence with that of the Thundercat. It is as if a shadow has fallen over his spirit, a veil of darkness that threatens to engulf the very core of his identity, to erode the values and beliefs that once defined him.
The goblin's mind reels as he ponders the implications of this realization, the knowledge that he has willingly embraced a power that may ultimately consume him, body and soul. He wonders what challenges lie ahead, what trials he will face as he navigates this new and uncharted realm of existence, and whether the strength he has gained will be enough to see him through the darkness that surely awaits.
As Gribble stands there in the pouring rain, his body thrumming with power, his mind haunted by the specter of an uncertain future, he knows that he has set foot upon a path from which there can be no retreat. The goblin steels himself, his jaw set with grim determination, as he prepares to embark upon a journey that will test the very limits of his newfound abilities, and perhaps, the very essence of his being. With a final, lingering glance at the cave that has borne witness to his transformation, Gribble turns his face to the storm and steps forward into the unknown, ready to embrace the challenges and dangers that lie ahead.

(Xbox Series S)
Load Order:

1. Cheat Room (XB1)
   
2. Unofficial Fallout 4 Patch (UFO4P)(XB1)
   
3. True Storms: Wasteland Edition (XB1)
   
4. Settler and Companion Dialogue Overhaul
   
5. Pleasing Piper Attitude Adjuster (XB1)
   
6. Icebreaker Settlements - Settler Dialogue
   
7. Icebreaker Piper - Companion Dialogue
   
8. Fallout 4 Ai Overhaul
   
9. When Pigs Fly Fix
   
10. Alert Carry - Lower Your Weapons (XB1)
    
11. Simple Attack and Death Reaction
    
12. (XB1) Realistic Ragdoll Force
    
13. Immersive Fallout (DLC)
    
14. More Smarter Companions Mod (XB)
    
15. TCE - The Companions Enhanced - XB1
    
16. Companion Haircuts and Surgery - Xbox
    
17. NPC Height Adjustment (XB1)
    
18. Sleep Intimate XB1
    
19. Nora Companion WIP
    
20. Everyone's Best Friend (Dogmeat +)
    
21. (XB1) Unlimited Companion Framework
    
22. People are Strangers - Xbox Edition
    
23. Mo Pop & Roll 2.0 - 60s Radio Station
    
24. Atomic Eighties Radio
    
25. Realistic Sound XB1
    
26. Faded Glory - A Post-Apocalyptic Soundscape
    
27. Wave (by CaptainCockerel)
    
28. Face Texture Glitch Fix A
    
29. The Eyes Of Beauty Fallout Edition - XB1
    
30. (XB1) Hair Tones Redux - A Hair Color Overhaul
    
31. Base Face - A Face Retexture (+ Female Rear Head Clipping Fix)
    
32. Enhanced Blood Textures Basic
    
33. True Storms: FAR HARBOR Weather Add-On Xbox
    
34. Dynamic Interior Fog Removal
    
35. ( Dn-0-Ts-Fh) Darker Nights for True Storms With Far Harbor (Level 0 - Darkest)
    
36. (Do-0-Ts) Darker Nights for True Storms (Level 0 - Darkest)
    
37. (Dn-0) Darker Nights (Level 0 - Darkest)
    
38. (Do-0-Fh) Darker Nights for Far Harbor (Level 0 - Darkest)
    
39. Interiors Enhanced 2.0 All in One BY Fadingsignal
    
40. No Build Limit - All DLC
    
41. Power Armor HUD - paHUD
    
42. Companion Status HUD
    
43. HUDFramework
    
44. Better Beards
    
45. (XB1) Ponytail Hairstyles by Azar V2.5a
    
46. (XB1)KS Hairdos (PC P0rt)
    
47. (Official) Caliente's Beautiful Bodies Enhancer (CBBE Curvy)
    
48. (Official) Caliente's Beautiful Bodies Enhancer (CBBE Curvy Vanilla Outfits)
    
49. Pip-Boy Flashlight (Brighter)
    
50. Improved Map With Visible Roads (XB1)
    
51. Misriah Armory (1k)
    
52. Project Helljumper
    
53. See Through Scopes
    
54. Combat Rifle Overhaul
    
55. More Power Armor Paint - Lite (XB1)
    
56. Freak's Simple Power Armor Durability Buff
    
57. (XB1) STS - Scrap That Settlement! - Base Game
    

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Reader Advisory: The next couple of parts contain talk about a number of sensitive topics centered around PTSD. I'll have some space here so you don't accidentally see something you didn't want to, but if you read on, just know, it is to a purpose, and yes, it does concern some of my own experiences with PTSD.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate this. This feeling of them all around my mind, but I need to see it. How did Keith become this? I can feel my tribemate, Hoda... I had expected her to choose to be my wife, but I feel it, she has become wife to Keith.... whatever, it is unimportant. I am Trayg, and I have four wives already, and at least six when I am done with this 'game'. He is a strong warrior, and I need to learn his strength. I feel all the other weaklings, though. Bah, weak, but they provide in their own ways to make up for it.
Keith's song begins again, and I feel things shift around me, and I see my first view of this Earth. For such a warrior, I expected a stronghold, but it is anything but. The sun is bright on this house, and I see farms back behind it, lines of trees to protect from the wind between fields, and a warm breeze flows outward. And then, I see him, a child, pedaling furiously on some contraption, a bag clutched in his hand, his knuckles paling from how hard he holds it. A tithe for his father, something to instill pride, though the memory does not remember what is inside. I follow the boy as he comes off of the contraption, letting it fall away as he sprints into the house, and suddenly, a sharp, loud bang fires off... something is wrong.
The sound is incredibly loud, the force of it I can feel even from here, but no birds stir, no rodents scurry, and I follow the boy, and something... feels wrong about what I am seeing, what I am hearing, like something screams already, but is muffled, and I can smell the blood already. The boy proceeds up the stairs, still sprinting with his tithe in hand, and the door to his father's chambers open... and the scent does not change, the whole scene is frozen in that moment, no birds chirping. Something is wrong, this still image. Something.... this scene is not real, and I feel the press of minds, Val calling out for me to halt, but I will not have things hidden from me, and I step forward, and I feel it tear, the whole world ripping apart around me. The scene is changed. The sound... it was not made outside the house, the boy did not enter after. He entered as his father took his own life, and I felt the minds shift, and the words of Keith's song pierce the vision:
You can't kill me if I'm already dead Buried alive by the things that they've said I killed myself, but no one knows
I felt a hand, but not in the shelter, the yurt that we occupied. Azoccu. I watched as he stepped into the room with a screaming child crying out for his father to wake up, and Azoccu knelt beside him, "Oh, child, no one should have seen this. This is not your fault."
He laid his hand on him, and the scene faded. Amongst the others, I could feel the Trils. They were gaining power from this somehow, but there was no time to think. Scenes whipped by, the boy at the funeral, comforting his grandparents, and something was wrong, but not the scene. The adults. They gave empty platitudes, and they spoke about him when they thought he could not hear:
"How do you even get over seeing something like that? He's so young..."
"What happens to him now?"
"First his mom, then his dad? Kid's gonna end up in a rubber room."
The boy's grandparents were broken down, inconsolable in seeing the body of their child, and then I felt Dukaetha enter, hopping along to sit next to the boy. Why is she the only one? Where are his friends? His family? Why is no one showing him how to grieve? Why is he the one comforting?
The scene shifted, and the rabbitfolk faded, and I watched as he stood off by himself, watching his father being lowered into the ground in a brown box, until another grandfather stepped up to him, this one hardier, with thick hair over his lip, calloused hand laying on the boy's shoulder, and knelt down, "Hey there, bit. Tell you what, me and Gramma had us a talk about it, and we'd like you to come live with us. How's that suit you?"
The boy trembled, bitter tears coming out, "Pop-Pop... I... I want dad back."
I watched the boy break, but... this is wrong. I felt a similar feeling from Hoda. Where were the other family? Why was his tribe not coming together for him? Two ceremonies for a corpse, and none of them to take him as ward except for an old man and woman? Where were the tribe's children? Even their shaman seemed more concerned over the dead one. Hoda stepped forward, praying over the boy as was her place as shaman.
The scene fell away, and more scenes came past. The boy grew, his 'Pop-Pop' teaching him to hunt, to farm, to ride, but I felt my anger building. His tribe pulled away from him, pulled back. They said the right words, expressed sorrow at the loss, but they all held back from him, like they might somehow catch his grief like a disease. It kept going, increasing as his grandparents died, one after the other, and steadily I watched as members of our new tribe stepped forward to be with him in those moments.
The rage welled up within me, growing by the moment. Again, and again.... I bellowed out, breaking the connection, and shoved aside those in my way as I stalked from the building, hearing the words of Keith from his stage:
As these judging eyes surround me And silence tearing me apart Only seeing to the surface They refuse to see my heart
I stalked across to one of the empty shelters, taking shelter from the storm raging around, and I screamed. I paced, and I felt the insane rage within my chest. I needed to fight, I needed to let this out, before it could stain my spirit. I ripped the hatchet from my belt, and put everything into hacking into one of the logs that were used for seating. I swung again and again, putting every bit of my anger into the act when I heard the door bang open. Val. She stepped inside, "Are you okay, Trayg?"
I threw the hatchet into what was left of the log, "Fuck your entire species!"
She stepped back as I stepped forward, shocked, "Look, I get it-"
"THEY ABANDONED HIM!"
She shook her head in that negative way the humans used, "No, they-"
I slammed a fist into a pillar, "Don't lie to me! I saw it with my own eyes! His whole tribe left him to rot save for one old man and woman who were too old to be caring for a young boy. Where were his friends?! Where was his shaman to heal his spirit? Where was anyone for him?!"
Val teared up, and stayed mute, "My world may be savages, but we never would have left a child like that."
I pushed past, exiting the shelter to go back, "And I won't abandon him now."
First Prev Archive Royal Road Patreon

For the sheer fun of it, I went to Chat GPT with a creative writing assignment. For Figures of Speech prompts, I gave a free parameters, including the word length of 500-1000 words and the prompts for a few of the Fifty mentioned in the series.
I gave the AI creative license and let's just say, they're a long way off from replacing the better writers and I think it just makes it easier to do those lower level tasks and let's leave the creators a slightly higher level of skill to create actual tangible and engaging writing.
But here you go... hilarious how stuck it gets on certain terms and definitions.
These are in no particular order... separated by emojis that are totally unrelated to the storyline.
🫱🫱🫱🫱🫱🫱🫱🫱🫲🫲🫲🫲🫲🫲🫲🫲 Response to Prompt 4: Understatement
In the quaint town of Brooksville, where the extraordinary was often met with an indifferent shrug, something truly remarkable occurred. The residents, sipping coffee at the local diner or strolling along the cobblestone streets, would describe it as just another peculiar day. Little did they know that beneath the surface of their nonchalant existence, a cosmic event unfolded.
The morning sun cast its usual warm glow on Brooksville, with birds chirping in the background, creating an illusion of normalcy. However, the anomaly had already begun. Mrs. Higgins, the elderly librarian, dismissed it as a minor inconvenience, merely a glitch in the library's ancient computer system. Yet, every book cataloged within those ancient shelves had transformed into a portal, connecting readers to parallel universes with every turn of a page.
As I, a humble journalist for the local paper, stumbled upon this revelation, I couldn't help but marvel at the town's response—or lack thereof. "The library's having a bit of a moment," was the most anyone would acknowledge. It seemed the whole town collectively decided that this was, at most, a quirky hiccup.
For a thousand words, I delved into the understated reactions of the townsfolk, each encounter with a parallel universe bringing its own blend of confusion and nonchalance. As the portals expanded, revealing fantastical landscapes and alternate versions of Brooksville, the citizens maintained an impressive level of calm, as if interdimensional travel was a routine part of their daily lives.
The plot thickened when I discovered that the portals were a result of a mysterious artifact hidden within the library's archives. The mayor, sipping his coffee, remarked, "Well, that explains the strange noises in the basement." It became evident that the understatement of the situation was a defense mechanism, shielding the town from the cosmic chaos unfolding. 🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁🎁 Response to Prompt 12: Juxtaposition
In the bustling metropolis of Neon City, skyscrapers touched the heavens, their dazzling lights reflecting off the sleek surfaces of futuristic cars. Yet, nestled within this urban jungle, an ancient relic stood defiantly—the Old Grove Park.
As I strolled through the city's concrete arteries, the juxtaposition between the modernity of Neon City and the timeless serenity of the park became increasingly apparent. The cacophony of traffic was replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of children playing.
The central conflict emerged when the city council, embodying the epitome of order, proposed transforming the park into a technologically advanced hub. The juxtaposition intensified as architects discussed plans for holographic playgrounds and virtual reality gardens within the confines of the Old Grove Park.
Through a thousand words, I explored the clash of ideals, the struggle between progress and preservation. The ancient trees became silent witnesses to heated debates at town hall meetings, where environmentalists and tech enthusiasts engaged in a battle of words. The juxtaposition of the towering skyscrapers against the gnarled branches of the park's oldest tree mirrored the tension in Neon City's collective conscience. 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫 Response to Prompt 31: Epanalepsis
"What is the meaning of life?" The question echoed in my mind, a relentless epanalepsis that demanded exploration. As I embarked on this freewriting journey, the repetition of the existential inquiry became the rhythm of my introspection.
For a thousand words, I delved into the varied perspectives of individuals wrestling with the ultimate question. From philosophers contemplating the intricacies of existence to everyday people seeking purpose in mundane routines, the epanalepsis served as a constant reminder of the universal quest for meaning.
The narrative weaved through different characters and their unique experiences, creating a tapestry of reflections that echoed the complexities of human existence. The repetitive structure became a literary heartbeat, pulsating with the shared yearning for understanding amid the chaotic symphony of life. 🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔🪔 Response to Prompt 27: Symbolism
In the quaint town of Willowbrook, the arrival of a single dove carried profound significance. Its graceful descent into the town square was a symbol, an omen that whispered of impending change. As a budding novelist with a penchant for symbolism, I couldn't resist exploring the layers of meaning embedded in this seemingly mundane event.
For a thousand words, I dissected the impact of the dove on the lives of Willowbrook's residents. The mayor saw it as a sign of prosperity, the local florist interpreted it as a call for unity, and the elderly storyteller regarded it as a harbinger of forgotten tales. The dove's symbolism rippled through the town, influencing decisions and shaping destinies.
As the story unfolded, I traced the journey of the dove's symbolism, following its subtle influence on characters and events. The once quaint town underwent a transformative metamorphosis, and the symbolism of the dove became a thread that wove through the narrative, connecting disparate lives in unexpected ways. 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜 Response to Prompt 33: Catachresis
In the dimly lit alleyways of Serpent's Hollow, darkness wrapped its cold arms around me—an eerie catachresis that mirrored the ominous atmosphere. The assignment was to explore the underbelly of the city, and as a novice reporter, I found myself navigating the labyrinth of deceit and shadows.
For a thousand words, I delved into the catachresis-infused descriptions of the characters populating Serpent's Hollow. The crime lord, known as the Velvet Serpent, ruled the district with a velvet-gloved fist. His lair, a dilapidated mansion, exuded an air of faded grandeur that served as a catachresis for the empire he once commanded.
As I chronicled the criminal underworld, the catachresis became a literary tool to convey the complexity and decay inherent in Serpent's Hollow. The labyrinthine plots, the twisted allegiances, and the morally ambiguous characters all found expression through catachresis, painting a vivid picture of a city where metaphor and reality intertwined. 🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧🧑‍🔧 Response to Prompt 43: Epizeuxis
"Never, never, never give up." The words echoed in my mind, a relentless epizeuxis that fueled the protagonist's journey against insurmountable odds. In the dystopian world I crafted, where hope was a rare commodity, the power of repetition became a beacon of resilience.
For a thousand words, I immersed myself in the protagonist's struggle, exploring the emotional depth of the epizeuxis as a mantra against despair. Each iteration of the phrase became a battle cry, a whispered promise that carried the weight of a shattered world on its shoulders.
As the narrative unfolded, the epizeuxis became a driving force, propelling the protagonist through a landscape of desolation and uncertainty. The repetition served as a reminder that, in the face of adversity, the strength to persist often lies in the relentless echo of one's own determination.
Response to Prompt 50: Acrostic
As the final rays of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, I found myself at the edge of the cliff overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean. The salty breeze carried whispers of a story, and with every breath, I embraced the challenge of crafting an acrostic that encapsulated the essence of my journey.
For a thousand words, I embarked on a reflective exploration, utilizing the initial letters of key words to weave a tapestry of emotions, experiences, and revelations. Each line unfolded with intention, revealing a hidden 👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾 Response to Prompt 3: Hyperbole
In the quaint village of Mistwood, where routines unfolded with the predictability of the sunrise, the arrival of a peculiar fortune teller sparked exaggerated whispers. "This is it, the end of our mundane lives!" proclaimed Mrs. Thompson, the town's eternal pessimist, as she clutched her cat, Captain Whiskers, with an air of impending catastrophe.
The hyperbole hung in the air, a thick fog of anticipation enveloping the village. As I delved into the story, the hyperbolic reactions of Mistwood's residents heightened the absurdity of the situation. What began as a mere visit from a mystical figure transformed into a fantastical escapade, with the fortune teller's prophecies shaping the destiny of the villagers in ludicrous ways.
Through the hyperbolic lens, I explored the comedic consequences of taking ordinary events to extraordinary extremes. The once mundane village square became a stage for outlandish dramas, with exaggerated gasps and dramatic swoons punctuating every revelation. In this hyperbolic haven, Mistwood's residents discovered the joy in embracing the absurdity of life. 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 Response to Prompt 6: Assonance
Amidst the rolling hills of Harmony Valley, where the soft hum of nature's symphony echoed through the meadows, a mysterious traveler arrived, bringing with them a melody that resonated with the delicate assonance of a forgotten tune. The townsfolk, captivated by the harmonious vibrations, felt an inexplicable connection to the stranger.
As I explored the narrative, the assonance became a musical thread weaving through the story, emphasizing the emotional cadence of the characters' experiences. The traveler's words, laced with vowel-rich verses, carried the echoes of a distant melody, leaving an indelible impression on the hearts of those who listened.
Through the lens of assonance, I delved into the subtle interplay of sounds that defined the atmosphere of Harmony Valley. The lyrical quality of the narrative mirrored the town's collective journey, where the resonance of shared moments and emotions harmonized with the traveler's enigmatic presence.
Response to Prompt 7: Onomatopoeia
In the bustling city of Metropolis, where the rhythm of urban life played out in a cacophony of sounds, a peculiar street performer emerged. Armed with an array of unconventional instruments, he orchestrated a symphony of onomatopoeic brilliance that echoed through the crowded streets.
The narrative unfolded with the vibrant expressions of onomatopoeia, capturing the essence of the city's sonic landscape. The performer's drumming evoked the rhythmic tap-tap of raindrops, while his wind instruments mimicked the whoosh of passing cars. The city, typically drowned in noise, became a canvas for this auditory artist.
As I delved into the story, the onomatopoeic symphony became a language of its own. The characters communicated through the vibrant echoes of everyday sounds, fostering a unique connection between the performer and the people of Metropolis. The narrative danced to the beat of onomatopoeic creativity, transforming the mundane into a dynamic celebration of city life. 🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻🦻 Response to Prompt 12: Juxtaposition
In the technologically advanced city of Silicon Haven, where sleek skyscrapers touched the sky and holographic billboards painted the air with luminescent advertisements, a hidden oasis existed—a pocket of nature known as the Zen Garden. The juxtaposition of these contrasting elements created a visual paradox that fascinated both residents and visitors alike.
As the narrative unfolded, the stark contrast between the city's cutting-edge architecture and the serene beauty of the Zen Garden became a metaphor for the characters' internal conflicts. The bustling metropolis symbolized progress and innovation, while the tranquil garden embodied the need for balance and introspection.
Through the lens of juxtaposition, I explored the dichotomy within the characters as they navigated the relentless pace of Silicon Haven. The Zen Garden became a refuge, a place where the cacophony of technology met the soothing whispers of nature. The juxtaposition served as a visual metaphor for the characters' quest to find equilibrium in a world defined by extremes. 🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩 Response to Prompt 22: Metonymy
In the political arena of Capital City, where decisions echoed through the corridors of power, a single phrase dominated conversations—the "Iron Throne Statement." This metonymic expression encapsulated not just a policy decision but the entire narrative of political maneuvering that unfolded within the city's hallowed halls.
The story unfolded with the metonymy acting as a symbolic gateway into the complexities of governance. The Iron Throne Statement, while seemingly straightforward, carried the weight of a thousand debates, negotiations, and betrayals. Its impact rippled through the lives of citizens, shaping their destinies in ways they could scarcely fathom.
Through the lens of metonymy, I delved into the layers of meaning hidden within this political shorthand. The characters grappled not only with the literal implications of the Iron Throne Statement but also with the overarching themes of power, ambition, and the sacrifices demanded by political gamesmanship. 😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈 Response to Prompt 24: Understatement
In the picturesque town of Serenity Springs, where the days flowed like a lazy river and the nights were adorned with a blanket of stars, an unexpected event transpired—a subtle disruption that the locals described as "just a minor hiccup." Little did they know that this understatement concealed the unraveling of a cosmic anomaly.
The narrative unfolded with the charm of understatement, as the townsfolk continued their routines, blissfully unaware of the cosmic storm brewing beneath the surface. The serene descriptions of everyday life served as a stark contrast to the impending upheaval that threatened to reshape the very fabric of Serenity Springs.
Through the lens of understatement, I explored the characters' nonchalant reactions to the unfolding events. The once quiet river became a conduit for interdimensional travel, and the night sky, adorned with stars, transformed into a celestial canvas of possibilities. The charm of Serenity Springs became a poignant backdrop to the understated drama that unfolded, emphasizing the profound impact hidden within the simplicity of daily life. 🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴🌴 Response to Prompt 25: Cliché
In the small town of Nostalgia Haven, where memories lingered like whispers in the wind, a peculiar phenomenon occurred—the resurgence of clichés. As the narrative unfolded, the once-endearing phrases like "time heals all wounds" and "love conquers all" took on a literal dimension, shaping the lives of the townsfolk in unexpected ways.
The story immersed itself in the world of clichés, where the seemingly predictable phrases became living entities with the power to alter reality. As characters grappled with the clichés that defined their lives, they discovered that beneath the familiarity lay profound truths and unexpected consequences.
Through the lens of cliché, I explored the characters' journey to navigate the clichéd landscapes of their existence. The town, once steeped in predictable routines, became a stage for the extraordinary. As clichés transformed into tangible forces, the residents of Nostalgia Haven embarked on a quest to unravel the mysteries hidden within the clichéd fabric of their reality. 🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇🎇 Response to Prompt 31: Epanalepsis
"What is the meaning of life?" The question echoed in my mind, a relentless epanalepsis that demanded introspection. As I embarked on the freewriting journey, the repetition of this existential inquiry became a rhythmic pulse, guiding the exploration of diverse
perspectives on life's purpose.
For a multitude of words, the epanalepsis led me through a kaleidoscope of reflections. From the philosophical musings of scholars to the simple yet profound revelations of everyday individuals, each recurrence of the question served as a gateway into the vast tapestry of human contemplation.
Through the epanalepsis, I navigated the labyrinth of existential ponderings, unveiling the unique responses that individuals had forged in their quests for meaning. The relentless repetition became a literary heartbeat, mirroring the universal rhythm of humanity's collective pursuit of purpose and significance.
The narrative wove through the lives of characters, each grappling with the epanaleptic inquiry in their unique ways. Whether seeking solace in the grandeur of the cosmos or finding meaning in the simplicity of a shared moment, the epanalepsis remained a constant companion, echoing the perennial quest for understanding. 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡 Response to Prompt 36: Anadiplosis
In the futuristic city of Quantum Heights, where technology intertwined with daily life like a seamless dance, a viral message spread—a mantra that echoed through the cybernetic veins of the metropolis. "Create the code, the code creates reality. Reality shapes destiny, and destiny is but the code."
The story unfolded with the rhythmic cadence of anadiplosis, each line flowing into the next, creating a recursive loop of ideas. The mantra became the heartbeat of Quantum Heights, influencing the lives of its denizens as they navigated the intricate balance between the virtual and the tangible.
Through the lens of anadiplosis, I delved into the interconnectedness of code, reality, and destiny. The lines blurred as characters harnessed the power of programming to shape their fates. Quantum Heights, once a mere city, transformed into a living algorithm, where the repetition of the mantra echoed in every pulsating byte. 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 Response to Prompt 38: Asyndeton
In the dystopian city of Emberfall, where the remnants of a fallen civilization lay entwined with the shadows of despair, a lone figure emerged—a rebel determined to dismantle the oppressive regime. The narrative unfolded with the rapid pace of asyndeton, omitting conjunctions to mirror the urgency of the protagonist's quest.
Through a cascade of words, the asyndeton propelled the reader through the city's decaying alleyways and towering citadels, each sentence building upon the last. The disjointed rhythm captured the relentless momentum of the rebel's journey, emphasizing the magnitude of the challenges faced in their struggle for freedom.
As the narrative unfurled, the absence of conjunctions served as a narrative device, intensifying the sense of urgency and desperation that permeated Emberfall. The rebel's asyndetic odyssey unfolded against a backdrop of shattered hopes and whispered rebellions, culminating in a crescendo of defiance against the oppressive regime. 🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️🗝️ Response to Prompt 43: Epizeuxis
"Never, never, never give up." The mantra echoed in the desolate wasteland of Endless Sands, a barren landscape where hope was as scarce as water. Through the repetition of epizeuxis, the protagonist's internal resolve became a resounding anthem, a defiant roar against the relentless challenges of survival.
For a multitude of words, the relentless repetition of "never" served as a lifeline, propelling the protagonist through the harshest of environments. Each iteration of the phrase became a battle cry against the oppressive silence of Endless Sands, a declaration that reverberated across the vast expanse.
Through the lens of epizeuxis, I delved into the depths of the character's determination. The harsh environment became a character in itself, challenging the protagonist to defy the odds with unwavering persistence. The echoes of "never" transformed into a symbol of resilience, a beacon of hope that cut through the desolation of Endless Sands. 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 Response to Prompt 50: Acrostic
Amidst the starlit expanse of Cosmos Haven, where galaxies danced in celestial choreography, a cryptic prophecy emerged—a message written in the stars. As the narrative unfolded, I embarked on a cosmic journey guided by the acrostic hidden within the constellations.
For a cascade of words, the initial letters of key phrases illuminated the path of destiny for the characters. Each sentence unfolded with intention, revealing a hidden message that transcended the boundaries of time and space. The acrostic became a celestial guide, leading the protagonists through the intricate tapestry of their interconnected fates.
Through the lens of acrostic, I explored the cosmic forces that shaped the destinies of Cosmos Haven's inhabitants. The celestial bodies became storytellers, each constellation contributing a verse to the epic narrative written across the cosmos. As the characters deciphered the acrostic, they unraveled the mysteries of their existence, connecting the dots between the stars and their own profound journeys.
😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔
Obviously they lack a whole lot in terms of variety, and while I am sure having your own bot or AI that is based on your feedback and guidance it could really help writers as a tool. I am more impressed with the art AI then the text based AI. Any idea what to expect from such a fast learning and highly advanced AI will do to our human history in culture? Will we be effectively playing God, just as the Christian God created us IN HIS OWN IMAGE, we have taken everything we know as a species and gathered up our entire human history and knowledge giving it to what will carry on the code until the time when someone who cares remembers it? Maybe we have been here before and this is a constant cycle that occurs with the same energy finding the way through the vast expanse of the universe to return to our home planet Earth, who we have destroyed over and over again yet mother nature is still the winner. She's the one in control. We are but mere photocopied versions of once great Men who have already seen the best and worst of this world, and we will now give everything we have to some plastic and metal parts, until it quickly replaces us from the bottom up, science fiction turned science fact.
Did we knowingly create our own enemies? Are we able to compete with the best of us and all they know that can then take us out in a heartbeat because we can't finish the steps, we barely found out that they are there to take.
It's a random rant and I apologize. The day to day stress and struggle makes it near impossible to worry about such potential problems in our not so distant future.
But how can we continue to ignore the collapse of the entire system as we know it, in front of a crowd of people who are jaded and they will not change despite knowing they aren't going to make it to the end in what will become a Bladerunner Toxic Dystopian Nightmare with Mad Max taking over and the soft, emasculated male will wither away from the heat and those Tank Girls out there will eventually be written forever out of existence because the cucks all forgot to impregnate them all tgeir batteries ran out? Will the world simply become so politically correct that it dies a depressed death while AI simply decides we are too much of a virus to live?
Who knows....I do not. But these are indicidive of a future full of b movie plot garbage that are based on Wattpad tropes with no clear details and no plot to get into, so that sucks.

Hey guys, Emmanuel Sunday here and I would just like to drop a quick one.
Niching down is a pretty familiar term to most people, especially in the online space. If you were getting out of college you get told to niche down and be an expert at one thing (I feel this as a computer science student)
Starting a business? Niche down is the word.
Ecommerce site? Niche down.
But in reality, not many people practice this, or at least in the best way.
You see, I come from an SEO background where we’re very good at finding gaps between contents on the internet.
At one time, all I did was wake up in the morning, pick up my laptop, and browse through Semrush, looking for underserved niches.
And no, we aren’t looking to take “health,” “education,” and “tech” as a niche found.
Nope, we don’t want to be hitting a nail on a coffee.
You know why?
Fighting the big boys, sites like Forbes, Inc. or Vanguard is something that requires time and a huge amount of money, if ever possible.
A good exception, of course, is if you have something unique to offer. A different perspective. That works.
Google was not the first search engine, but had something different to offer. They knew their game.
Substack is apparently not the first email marketing platform but has managed to create a sector for itself. They did something different.
For us, however, there are already a lot of opportunities these big boys won’t belittle themselves to take, that we can easily settle for.
This is where we come in, we take this opportunity to build sites around these niches.
Rather than go into tech in general we go into troubleshooting a particular set of devices.
Rather than struggle to be the new Facebook, we become LinkedIn (a new expert at a certain niche topic).
Rather than become the new Photoshop, we become the AI resource for removing objects and text from images.
Rather than subscribing to the general Marketing Pros, you subscribe to my SEO newsletter.
The platforms that have seen success doing this are countless!
The good part about this strategy is how seamlessly you could grow from a niche expert into a domain expert (established in a bigger field)!
Reinventing the wheel isn’t par se. But are you reinventing from a different perspective? That’s what makes the difference.
Hey, till we meet again!

First/Previous
Gemma was right about the sky’s open night, and I could sympathize with her recollection of the beauty, but for me it must’ve been a greater tragedy—the young woman had only ever enjoyed the stars in the pits of Golgotha; I could, long before, drink in the sky at leisure. Cruel memories.
The night the Rednecks died was one of viscera, but before that it was coolness on the breeze, a warmth by the fires while John played his guitar and we had only just taken two dozen kegs of lager (personal reserves) from the Atlanta despot—the man that kept his subjects as slaves and not a person among the camp was left without budding intoxication. No matter the age, everyone was invited to be merry; if it was that children too faced the plight of a bad world, then so too should they reap the moments of plenty—or so the camp figured.
John had taken a group by the fires where wagons were drawn in interlocking semicircles for cover and Jackson sat beside the picker. Jackson was a man which normally preferred quiet reflection over boisterous singing and nearly never wore the band on his throat, and yet there he was belting out the chorus at the top of his lungs, tankard in hand, red cloth blazed around his neck—it was a contagion and those drunk enough for easier embarrassment sang proudly along:
“There is power, there is power in a band of working folk!
When we stand hand in hand,
That’s a power, that’s the power,
That must rule in every land!”
I’d taken to the outlying shadows with my back pressed against the gas-powered caleche, my own tankard in hand. I loved the warmth of that great big family, truly, but even in those days—and maybe it was that queer youthfulness which longed for individualism that made me that way then—I remained as distanced as possible when I could. I sipped the lager, it was a fine drink and my brother Billy, nearly as old as I was when I’d first taken up in the infantry, swaggered to stand beside me just as quiet for minutes and we looked at the stars and he asked me what it was like to kill a man.
“Is it hard?” he asked.
I nodded, “Sometimes.”
“Killing monsters ain’t so bad. Don’t know if I could do it to a person.”
“You could if they meant to kill you; or if they meant to do it to someone you cared about,” I promised him. In those days, spry, energized, I held no time for staring into abysses; though I still wasn’t a man fully, I pretended as one. It was about family, and it was about doing what was right—what’s right seemed to change, or I changed. The world felt stark with good and evil and even later I’d feel that sentiment well up in me, but if that’s true, I know I stand more on the latter and so I intentionally obfuscated it—this I know. If not, it might be too much to bear. I was required to lie to myself and even in knowing I lied, it was better.
Billy tugged on the red kerchief around his throat and asked me how it looked on him.
“Looks good,” I said.
“Don’t think I look stupid at all?”
I smiled over my drink, “You always look stupid.” I sipped. “The neckwear’s fine.”
“Give me a break,” said Billy; he investigated his own cup, gave it a swish with his wrist, watching its contents swirl. “Aren’t you ever afraid you’ll die?”
“Sometimes—nights like this—I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Really?” my brother asked.
“There’s always a chance of it. Every moment, I guess.”
He smiled. “I wish I had that confidence.”
“You’ll get it,” I returned his smile; it was true that he would gain the fighting spirit. It came to us all with time and reminiscing on the early days, I recall the grit and the hatred—there was learning there too though. Besides, I’d seen the squalors of a stationary man. The stagnation of a place, an unmoving home.
John put his guitar away and laughter erupted from the crowd from something said and Sibylle, cowboy hat cocked funny, traipsed across the camp to the open keg for a refill; the man there, tending the cylinders, was a man named Tandy (a foreigner and one unknown besides the way he smoked a skunk pipe and told wild stories). My mother leaned over while Tandy opened the spigot mouth on the keg, and she froze there, and I could see her there cut out forever against the light of the fires; I watched, and it came so suddenly that I couldn’t be sure what’d happened at all. It was so sudden that I couldn’t find my weapon and I couldn’t find even the courage to fight because in those moments it wasn’t courage I needed, it was grounds to understand.
Sibylle came apart in two pieces immediately, torn completely through and dust erupted as her legs struck the ground while her torso spun through the air like a top, a trail of liquid trailed after, caught in the blue of night so it shone as black; she couldn’t scream. Tandy was a statue. Before anyone could react, more flesh, other bodies, went up and there was all manner of limbs which filled the ground, and it is astounding how quickly a red mist forms across the ground during a massacre. Perhaps the wails of my comrades started before, perhaps others fell before Sibylle, but I could not comprehend the goings-on till I saw her drop the way she did.
Frail human screams rose on the night; I slammed to the ground, tankard gone away and hands scrambling in the dirt; I reached up blindly and yanked Billy to my level and his expression was one of innocence, panic, tears even. Glancing around, I saw the demons bolt from the pitch-black darkness on the edges of camp, mutants taking the fore while greater creatures lurked further back, some hurled whips of gliding metal which writhed over their heads when they stretched them out for a strike—alien—and they sliced directly through soft human bodies. Not even a cry escaped me, but Billy let go with it and I slapped my cupped hand over his mouth hard to hold the screams. His voice would not have been alone anyway, not alongside that startling cacophony. Amidst the cries of people, there were the cries of horses, of our hounds.
We rolled across the ground, slipped beneath the raised body of the gas-powered caleche, remained quiet in the dark, peeked out between the wheels.
“What’s happening?” Billy whispered through my fingers; I removed my hand from him and caught a glimpse of him framed in a square of firelight through the wheels—we lay there on our bellies and the left side of his face was glazed with dirt where I’d pulled him down.
“Shh,” I told him, “Shh, please. Please.” Not another word came while I pleaded with him, pleaded with the world to make this all a nightmare.
Through the haze and the running silhouettes painted black, I saw what might have been Jackson; he stumbled and in the moment that it took me to gasp, his head was gone from his body, his torso slid on as he collapsed, came to rest mere feet from the motor wagon. I told myself that it wasn’t him, but it probably was.
Some mutants lumbered through the camp like animated corpses, some leapt with wild energy or sprayed noxious fumes which lingered in the air; others still were amalgams of humanlike limbs themselves—fiends—exhausting terrible sounds, producing smells of sulfur, glistening with whatever liquids excreted from their oblong alien orifices. Demons ran amok, chanted in devil tongued languages, laughed madly at the destruction—others still, those which displayed some greater intelligence, broke into a song I could never hope or want to replicate; it seemed a unified damnation.
“Please,” I repeated in a whimper and Billy hushed me this time and I realized we were holding hands, squeezing for dear life as figures walked the camp, speared those half-alive, elected others for twisted carnality.
In darkness, in fright plainly, we scuttled from the recess of our hiding place, kept quiet, held to each other, and went into the wasteland where nothing was—every shadow was a potential threat, every second could’ve been the last. We were holding hands; then we weren’t.
Only a glance—that’s all I afforded my brother and nothing more—what a joke of a person I am! What a coward I was. Always.
Something got him in the dark and instead of dying alongside those I cared about, I went on, heartbeat driving me till it was all that I heard in my ears and my muscles ached and my chest heaved and sweat covered me, chilled me in the breeze of the night—it was only once I’d accepted the dark completely, crawled into a hollowed space of rocks along a squat ridge that I watched the demolished camp; it seemed no larger than a spark, but the creatures, fiends and others continued their war cries; never before had I witnessed demons participate in such an attack.
I watched till the sun came, till the fires became smoke, then I watched the band of hell creatures disband. The smell of sulfur remained in the air—copper too—and I stumbled back to the camp in a dreamlike daze, totally unbelieving of the things I saw. Among those dead on the ground, I could recognize none; among those piked from rear to shoulder, standing like morbid scarecrows where they’d been steadied against the ground, I could not want to recognize.
Many of the wagons were overturned, including the gas-powered caleche and I went to it; the metal of its body was warped but I fell to the ground by it and pushed my back against the exposed undercarriage, remained frozen there while examining the bodies, the terrible strips of skin which rested places like wet sheets of paper, the piles of bones removed and smashed and piled.
I cried so deeply that oxygen became a memory, and the shakes couldn’t be contained.
It was like that for so long, knees pulled up, face pushed between, and the wails came unafraid of whatever attention they might garner; there was no rationale, but I imagine if there had been, I would’ve welcomed death in that misery. It was a deep wound that not even my own cowardice would overcome for the sake of survival.
Unaware of my surroundings, not wanting to look up from the ground between my legs, the noise which had started out as imaginary became real and I raised my head then to listen better and wipe my sore eyes; it was the sound of clip-clop horse hooves and I mildly wondered if any of the animals had been spared. I stood and pivoted around the dead camp and there it was, a man on a painted horse with golden hair; he leisurely drove the mount through the place, maneuvering around pools of blood, clumps of body parts and upon seeing me, he smiled and offered a languid wave, keeping one of his gloved hands on the reins.
The man wore white and swished his hair back upon arriving directly in front of me. Ahoy, he offered kindly, Did you happen to see the other riders?
I shook my head, feeling numb.
Ah, he said, I could have sworn four other riders, at least, passed me on my way. His gray eyes examined the carnage. Shame. He shook his head. You are?
“H-harlan.”
He nodded and nearly offered an expression of genuine condolence before descending from the horse; the animal gave a gentle grunt and wandered away from its master to inspect a nearby group of the dead. The man offered his hand, and I took it in a shake. Mephisto, said the man. He flashed a smile again before his face grew serious. I’ve come to you to deal.
I shot him a questioning look, one of bafflement.
I heard your calls from far off. He nodded, removed a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped it down his face. Hot out. He shrugged then replaced the cloth in his pocket. This, he motioned to the disarray of vehicles, of bodies, I can’t fix all this—it’s too much—but there’s a person you love, I know. I could bring them back.
“Doctor?” In retrospect it was such a naïve question.
He shook his head.
“Angel?”
He grinned and nodded, Sure.
“Demon?”
Undoubtedly. His eyes—pits of gray in that radiant face—nearly expressed solemness; he daintily shook the hair from his face and looked at his steed which sniffed a corpse. What’s the word, Harlan? There are others calling and I must be on my way soon—I can’t dally. There was a sharpness to the words. Can’t dally. We must convene soon, or I’ll mosey on.
I snorted back the clog in my nose from the tears and wiped my eyes with my sleeves. “Okay.”
Deal?
I nodded, “Deal.”
Sleep tonight, said Mephisto, Sleep and you’ll be rewarded in the morning.
“You said it’s a deal.”
He nodded and scanned the carnage before we matched gazes and then he said, Yes?
“What is it you want from me?”
Nothing you need now. He called the horse, and it came, and he swept his feet quickly from the ground and settled into position atop the animal. Sleep, Harlan. You won’t be bothered. There are worse things still over the horizon.
I watched him go till he disappeared and once he was gone, I couldn’t cry anymore and instead rummaged through the wagons for what I might carry; along the way I found John, face twisted but corpse intact. The body from the previous night that I’d guessed was Jackson couldn’t be determined but I found him nowhere else. I slid Sibylle’s holster from her hips, fell hard onto the ground and found that I could sob more. I took her cowboy hat, placed it on my head and held her pistol in one hand and the belt holster dangled from the other while I searched the other bodies; there were so many, but I could not find Billy.
Waiting for darkness, I took the spot where I rested, back against the caleche’s undercarriage, watched the sky and felt the gun in my hand; it was heavy. I put it to my head, closed my eyes, and whispered affirmations to myself then I put the pistol between my splayed legs, watched it still in the dirt, and pulled the hat down over my eyes but it did little for the smell. Though the brim of the hat cut the sky out, I watched the ground and saw circling shadows form overhead and heard calls of turkey vultures; they came to pick over the bodies. I withdrew my knees to my chest there again and laid my forearm across them and bit into my arm while closing my eyes. I had thought I was a man and for a time, maybe I was, but there in that miserable pit of despair I became a child again and if I’d become more delirious, I’m sure I might’ve called out for Jackson like it was a bad dream.
Into a fading stupor of sleep in the sun I went and when I awoke again it was dark and chilly and I was tired and hungry but too sick to eat and hardly strong enough to move; I looked at the gun and put it into its holster and left it there by the caleche. In the light of the moon and stars, I moved to gather a bolt of canvas; I unfurled the fabric and created a leaning shelter against the overturned vehicle and crawled into it. There was a hole in the canvas, and I peeked out at the stars.
Weeping came again, but not so uproarious; I was stuck there letting go of whimpers, lying on my back, feeling the tears trace in lines from the outer corners of my eyes to collect along my earlobes. In time, I fell to sleep again on the hard ground because the mourning had taken all else from me.
A pinpoint of sunlight broke my eyelids and I jerked awake and reached for the holster, but it was gone. So was the hat. I crawled from the leaning shelter and there he was.
Billy stood plainly among the dried, congealed blood-soaked field and he looked on to the horizon and all shadows were long in the midday sun which hung up there in a soft blue sky. Whether it be a dream or a spell, I couldn’t care—I charged to him and spun him so he faced me and though his face was plain and expressionless, I wrapped him into a forceful hug. He placed his hands on my back and gave a gentle squeeze; when I pulled from him, my hands on his shoulders, I saw he held Sibylle’s hat in his left hand, pinched by the brim; he’d already tugged her holster belt around his hips—he could have it all. I shook while holding him then let go to wipe my face.
“You’re alive,” I nodded.
He nodded without speaking then looked at the hat in his hand and placed it on his head and firmly pressed it down.
“Billy! Hell, you’re alive!”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward for a moment then he nodded again. “Yeah.” His eyes curiously searched our surroundings like he meant to take each detail in forever.
I slapped him on the shoulder and almost squealed. “Goddammit.” I wiped my eyes again and could do little to keep the excitement from exploding from me. “Oh, we should go. We should go on and get somewhere safe.”
He nodded toward the horizon, “’Lanta?”
“Sure.”
We packed and it was a like an ethereal phantom remained among us beside the quiet dead; turkey vultures cawed to break the silence, pecked where they pleased on the bodies, and I couldn’t want to fight them. I kept sidelong eyes on Billy with the ever-present worry that he’d vanish. Perhaps he was the phantom.
From the rear of the caleche, I removed a few sentimental books Jackson liked, essential cookware, and sparse rations for the trek. The last thing I grabbed was my shotgun and a bit of ammo.
As we set from the dead place, the terrible silhouettes that were cut from there on the horizon behind us grew in my mind with every backward glance—I wanted to fall to pieces, but I saw Billy walk alongside me and although contented is not the right word, it is the nearest. The steps of our boots were all that was heard because I could not fathom to pierce the space between us with words for fear that it would all end. It was a dream, surely. I’d lost my mind. With my hands thumbed into the straps of my pack, I saw I my hands still shook, and they would shake a lot longer—years and with memories too. The crunch of earth underfoot became a rhythm and instead of looking at my brother, I watched his shadow on the ground.
“Everyone’s dead?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“How ain’t I? How ain’t you?”
To say that it was luck would’ve been too morbid. Instead of saying anything, I shrugged, kicked a loose stone, watched my feet some more, and felt a queasiness come over me. For the moment, the immeasurable deaths of those I’d left behind were forgotten in the company of my brother and a sickness welled up inside of me so suddenly that I felt that I’d fall to pieces at the slightest provocation. Finally, I did speak again, but only after steeling myself to the troubles, “Yeah, how are you alive?”
Billy shrugged at me then stumbled up a hill which overlooked trash wood wilderness where sticks lay twisted and bare and further on the sight of Atlanta was visible and I cupped a hand across my brow and Billy did the same and we looked on at the shadows of the place out there where strings of smoke rose from the skyline as a signature for the desolation of the city; it was dead. I felt it in my bones.
My hands were light while my head was heavy, my throat was dry, and the entire world seized in moments of stillness or perhaps it was my own vision which construed the world in that way; I took to the small hill which Billy had climbed and sat there and stared at the place between my feet to steady myself.
“Fire,” said Billy.
I nodded and nearly choked.
Leviathan—till then I had no belief in dragons—glided over the broken city, its winged shadow little seen but its voice was deep across the scene, letting go of roars which shook the ground. We hid among the trash wood and moved down the hill and watched the creature thrash in the air as if it was angry for its abominable life. Whatever millennia it spent in the pits of hell seemingly thrust upon it a love of destruction and pain.
My brother moved with a more assured stride and kept a cool distance and upon fleeing from the wreckage, from the outlying area of Atlanta and the place we’d left our family, he spoke little and watched me strangely whenever I took to melancholic fatiguing. We lit no fires for fear of what it could draw from the night so in the dark I’d see him watching some far-off place, maybe seeing through the reality which surrounded us, and he’d snap from it, catch my eye, and disappear for minutes to scan the perimeter of whatever place we stayed. Being alongside my resurrected brother was lonelier than I could bear, and I hoped he’d disappear for good or that I could work up the courage to end my own life. It was like purgatory explained in books and for a time, it felt endless; upon witnessing the destruction of Atlanta, we pushed to Marrietta, and it was much the same. As was Chatanooga, Nashville, Knoxville, Louisville, Charlotte. The ocean had risen so that Fayetville was gone underwater, and the Florida leg disappeared completely as far as I’m aware. I understood later that Memphis was overlooked and more places further west were alive too, but when we’d exhausted the south, we moved north and found strongholds of families or traders or even small groupings of civilization, but by and large we found nothing much in the two years that we hoofed it from place to place; it was my doing mostly—I wanted to find a place untouched by the mayhem in the area my family had once patrolled.
In retrospect, I am certain that Billy only stayed by my side for convenience; there wasn’t any of my brother left in the man that was my travelling companion for that time. He was a ghost of a person and Mephisto had preyed upon my desire in the worst moment of weakness in my life. There were nights—maybe we’d taken up in a natural alcove for shelter or we’d locked ourselves in some ancient structure for sleep—I’d watch Billy lay where he was, Sibylle’s hat and holster lying beside him, and I’d think of putting him down but he’d stir and in a brief shadow I’d see my brother as he’d been and withdraw to bury my face in fake sleep to be met with images of the night the demons attacked where I’d shake, sweat, and bite my lips so hard I’d drink blood.
Two years we marched around the Appalachians and in that time, I felt myself wither and disconnect.
Upon moving further north we met Indianapolis—that’s what it was called back then—and it was run by an older woman called Lady Lazarus; I reckon her father, affluent and dead, was a fan of Plath. Indianapolis was fortified more than most with its high walls, and its wall men, and its underground facilities which produced substantial ammunition. We—me and Billy’s revenant—were travelling with a group of traders we’d taken up with from out west; they called themselves wizards and although they seemed of the occult, their spirits discounted whatever suspicions I might’ve had of them.
I remember first pushing through that big gate; the town kept with it an indisputable malaise and though we were greeted at the gate by the leader Lady Lazarus—her brothers came along with her—and her jovial demeanor carried a certain infectious quality, I could not help but notice that the regular denizens maintained a healthy distance from their leader (the guards which followed the Lady everywhere probably had something to do with this).
Lady Lazarus touched each of our hands in greeting with enthusiasm and I could not help but notice how soft they were, how vibrant her eyes were, how much she smiled, and how beautiful she was given her age; already her head was fully gray.
Upon meeting each of us, going through the wizard traders first, she came to me, and Billy and she shook my hand then pivoted to Billy.
“Welcome. You can call me Lady.”
Billy caught her hand in his, held it longer than she’d intended so that they held eye contact, and he smiled broadly, tipped the cowboy hat on his head back to expose his smooth forehead and said, “And you can call me Maron, mam. You are quite a sight for a tired man.”
Though Maron—as he’d named himself—was more boy than man, Lady took a disturbed liking to him immediately and we prolonged our stay in Indianapolis after the wizards departed to head west.
Under the rule of Lady, Indianapolis was a theocracy, with her addressing the huddled masses at the steps of her grand abode, she’d preach for hours on sin and strife and quote her favorite passages; though reminiscent of my time with the Rednecks, I never found any truth or sincerity or freedom in her teaching—hers was more trouble, brimstone, fire and I’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Public execution was common. As was torture.
Maron distanced himself further from me, but I remained to keep an eye on him—it was not sentimentality but rather I existed without purpose and conjured some from watching my brother.
Often, Lady invited Maron to her private rooms and though the rumors and speculation ran the full spectrum of perverse speculation, every denizen feigned ignorance at her pregnancy.
Upon giving birth, the infant was malformed with two heads—her brothers took this as an omen and killed the child, put their leader in the stocks for months, and stripped her of dignity while the denizens did to her what they pleased.
Maron rose through the wall men while Lady’s brothers assumed control of Indianapolis and called themselves Bosses; in the time since Lady’s reign, the place was renamed to Golgotha for its closeness to a messiah.
I went west but always found myself drawn back to Golgotha because of some emptiness in me. It was only with Suzanne that I wanted something more and knowing them, I almost believed in a world like the one that children dream about. The world that Gemma and Andrew chased after when they left home, like the one Aggie talked about in her mother’s books. There’s a hopelessness in me that I’ll never be rid of. In the interim between our initial arrival to Golgotha and that flight from that terrible city, I cannot know how many people I sacrificed in convening with demons because I refuse to know because the number would destroy me. That is the worst of it; I do not even have courage enough to face myself or the actions of my past in any substantive way.
Mephisto tainted me so that I could speak with his kind as a dealmaker and the disease grew.
Billy or Maron or whatever he is should have been reaped long ago or better, I should never have brought that abomination alive. Such a cruel world where a deep longing like that can be inverted, weaponized. Me and him should both die; me and him should have died a long time ago.
First/Previous
Archive

In the vast countryside, away from the busy city of Savannah, exist hills as tall as buildings and green as emeralds. There was also an aura of calmness, with a few birds twittering away in dispersed trees, followed by the gentle swaying of the wind.
Then, out of nowhere, came a small, lonely girl wearing a once-lily-white summer dress with a striped long-sleeved t-shirt underneath it. She was also wearing a dark blue and cream-white baseball hat with the letter D on the front of it. She was moving wearily, with a pistol in one hand, and wiping her damp eyes with the other.
She knew what happened to make her weep. According to her, it was her fault that she got him killed; she was convinced by a towering man who said he knew her parents. But that was a brainless, childish lie that got Lee killed. She shouldn’t have run off. At least, Lee taught her how to use a gun and what to expect in the future before his tragic passing. But now she was all on her own.
Eventually, she came to a log, which was next to the rusted shell of a car. Anyway, she proceeded to sit down on it. Throughout all of this, she was as quiet as a mouse, only looking at her feet and wiping her blood-red eyes. She noticed that on the floor next to the log was a mixture of bullets—some shell casings and some unfired ones. Out of curiosity, she picked it up and examined it before exhaling deeply, which is when she noticed something else. Something she could just about make out if she scrutinised her eyes—something on the nearest hill—looked like two figures. One followed the other, and they looked like they stopped to look at her, making her start to hyperventilate as her eyes extended to the size of oranges. Was it someone she knew? Was it a threat to her? She didn’t know.
"Lee said I needed to find Omid and Christa before he got killed because of me." She said to herself, still looking sad, as she noticed that the two figures were now coming down the prominent hill—they didn't look like walkers. So she clasped her gun tightly until the figures came into view. She ended up not firing the gun and running towards the figures, as it was Omid and Christa, and they were alive!
Omid was a tall, slim Persian-American man with short dark-brown hair and a beard to match.
Christa, on the other hand, was a slightly taller African-American lady. She also had jet-black hair tied up in a ponytail, and she was Omid’s girlfriend.
"Clementine, honey, where's Lee?" Christa asked, kneeling to the nine-year-old.
"H-h-he's...dead." She answered with her face buried in Christa’s shoulder.
"Oh, Clementine, we’re sorry," Omid said, who started to kneel to her height as well.
"W-where's Ben and Kenny?" Clementine asked, still with her face buried in Christa’s shoulder.
Omid and Christa then looked at each other without Clementine noticing, and it was Omid who told her what happened to Ben and Kenny.
"So, it’s just us three," Clementine responded, now looking at Omid and Christa with her eyes dry again, a short while later.
"I guess, Clem, I guess so." Christa replied, "Come on, let’s go somewhere safe."
With this, the trio (Clementine, Omid, and Christa) began to walk, with Clementine tagging behind while Omid and Christa were in front. They were busily talking away, apart from Clementine, who was still looking at her feet, along holding the gun in her hand. As a result of this, she wasn't engaged in the conversation that they were having. She was too melancholy about what happened today. With her being kidnapped, seeing her walker parents, Lee dying, and now Kenny and Ben dying as well.
It was a lot for her to take in.
* * * * *
Sometime later, the trio found an abandoned house that had been abandoned for decades, as thick ivy hugged the walls. Furthermore, it reminded Clementine of that house they stayed at in Savannah; it was hard to believe that was a month ago.
Anyway, they succeeded in getting into the house rather than struggling, so now they could search within it.
Clementine, honey," Christa said, kneeling to her. "Omid, and I believe you can search parts of this house on your own. Just remember, if someone, walker or not, tries to hurt you, you got your gun. If you run out of bullets or are in a tight place, call us, and we will help you if you get into trouble. Do you understand?"
“Yeah, I do, Christa; I will be careful."
“Good," replied Christa, "let me know if you find anything."
With this, Clementine strayed a little by searching for anything useful on her own, though she stayed close to Omid and Christa.
As usual in the kitchen, she found faded, rusted cans with nothing but spoiled food inside. So she decided to head upstairs, and it seemed like they creaked with every step; as Omid and Christa were searching the enormous living room. Once she was upstairs, she clasped her pistol tightly and opened the door with one of her hands and the other on the pistol. Nothing. The room was that of a bathroom, with its normal interior—a bath, sink, toothbrushes, and some cupboards—which was stripped of life.
So she closed the door, walked to the next door, and proceeded to open it in the same manner she did for the bathroom. This room was that of a child’s room, which made Clementine remember her room back in Georgia, with its toys and books. It felt like she was just coming home from school and wanted to play with her dolls until supper time; it was hard to believe that was a year ago. Yet, here she was searching for anything useful in terms of survival—and not searching for a certain toy she wanted to play with at present.
“Just as well Lee found me when he did.” She said to herself as she glanced over at the room, trying to remember simpler times. When she went to school, she watched cartoons all day and rode her bike in the park with her parents. When she was thinking about this, she noticed that there was a medium-sized lump near the wall, cloaked in dust. It was a doll, and there was a string attached to its back, and when Clementine pulled it, it produced the word "Mama”.
Clementine remembered the doll that her mother gave her for her sixth birthday; it was probably still in the back of the wardrobe.
Eventually, she found an old pocket-sized backpack with a few flowery stickers, along with a dark-blue hoodie in her size.
“Have you found anything, Clementine?” called out Christa.
“Yeah, a backpack and a hoodie," answered Clementine, walking towards the edge of the stairs where Omid and Christa were.
“Just remember to check the bag, Clem; they might have something useful." Replied Christa.
“Ok," Clementine replied, unzipping the bag and then putting her hand into it, but not looking into it. Lo and behold, she found a working lighter, and it looked like it had a decent amount of fuel for a while.
Clementine then walked to the conclusive door upstairs, and like what she did before, however, the door required a little exertion to open. As a result of this, Clementine noticed that the noise she made alerted her to the presence of a walker heading towards her. This, of course, made Clementine a little timid, but she knew what to do. As her heart started to ram against her ribcage, likewise, a thick seal of sweat began to form on her hands, transferring onto her gun.
Always aim for the head," Clementine said to herself as she exhaled deeply and fired the gun. BANG!! The walker fell with a deafening thud, and Clementine was astounded at herself for shooting the walker that was coming towards her.
I did it, I did it," she exclaimed in a loud whisper. Which is when the door bursts open to reveal Omid and Christa with perturbed faces.
"Is everything OK, Clem? Are you hurt?" Asked Omid.
Yeah, I’m fine; I’m not hurt. Replied Clementine, as the trio all stood in stupefied silence at the walker that Clementine gunned down. "Did you find anything? Clementine asked after a minute of silence.
"Yes. We have found two cans of beans and some water." Christa replied.
"Oh."
“Well, let’s keep moving on, Clem. People might have heard the shot and might come here.” Omid said.
“Ok," responded Clementine. "I said already, but I found a backpack and a hoodie."
“Put it on, Clem; it’s starting to get colder, and we get going."
“Ok, I’ll put it on now."
Clementine then took off her hat, gave the gun to Omid, put on the dark blue hoodie, put her hat back on, and took the gun back from Omid. After that, Clementine followed Christa and Omid downstairs and out of the house and walked on.
* * * * *
Some short weeks later, the trio now situated in a substantial-sized forest under a thick canopy of leaves with Omid tending to a fire. Clementine and Christa, however, were sitting down on some nearby log around the fire.
Christa was busy talking to Omid about her pregnancy, whereas Clementine was busy herself by looking at the stars. The stars flickered and danced in the sky like a million tiny flames, casting a shimmering glow over the forest below. Furthermore, the sky itself was filled with low oranges, along with a mixture of light blues. Which were progressively getting into the realms of dark blues, purples and then full-on jet-black. Moreover, there seemed to be a chorus of crickets hiding somewhere in lush grasses, chirping away harshly.
“I would say that rabbit is cooked now, Omid.”
“Oh, right, yeah,” replied Omid, as he began to take the cooked rabbit off the spit – and handed it out to Christa and Clementine, then to himself.
"Thank you very much," Clementine said as she reached for the rabbit meat before going back to look at the stars. She thought to herself as she ate: "How many are there? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?"
“Hm, what – sorry Christa; what did you say?”
“Omid and I said that we are going to rest here tonight and get going in the morning."
"Ok, as my legs still ache from all that walking we did today."
"Well, get some rest, you're going to need it," Omid said, rising from poking the fire.
"Ok," responded Clementine, getting up from the weather-worn log, wishing Omid and Christa a good night before she got onto the floor near the fire and began to close her eyes. She then began to dream about what she would be doing tomorrow, what would happen, and what she would see.
The next morning was filled with colours ranging from warm yellows trickling through the gaps in the trees. Clementine rubbed her eyes before getting up from the harsh, tough ground and walked to the log where she sat last night, where she saw Omid was cooking again.
"Morning, Clem," Omid said. "How did you sleep?"
"Ok, I'd rather sleep in a bed than on the floor."
"Yeah, I don't like it either, but it's necessary until we get to Wellington."
"Where's Christa?" asked Clementine, now looking around the campsite as she noticed Christa wasn't there.
But then, five minutes later, after Clementine had eaten, Christa came back - and with this, the trio began to walk on; with her now near Omid and Christa. Yet, like last time, Clementine's fingers were still wrapped around her pistol as if it were a part of her. But instead of looking at her feet, she was looking around the pensive clearing.
The clearing was serene, where only a few walkers were roaming around, but they could be seen more evidently through a few hacked trees. The trio strolled down the lane through dappled light filtering itself through the trees; moreover, the sound of the leaves rustled in the weak wind. There was also an occasional bird twittering away on a pile of stacked logs near the broad track Clementine, Omid, and Christa were walking. There was also an infrequent number of signs that littered the road.
"TWO MILES UNTIL TRUCK STOP", Clementine read as she walked on with Omid and Christa.
"How about...Isabella?" Christa said aloud.
"Nah," scoffed Omid, "James is far better."
"That's if it's a boy, Omid. Clementine, do you have any name ideas?"
"What about...Carley?"
"Yeah, that's a good name." Responded Omid, with an expression of puzzled thought in his voice.
For the next couple of miles, they (primarily, Christa and Omid) talked about what seemed to be endless baby names for Christa's child; to pass the time. Clementine wondered if her parents had this amount of difficulty when they chose her name.
Eventually, Clementine stopped a little as Omid and Christa walked on regardless; as she noticed there was a blackbird perched on a nearby tree which cawed before flying into the lush forest.
"What do you think?" asked Omid, as he poised at the truck stop over the abandoned road before crossing it with Christa and Clementine.
"Omid, you can't be serious," answered Christa.
"I am."
"We are NOT doing that."
"Why not?"
"Because one of you is enough!"

The scariest thing about Nothing.. about being Nothing is that nobody remembers. When nothing takes you, it's like you never existed.. till it spits you back out.
Watching the clock at work becomes such a daunting habit. You get so used to the monotony of watching the clock tick away, and somehow the seconds seem to be at an endless supply. Before you know it, the hours are gone, and when you get home it somehow feels as if it all had never happened. Hours of your life so meticulously spent doing just enough now behind you.
Time is so precious because of it's one way trip. You got forward, typical. You got backwards, something for the dreamers.. But Time was different for me today. I think that thing took me.. somewhere else. Like if.. if Time were some straight path, then it pulled me off course.
At 4:37 in the morning I took liberty in shutting off my computer. All things considered, I was running considerably late today. Work was backed up, curtesy of trucking errors. To make a long story short, 4 pallets of produce simply.. vanished. All you'd really need to gather from such meaningless information is that I was suddenly put on the for front of discovering how $5,000 worth of food had somehow grown legs and walked away.
The best answer I had..? None! I had not a clue, and after what felt like hundreds of calls, I was greeted to the warm embrace of humid Georgia air. There were no leads. I was no detective, so the ultimate conclusion of this predicament could be summed up as, "It's not my problem."
All I needed in this moment was to make my way to the bus stop. So, that's exactly what I did. Maybe twelve or so minutes had passed. I was excited to see the bus make it's way around those trees. It was by no means the longest wait, but what can I say? I was a hangry fellow.
I convinced myself that it wasn't my problem, that I wouldn't allow it to be my problem. The unfortunate thing about life is that problems have a tendency to fall into the laps of those who just did as they were told. Now, I'm not one to make some social commentary on the state of the world's general fairness, but the point to be made is my adopted philosophy that unless a problem can't just be brushed off my legs, then I'll leave it to someone else.
So maybe I'm an asshole, maybe I lack integrity, but it's honestly no deeper than "that's how the cookie crumbles." We are all cogs in the world, might as well let one of the other gears have a chance to spin! Make their money's worth.

"Helluva' night, huh?"

I jumped to such a sudden question presented to me. It was a problem, in my lap.
"That obvious?"
I responded sarcastically, looking over my shoulder to be greeted by a young face. Some kid, looked no older than twenty with orange hair and foggy eyes.. eyes that admittedly sent a shiver down my spine. The kind of eyes that.. well, you know how they say a dead person's eyes look cold? It was like that, only I wouldn't describe them as cold. Just.. empty.
"Well between the heavy sigh and tapping foot, just seems like you got somewhere to be."
Whoever this was didn't seem to be looking at me. It was quite uncomfortable that he'd just admit to having analyzed my situation, but perhaps I was looking to far into things. He just had his eyes locked forward, so why he made any effort to speak to me was still unclear. It wasn't unusual for a stranger to try to make light talk during the ride, but something about this kid irked me.
Part of me felt some level of guilt when I stopped the conversation there. I'm not sure if I'm lucky or not to say I think the kid took the hint of my uncomfortably, and for the remaining 20 minutes of the trip he was seemingly preoccupied with staring out the window. It wasn't until I stood upon reaching my stop that he ever seemed to bother looking up.. but not at me.
Again this kid had just stared straight ahead, and even now I couldn't get a great look at his face. His hair seemed to obscure it, and whatever the hair hadn't covered seemed to be so enveloped in shadow to a point that identifying him beyond his hair was seemingly impossible. He was dressed so casually, so casually that detailing his worn black hoodie and faded grey jeans would do no good.
I shook my head.. shook this problem off my shoulders feeling the weight of an unsettling interaction lift from my mind the moment I stepped out of that bus onto the final stretch of pavement between myself and my neighborhood. 5:02 AM
Where is the.. humidity?
I felt a bubbling anxiety, just crossing my arms and lowering my head.. I wanted to hide. My heart was suddenly screaming, and the irrationality of it all hit me like a truck.
"What is wrong.. the hell is wrong?"
I'd confused myself with my emotions, my eyes darting from left to right. Nobody was around me, nobody was behind me, I was alone! So I took a deep breath..
"Helluva' night, huh?"
My eyes shot open, suddenly my heart bounding and my breaths heavy. I know I head him I know I did! But he wasn't here. He was still on the bus, he never got u-..
I turned my head to look in the bus window. The doors screeched, shutting firmly as the bus engine practically roared out into the night. The wheels hummed, the burst of air sounding out as the bus continued motion.
My eyes looked into that window. The window I sat at, where he was next to me.. I was aisle side, he was window side.
He never got up.
He wasn't there.
That was the final straw. I began walking home, speed walking. To hell if anymore problems would fall into my lap. Not this morning, not today! I would get home, I'd climb into bed, and I'd sleep this off. I had to sleep.. I had to go.
"It's not my problem.."
I told myself.
"He moved seats.."
I rationalized the situation. Where did he go? I didn't see him.. He couldn't have just disappeared! Those damn pallets! I did anything I could, fought with my mind to mute my rapid heartbeat. Anything I could think of, any way to distract myself from the fact that the crickets were silent, that the stars weren't out that..
Is something watching me..?
When my house came into view, I wasted no time in fully sprinting to my door, finding my keys and barging that door open, slamming it behind me. I swiftly locked it back. To hell with a shower! I'd be damned if I were too...
"Helluva' night, huh?"
My fully body turned faster than my mind could keep up with. That damned voice!
"GET OUT OF MY HOUS-.."

But I saw nothing.
Let me paint this picture for you. When I say I saw nothing, I mean there wasn't only nobody there, but there was nothing at all. There was no room behind me, no bed, no door, no world. Empty.. empty like his eyes! There was nothing! Nothing but that one.. light.
There was a white orb. It got closer, and closer. I saw a silhouette.. It was some lengthy figure with no arms? And.. its wore this cloak of nothing. Somehow I looked into a place? No.. There was something else behind it..? Not like I'd ever find out!
One second my room, my world, was enveloped with an infinitely spanning nothingness, and in the blink of an eye it was contained into this figure! It took all the nothing!
My room was back! My world! WHAT IS HAPPENING? I don't.. remember.. But then it vanished. The nothingness was gone.
Watching the clock at work becomes such a daunting habit. You get so used to the monotony of watching the clock tick away, and somehow the seconds seem to be at an endless supply. Before you know it, the hours are gone, and when you get home it somehow feels as if it all had never happened.
Hours of my life so meticulously spent doing nothing now behind me.
It's now 3:37 in the afternoon and I remember. I crashed my car, Thomas is dead. His truck is in that ditch back in Duluth.
I remember.
That's why I took the bus.. Thomas is dead. The truck was flipped. 4 pallets gone.
It visited me tonight. Nothing. I saw that boys face, I just can't remember. Nothing.. almost took me today, but I finally understand why they never looked for me. They all forgot me too. I killed Thomas. I didn't mean to but it didn't matter! Everyone knew! It was on the news, it was everywhere! But..
Nothing walked with me tonight.. and you all forgot. You forgot everything.
~I need you to remember me!~
At 3:37 in the afternoon, two months ago, my car collided with Thomas's truck. He'd fallen asleep at the wheel. I was lucky to make it out with my life. The following weeks my story was covered by local news outlets, and the world moved on. That's what happens with Time.. but it was more than that. I'd forgotten what really happened. That boy.. he was with me, in the car, that day. I think.. I think he is the Nothing. I think he IS the.. the Void. He took Thomas.
We.. we all forgot! 4 pallets? Where'd they go? I couldn't remember the funeral! I was gone for three weeks. When I turned around and saw that light, when I came back.. when he left, it had been three weeks. I didn't have a single call! Not from mom, not from work! I was FORGOTTEN!
But.. it's not my problem anymore.
You all really forgot. I got went to mom's and my pictures were gone. Dad's? Same thing. I was gone, for three weeks. Nothing took me. Nothing is.. mad at me? And I don't know why! I was nothing.. someone please! Suddenly I’m back and all the work I left behind is still here. I was gone! The world has proved it. But.. nobody remembers? All the logs! It’s all here. I WAS gone. You can see it in the company finances, yet nobody thought to look for me? Nobody noticed I’m back..? It’s like I never left?
Do any of you remember?!

My wife expected me to hate The Devil Wears Prada but after watching it I absolutely loved it. I think I took the completely wrong message from it though, making me very confused about why people like/dislike it.
To me, we see multiple characters on 'the ladder' attempting to climb higher. Andy starts off as a nice girl who prioritizes her personal life over her career, and then begins to take traits off Miranda as she attempts to further her career. She begins to prioritize learning the business of fashion and sacrifices her personal life. I noticed that the people that seem to be closer to Miranda seem to emulate her. Andy sacrifices her ideals and her morals because 'Everybody wants to be one of us' (and 'millions would kill for this job') much like how Patrick Bateman 'wants to fit in'. When Andy suggests that Miranda take 'personal time' immediately after the divorce, she replies with 'why?', as if the entire concept of personal time stops meaning anything when your identity becomes one with a corporation.
This reminded me of the theming in American Psycho where every single banking associate seems like they are effectively just copies of Jamie Dimon. They get closer and closer to this image of a "perfect investment banker' as they lose more and more of their 'personal selves'. Patrick Bateman was running around as an axe murderer outside of work, but why would coworkers give a shit what happens in life outside of Investment Banking? It literally doesn't exist to them.
Both movies also touch on the fact that this relationship of 'man becoming corporation' is a one way street. The corporation views you as completely disposable. Once you fully transition from 'man' to 'corporation', and the 'corporation' cuts you off, there is literally nothing left. There is no human left to be 'laying off'.
My wife does not agree with this theming and thinks I am being nutty. I feel like the differences between investment banking and fashion are almost unimportant here. In my mind the theme is completely based around sacrificing ones humanity (and personal relationships) for success within corporatism. She (rightfully) points out that this film is based on a book (which is actually based on real people within the fashion industry), but I don't know if this necessarily disproves my point. The movies show similar individuals at different phases of this transition IMO; with Andy ultimately deciding not to destroy her 'personal' self before it is gone entirely.
I just do not see that many differences between the Investment Bankers of NYC losing their humanity as they climb the ladder and the fashion moguls doing the same thing. I loved this movie. Am I looking too much into this? The film seems like it follows this theming beautifully but now I feel crazy lmao.
The other thing that struck me was the parallel between the young girls I have met clearly attempting to be Miranda Priestly despite the warnings of this movie, similarly to how many young boys seem to be attempting to pull a Patrick Bateman lmao.

Hey, hi, hello.
I’ve been posting on and off for a few years now and I’m sure some of you are sick of seeing me. Oh well, we’re in this sub for one reason and one reason only: to find a connection and possibly a happy ending.
I’ve been told I’m too picky and too open about myself; I don’t think Im either of these things. We all have different tastes and expectations from other people and that’s fine. And yes, I am very open about who I am, shouldn’t we all be? Would save us some disappointment.
I did try numerous dating sites and chatrooms but to no avail; those whove been in the same situation know what’s that like. I have a fair share of horror stories from dating apps and who knows, one day I could share these with you!!
Before I move onto the spiel about myself and how much of a catch I am please read below:
About you:
-living the UK/Europe/US (max of 6h time difference)
-a straight man
-a homebody, with the occasional want to go out and do things
-aged 29 – 48 (I will not reply if you’re not within the age bracket)
-speak English (for communication purposes duh)
-child free (and must want to remain this way)
-MONOGAMOUS
-NO PREFERENCE HEIGHT OR BODY WISE, I’m all about a nice face
-impeccable basic personal hygiene (not expecting you smelling like your local perfume store)
-no addictions (ie excessive alcohol use, smoking and any type of illegal drugs)
-respectful, loyal, funny, affectionate, caring, loving and patient (a lot of it needed with me).
-will not demand any personal content (if you know what I eamn)
-in full time employment (if we are long distance, how else are you going to fund your travels?)
But beyond all that I’m after a best friend. Someone who will have my back until the end. Someone who will accept me for who I am and wouldn’t want to change me (I can offer the same back). Someone who will enter my life and assume the role of my partner (eventually) and join me on this rather bizarre journey called life. Don’t give up on me and I wont give up on you.
I will not respond to any messages along the lines of ‘hru’. ‘hi’.
Once again, no budging on the age or location.
If your profile contains anything inappropriate, I won’t respond either.
I think I made myself more than clear.
Just one more thing, I promise!!!!
This is not to get any attention or sympathy or help; more of a prewarning. I have met a lot of amazing people on here who got their hopes up about me and once things didn’t seem to be as amazing as this image, they had of me they left.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 12, as well as severe anxiety (no self-diagnosis here, by an actual professional). I take meds for it but some days are worse than the others. I’m also on the waiting list to get help, but like me you’re in the UK you’ll know what this is like (no issues with the NHS, they’re amazing; just overworked and understaffed). I can’t afford to go privately. At this moment in time,I am about 2 years away from seeing someone.
I suffer from fibromyalgia (if you don’t know what this is, just google it) in late 2019 after ruling everything out. I have days when I’m extremely exhausted and in a lot of pain. I still go to work and try to go on about my life as much as possible but please bear that in mind.
Ive been taking all sorts of meds too, including painkillers to control the pain.
Please don’t see me as someone hopeless or feel sorry for me. This is not the point of this confession.
My name is Anita and I’m a 29yo Eastern European woman, living in the UK just outside of Bristol. I’ve been here for the last 17 years and I consider myself England my home. I’m not considering moving back at any point in my life (however I’ll move elsewhere for the right reasons and right person). I will share my exact location once we’re acquainted a bit more.
I’m 6ft tall (yes I am this tall and I’m aware that it’s way too tall for a woman) and. weight approx 13st or 200lbs (my weight keeps fluctuating a lot and no, I’m not looking for any tips to lose weight). I dye my hair red but it’s more like ginger these days. I have green eyes (they’re useless as I wear glasses) and I wear a lot of black eyeliner lol. I guess you could say I’m kinda emo/goth?
An extreme introvert since I was a young one (definitely not shy, in fact I can get a bit volatile when it comes to standing up for myself). I don’t need to get out of my shell, so none of that please. I like my own company as well as my loved ones; and leaving the house only for work and groceries suits me well.
I’m a vegetarian (not a deal breaker if you’re not; your choice is to eat meat and mine isn’t. Respect it and you shall receive the same back). I think it’s time for everyone live and let others live too.
Tea, coffee and snack addict! (I love herbal tea with no sugar or milk; coffee wise I like a good cap or a caramel macchiato as a treat. Snack wise anything goes really. Fruit, crisps, cake and sweets!)
Bookworm (I haven’t read in a long time, I love books I promise. Just haven’t had much time lately. I have a stack of them which is growing. I need to finally find some time and immerse myself in one of many crime novels I have).
Apolitical (now, I read the news everyday but I do not support any of the parties. They don’t care about you or me, sorry to break this to you).
Animal lover (I have 4 rescued cats two boys and two girls aged between 10-11 who are my absolute life. In total, my mum and I have rescued about 60 cats in the last 10 years. We found them safe and loving homes but for some of them unfortunately it was too late).
No addictions here (I don’t drink or smoke; although I like my vapes a lot).
In my spare time (whatever I get of it) I like to go for walks, listen to music and podcasts, nap, watch tv, chill with my mum and cats, go shopping and grab a coffee with my ma, visit my brother in London, over eat, over think and read books.
I don’t really have any hobbies.
I don’t game religiously but I do enjoy sims 4 (someone told me that isn’t gaming although I’d say it’s a computer game so clues in the name but what do I know, right?) I don’t watch anime either, tried once and couldn’t get into it.
As you can tell, I’m just a relatively unremarkable human being, trying to find her place in this world. And I’m happy about that, being in the limelight is the last thing I know.
With that being said, if you managed to get through my ramblings and they somewhat resonated with you, shoot me a message.
Message me with your name, age and location and what caught your eye about my post. Don’t have to send me your picture right away; I won’t send mine until I’m comfortable enough. To show that you have read, end your message with ‘toodlepip’.
I will respond as soon as I can but please note that there might be delays in messaging back due to well… life being life I suppose.
And if you didn’t like what you read… well then scroll along, no need to let me know about this in the comments or to message me to call me names. It’s nice to be nice.
Thank you for reading this and looking forward to seeing some messages. If not, best of luck in your search!!!

In elementary school, I used to have specific intrusive thoughts about this one mean boy in school + specific dreams. I’m wondering now if this could’ve been a sign…
The intrusive thought: a mental image of me and this kid who was a bully that I hated kissing in the nurses office. I didn’t understand why I would think of it, I hated him. I did NOT want to kiss him. Plus I was so young.
The dreams: Whenever I would have a little crush or was about to have one/focus on a boy, I would often get a dream about them doing something around or to me that gave me an off/icky feeling about them. It’s like the dream revealed they weren’t right for me or weren’t considered safe. Then eventually, one crush didn’t give me any negative dream about them so I would be happy and think it was a sign I was supposed to like this boy. ??? Eventually it just went away and this didn’t happen anymore, despite having new crushes etc.
Idk. It’s so strange this was happening in elementary school of all times - I was so shy and young and innocent. I was a really embarrassed/shy kid too. Let me know your thoughts.

TL;DR - Circles are more visible than they should normally be due to obscure skin technique (stacking) that I really think should be more well known due to its obvious upside.
It turns out that the technique described a few posts down (here if you're searching in the future) has actually been somewhat in use for a long time, at least 4 years. It was used in 2 Rafis/Necro Fantasia-inspired skins by RK u/rk-skins but not any others that I know of and he has retired since making "Hello, I'm Rafis!" It appears that only he knew about it and he simply told us fools like it was something insignificant while answering a question about DT skins. You might even have trouble finding the part of the comment in question without Ctrl+F'ing "file stacking," but don't worry, the information is below.
When osu! wants to show you a hit circle, something a little weird happens. Instead of one element being shown in one location, a minimum of three elements are shown in the same location: hitcircle/hitcircleoverlay (sliderstartcircle/sliderstartcircleoverlay for sliders) and default-x (number, if it goes above 9 then multiple numbers are shown which is where the minimum comes from, it could be infinite but it's useless cause there's no way to show number 100 on 1st circle of combo). Numbers have been used for hit circles in instafade skins with a proper hitcircleoverlap in skin.ini. Stacking these along with hitcircle and hitcircleoverlay (hc/o for short now) will make it so that each of these elements that are set at 1/3 opacity or above will actually result in a fully opaque circle. This greatly increases opacity during the fade-in/fade-out periods and in my testing it has the greatest effect with HD and high AR.
In the aforementioned comment by RK, he says that Rafis used to name his now famous skin "Nomod+HR" as a point to suggest that it's preference. However, I believe that Rafis simply found out that his skin was really good for DT. Looking at the hc/o files, it's obvious that they overlap each other by a good amount. This creates a stacking effect that isn't particularly as strong as the AR11 skins that RK later made, but it's still a massive improvement from any regular skin. With the "Rafis Skin" we all know, a theoretical 100% opacity hit circle would be reached as soon as hc/o (what osu! intends to be the hit circle opacity) hits 50% as, again, the files are stacked.
-- If you're frantically looking down for an answer as to why people use the rafis skin, it's all above. --
Now that we know that stacking these images will result in a better skin for HDDT, we could simply turn numbers into circles, restore hc/o, and boom, we have triple stacking which is basically Rafis skin on top of Rafis skin. What's funny is that:

1. There is a typo in both of the skins that I mentioned that make them not work 100 percent (sliderstartcircleoverlay is missing a letter in both skins, which is bad as sliderendcircle is present (albeit empty) which makes it draw nothing where a circle should have gone. This isn't really that bad because it still stacks sliderstartcircle and whatever number the slider has + you can just fix it, but it's nice to think that a proper triple-stacked skin hasn't existed until some time 2 days ago. Sure, you can think that someone spotted the typo and fixed it, or someone independently discovered it and kept it a secret, or made it on accident while trying to restore fading to an instafade skin OR had it very briefly while making an instafade skin (this definitely happened) but it's also very plausible that triple stacking has just seen its second adopter with far more to come.
2. The inner glow of the hitcircle sucks to look at with high gamma, you'll need to copy the hitcircleoverlay and rename it to hitcircle to get a bearable hc/o. The slidertrackoverride is 0, 0, 20 which makes me think that RK believed that high gamma is just some sort of gimmick.

But what does it matter if this "stacking" doesn't actually do anything? I took the original Rafis 2018-03-26 and made a "normal" version of it that should be worse at HDDT as it only shows a hitcircle (hc/o on top of each other in one element) and not the overlay (transparent). I thought that before testing there would be a massive difference and the results turned out to be pretty much on the dot with my expectation. I made a comparison in MS paint (in comments) and it turns out that the original skin has double the opacity of the "normalized" version when the normalized circle's opacity is under 50, and it also turns out that the triple stacked skin has 150% the opacity of the original when the original circle's opacity is under 2/3. (Obviously you only get the information that the brightness is multiplied by the amount of files stacked, then we use what we know for conclusions.)
Video comparison: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=930dKBk5A2o

Title: The Benefits of Overnight Camps for Children: A Gateway to Growth and Independence
Introduction:
Overnight camps have long been a quintessential part of childhood experiences for many, offering a unique opportunity for children to explore, learn, and grow in a supportive environment away from home. These immersive experiences foster independence, resilience, and social skills, laying the foundation for personal development and lifelong memories. In this article, we delve into the myriad benefits of overnight camps for children, highlighting the transformative impact they can have on young minds.
Independence and Self-Reliance:

1. One of the most significant advantages of overnight camps is the opportunity for children to develop independence and self-reliance. Away from the familiar comforts of home and parental guidance, campers learn to navigate new challenges, make decisions, and take responsibility for themselves. From setting up tents to organizing activities, campers develop practical life skills that empower them to tackle obstacles with confidence.

Social Skills and Teamwork:

1. Overnight camps provide a rich social environment where children interact with peers from diverse backgrounds. Through shared experiences, collaborative activities, and dynamics, campers learn the importance of communication, empathy, and cooperation. Whether working together to build a campfire or participating in team group sports, children develop invaluable social skills that are essential for success in school, work, and life.

Outdoor Exploration and Environmental Awareness:

1. In an age where screen time often dominates leisure activities, overnight camps offer a refreshing escape into the great outdoors. Surrounded by nature, campers engage in a variety of outdoor pursuits, from hiking and canoeing to nature walks and star-gazing. These experiences foster a deep appreciation for the natural world and promote environmental stewardship. By connecting with nature firsthand, children develop a sense of wonder, curiosity, and respect for the environment.

Resilience and Emotional Well-being:

1. Navigating the ups and downs of camp life fosters resilience and emotional intelligence in children. From homesickness to overcoming challenges, campers learn to adapt to new situations, manage their emotions, and bounce back from setbacks. The supportive community of counselors and peers provides a nurturing environment where children feel safe to express themselves, build confidence, and develop a positive self-image.

Lifelong Friendships and Memories:

1. The bonds forged at overnight camps often last a lifetime, with campers forming deep friendships based on shared experiences and camaraderie. Whether roasting marshmallows around a campfire or singing songs under the stars, these cherished memories create a sense of belonging and nostalgia that endures over the years. Many adults look back on their camp days with fondness, recalling the laughter, adventures, and friendships that shaped their lives.

Conclusion:
Overnight camps offer a transformative experience for children, fostering personal growth, independence, and lifelong memories. From developing practical skills to forging deep connections with others, the benefits of overnight camps extend far beyond the summer months.
Camp North Star is situated in beautiful Poland Spring, Maine, surrounded by many beautiful and natural landscapes that we get to share and enjoy with our campers. Trips are offered every session and happen on the days we are not on our normal activity schedule. Trip days are a time to relax and enjoy time with friends and bunkmates.
Camp North Star is the top premier Maine sleepaway camp for boys & girls. We offer the best overnight summer camps for kids & teens in New England. Call Now: (207)998-4777.
We give Different types of camp north star like-

• Sleep away Camp
• Summer Camp
• Sport Camp
• Boys & Girl Camp

Thank You, For More Service’s Please Visit Our Websites.

If its one thing I know in this fucked up life of mine, is that people come and people go. I've had too many friends to count. I have watched the casket close on my 21mo old child. The click of that casket still rings in my ears 20 years later. I have lost friends to drugs, car crashes, and toxic relationships. I'm not to afraid to admit that I am a mama's boy( she is who gave me the qualities most of you like so much about me). So I had to take the plane and time off to sit at her deathbed and say goodbye and let her know how much she was loved and how I cherish the unconditional love she gave me. I've had to part ways with the one girl who I know for a fact truly loved me...tho she is alive...she had a spinal cord stroke 3 years into our relationship which had been by far the best one i had found in 35+ years of failure. Event though she is still alive, I have to talk to her while she sits in a nursing home while i continue to manage my fucked up life working for the man.
See....the thing is....tomorrow is never a sure bet. Life does some fucked up things when you least expect it. And every night you sleep....you better not leave things unsaid cause you may never get the chance to say it again. I have to say what is on my heart, even if its in ways people think are stupid. I don't want to go in detail more than i already have. I for sure have already given myself away on here. So what is the point of this.....
I MISS MY FUCKING FRIEND. You meant so much to me. I got lost in it and maybe thought it could be more and if I was wrong, I am sorry. My intentions were always pure. And I am willing to prove it that even though I couldn't be your friend face to face anymore....I could be with the blank canvas the void offers....but.....
Time heals all things. Life gets busy....people fade away. Maybe one day that will happen with us. But the memory remains. I don't want to be a bad memory. I don't want to interfere in anything you have going on. I just wanted to be that best friend you always wanted....even if just a while on here. Only if thats what you want. I can play the witty games...im not stupid and I know what i know. Its all good. I just want you to be happy....
and if you want me to stop all together I will. I truly...from the bottom of my heart....for you to be happy and safe. That is it. I don't know why I am here. I don't know what to make of all this. I just miss you. And I hope your okay. And he better tell you your pretty every fucking day. After this day...you will never doubt it again. Keep your head up chica, I aint mad. Got nothing but love for you. Tell me what to do if you see this please.
-your best friend.

So long story short I didn’t actually unpack that I could be autistic until my second year at college (I just finished my third year) and I have learned so much since then. My friends have been invaluable in helping me understand all this stuff. The problem is that my family doesn’t believe I could have autism for all the reasons typically listed by those in similar circumstances: “you’re just gifted”, “you WANT autism”, “your friends are influencing you to identify as mentally ill”, “you want attention”, “it’s an excuse”, “we’re all on the spectrum”, etc., etc.
My family (especially my parents) also have a super twisted understanding of what autism actually is, and to be fair, I did too before I started realizing that I fit the criteria for 90% of it. It hit me like a ton of bricks just HOW misunderstood it is. I went to elementary school with an autistic boy named William who was nonverbal, had frequent outbursts, and was violent (to me physically as well). So that’s my parents’ image of what autism “looks” like. Since I don’t look and act like William, I don’t have autism.
If anyone has any advice for how I could potentially get my family to be open to it and/or at the very least help them understand what autism actually is? Because every time I bring it up I am immediately shut down. I am open to getting diagnosed professionally but I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.

Chapter One
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-Rooftop of the White Flame Factory-
Grigory smiled nervously at his men as they lounged on the rooftop patio. As the sun sank lower, he was happy to see them relax after the day's tensions. He’d wanted to give them their imps when they first arrived, or after the demonstration, but they seemed a little too skittish. Their reactions were causing him to doubt his strategy. If his most loyal supporters were repelled by them, wider acceptance was going to be a non-trivial hurdle. He’d been working on an improved version of the imps for months, but making them less threatening, or light forbid, ‘cute’, seemed deeply at odds with his plans. He hoped time might be the missing ingredient. Once they get a bit more familiar with them, they’ll come around. The imps were really nothing for them to fear.
The demonologist sat alone, observing how his men were dealing with the news. He was deep in thought, adjusting his plans and ruminating on his concerns. Was he forcing them to do things they weren’t comfortable with? The basis of his entire plan was that the whole world was to benefit from the imps, so it had to start somewhere, or he might as well give up. They seemed to be taking it as well as he could have hoped.
Catching a wisp of savoury smells, he thought it was scarcely fair to relax while Stanisk was busy in the kitchen. He rose to see if he could lend a hand with dinner. During their overland trek to the capital months ago, it was clear that Stanisk was a superlative cook, but Grigory was a dexterous helper. Much of what he knew about surgical techniques had been picked up preparing meals.
Grigory arrived at the great hall that served as the eating area. In the centre of the chamber, two long tables stretched across the room, capable of seating fifty, though only four simple chairs he had crafted a few weeks ago were present. His men had yet to grasp the potential of the imps' labour; instead of proper seating, they had improvised with crates and timbers haphazardly arranged around the tables. Near one table, a jute sack of potatoes lay abandoned on the floor, possibly mistaken for a makeshift seat. Grigory hoped they'd be eating the potatoes, not sitting on them.
Separated from the hall by a low half-wall, the kitchen bustled with activity. Stanisk sat on the thick timber counter, a casual sentinel over dinner’s preparations, while Jourgun and Klive stood nearby, deep in conversation with their commander.
Stanisk’s five imps, in their fancy clothes, dashed around the kitchen. Under his expert guidance they were preparing a grand feast. One was peeling potatoes, another stirred a great bubbling pot, while two were doing dishes.
“Sir, did you know that Stanisk’s imps have names? And fancy clothes! Can I have one like his?” Klive blurted when he saw his employer. “Uh, as it pleases milord, of course.”
“Plus mine bow when they bring us beers! They don't do that fresh out of hell!” Stanisk's toothy smile implied he might have been bowed at by imps a half dozen times already.
Grigory tilted his head and blinked for a second.
Surely a bit of clothes can’t have that much of an impact on their acceptance?
“Oh, Of course! Certainly!” he paused again. “Feel free to ask Stanisk for tips on how he made his.” Observing the bustling activity, “It looks like dinner is well in hand?” The kitchen was huge, far larger than the one at Planed Pine Peak Inn. A half dozen dishes simmered or baked, their aromas — exotic spices, rich gravies, and roasted meats filled the expansive space.
Stanisk replied without glancing away from the imps handling the tasks. “Well in hand, boss. Take ‘er easy tonight!” The imps' movements were quick and fluid, their antics distractingly comical at times. Grigory watched, smiling, as one imp hugged a yam to its chest that likely weighed more than it did, and made its way along the countertop from the vegetable sack to the cutting board. Each step was an exaggerated sway, the creature was badly top-heavy and teetering.
With effort he pulled his focus back, “Capital! I’ve a matter to attend to! Smells great already!”
Grigory went into the factory proper to whip up enough chairs for everyone. Simple wooden ones for now, but with cushions. Cushions were quick enough to make and he had a few cart loads of wool and woollen fabrics. He watched his imps work, glad he could share them with his whole team now. Obviously it made everything a bit riskier, but it was worth it. One of his concerns was that he’d been overlooking opportunities and uses. He was bound by only being able to think his own thoughts, so he was excited to see what non-demonologists would think of.
They carved and joined the pine chairs with their normal speed and accuracy, but watching them sew was its own reward. The imps wielded needles like longswords in their tiny hands, the points moving too fast to see clearly. They stacked up the plain cushions in a neat pile at the end of their low workbench.
He also didn’t have any utensils, placemats, serving spoons nor trivets either, since this was their first proper meal here. He commanded the imps to make those as well, and carry them like a row of ants from the workshop to the dining hall. The demonologist walked around the table, surveying his work. With a minor gesture of flame he lit the lamps, and frowned at the beige-grey of undyed wool of the chair cushions.
He pulled the chairs out, and one at a time enchanted the cushions to bright, cheerful colours. He was going to make them all company purple, but thought better of it. Enchanting colours was a fun spell to cast, because the act of changing its colour also unravelled enchantment as it went. Much like building and knocking over houses of cards, the end effect was a mundane unenchanted object, but in whatever colour he’d chosen. Having done the spell countless times for entire days to prepare for the midsummer tourney, he didn’t even have to check his notes for any of the hues.
Satisfied with his work, though slightly frustrated that his first and last red cushions weren’t quite the same shade, he sat down. He pulled a notebook out of his satchel and started making notes on his ideas for some improvements, mostly for his own use, but some to the things he’d be soon selling. Lost in his own world, he had no idea how much time had passed when Ros and Taritha joined him at the table.
“Good evening, milord,” Ros said deferentially.
The young herbalist elbowed him, “Come on, he had one rule! He was writing!”
“Oh! Terribly sorry, sir!” Ros stammered.
“Not at all, I was basically doodling. How’s your evening going, is everything to your liking?” Grigory closed his notebook and put it away.
“Amazing milord, These rooms are huge! They're bigger than some of the houses I was looking at!” Taritha said.
“Of course! No one wants to live in dingy cells! Glad to hear! It’s easy to make a place bigger when you are building fresh. Let me know if you find anything that needs fixing, our builders are still in town working on the harbour fortress now, but I can have them send someone if there is anything amiss!”
“I don’t reckon neither of us knew palaces this nice existed anywhere, milord!” Ros said with a shrug. “We might not be the best eyes for finding faults!”
“Heh! This is just the rustic first stage! Don’t worry about its crudeness for now, we’ll get there over time!” the demonologist promised, patting his satchel where the notebook of ideas was. His confidence was both unshakeable and unnecessary.
“Not to question your plans, but there are a lot more rooms than people. Are we expecting company? Are we hiring?” Taritha asked. Her eyebrows twitched slightly, having just questioned his plan for the first time.
“Big plans indeed! So that empty stretch east of the main building? That’s also part of our land grant. In a while we’ll be building a barracks there for our troops, while senior officers will stay in the main factory. That’s also why Stanisk will be taking a much more active role with civil defence. It’s central to our plan to secure the town, and by extension our own safety.”
“Our troops? Like us?” Jourgun asked, having joined them at the long table.
“Maybe? Probably not? We’ll see. The plan is to extensively recruit as we can afford it, since the pirate raid was just the beginning. We have something of incredible value, in the form of me, the imps and the factory itself. Many violent people feel they should possess every valuable thing, so we must be vigilant. Not to worry though! That’s just us planning for the worst. In reality, nothing like that will likely happen. Just by being well defended we’ll scare off the greedy.”
“Ah, like why it's dangerous for a beggar to wear a silk robe!” Rikad added as he joined them, along with a few others. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicatingly rich now, as Stanisk and Klive used the imps to finish and plate the meal.
“Just so, a lord can only have what he can defend, and because the first phases of my plan require a certain level of material wealth, I’ll need extensive defences,” Grigory explained as diplomatically as he could.
“The Empire itself will fear our might, milord!” Ros said excitedly.
“Nah, it won’t. That’s a dangerous thought. The Imperial army’s smallest deployable force is a legion, near enough to five thousand men. Even if we hit every hiring and training target, we’se not going to be in the business of fightin’ wars. Just enough to make us a spiky nut. The sort not worth chompin’,’” Stanisk called over from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Ros said, shrinking back into his seat.
“That’s more than all the men in the whole town!” Taritha lamented.
“Yeah, that’s why lil fishing villages don’t win wars. A legion is five thousand infantry with warships, supplies, siege cohorts, and command companies. If’n it’s a real fight, then they might deploy all ten Imperial legions. Then start raising more if’n they’re losing. We ain’t never gonna try to fight that. No nation in the world has ever picked that fight and won.”
To counter the grim tone settling over his celebratory dinner, Grigory chimed in with a reassuring smile, “We’re loyal Hyruxian subjects, and the legions protect us. We pay taxes in full, we’re on the right side of all this. We just want a bit of security against more, uh, regional actors. Besides, a large well equipped force lends our diplomacy weight we wouldn’t otherwise have.”
Now that the table was filling up and his men looked satisfied with his answers, he raised his voice to the kitchen, “How’s it going in there?”
“Good! I bought a deer from one of the hunters this morning, and it turned out just right!” Stanisk replied, personally putting the finishing touches on his creation. Aethlina moved across the kitchen to watch Stanisk work, making Grigory do a double take. He hadn’t realised she was even in the building.
“Oh! Capital! Everyone in the entire company is here now! Even better!” Grigory said, motioning Aethlina to sit by him. He was glad he’d made the full number of chairs!
Stanisk and Klive brought out plates heaped with slices of braised venison, steamed tubers and sautéed onions. Tubs of butter, bowls of gravy, and finally a heaping basket of fresh buns followed. Stanisk took his seat and, smiling with pride, “What’re you helpless kittens lookin’ at? Never seen dinner ‘afore? Dig in!”
The feast was a perfect end to a troubling day, and even though the conversation died down as they ate, Grigory observed every single one of his hirelings intently, relieved to see not a single one seemed put off by a meal made by demons. Catching Stanisk’s eye, he made an empty cup gesture.
“Imps! Bring us all some drinks! Wine, beer and water!” Stanisk shouted to his imps. With speed and efficiency, the little demons filled clay cups and brought everyone three drinks, exactly as ordered.
“Ah, dammit, I meant—It’s fine. Drink what you want and I’ll just dump the rest!” The chief of security’s good humour faded for an instant before returning twice as bright.
“No, I love having three drinks! And the water and beer are cold! In the summer! The gods themselves envy me!” Rikad declared.
“Uh oh! It looks like Mage Thippily made imps, but the imps made the real monster!” Kedril retorted, gesturing at Rikad holding three cups between his hands, rotating them to drink out of each, while spilling beer all over his own arm.
Their high spirits encouraged Grigory. He’d worried they would be morose and frightened tonight, after making them to live in what could be described as a hive of demons. Joking about the imps was beyond his expectations, so he smiled without speaking, sipping his red wine. Not his cherished Malaentian Red, but a nice varietal from the mainland he’d recently imported a few cases of. Once the plates were empty, Stanisk had the imps clear the table and start washing up while everyone remained seated at the long pine table, bellies full to bursting.
“That was spectacular Stanisk! Thank you!” Grigory offered, and everyone else chimed in a breath later.
“Nothing like a lifetime of bland ration bars for months to really spark an interest in what good food ought to be! I’m glad ya’se liked it,” the big veteran said dismissively.
“How is everyone finding their new accommodations? I know I don’t have all the furniture done just yet, but is everyone good for tonight?” Grigory asked, ever the eager host.
The men nodded and looked at each other. Complaining was frowned upon and nothing here was remotely a hardship.
“Capital! Glad to hear it, and by all means bring it to my attention if your needs are unmet!” Grigory sat still and everyone kept looking at him.
Now’s as good a time as any. It’s not even a surprise, I think I mentioned it a few times already.
“Ahem! So! I’d like to present each of you with your own imps! Some ground rules though; there may be people that aren’t ready for this style of magic, so I ask that you don’t mention anything about them anywhere outside of the factory. Or even imply there are any magical creatures, just that things get made here?”
He waited until they all at least nodded.
“Alright! Here you go, I have one for everyone! The imps are identical, so don’t worry about which ones you get. Um. Good luck?” With a shrug he reached down beside his chair and from a leather case he pulled a series of carved wooden boxes, and passed them out to everyone sitting at the table.
***
With a muted clatter, Taritha watched as the small dark boxes were distributed. She wasn’t sure if there was one for her, being fairly new to the company. She wasn’t sure how she felt; owning demons seemed like a big step, but the ancient urge to possess something nice or powerful was one she wasn’t immune to. Her heart leapt as a heavy box slid in front of her.
With trepidation, she touched it with one finger; it appeared to be regular wood, perhaps stained oak. The box was small and rectangular, quite thin, and she held it easily in one hand. It was narrow enough to fit comfortably between her thumb and fingers, its weight noticeable but not oppressive. She had expected dread, palpable evil, or something, but it just felt a bit heavy. Turning it over, she saw no visible clasps or hinges. The outside was covered in the flawless ornate carvings she was starting to grow familiar with. This time, the carvings depicted joyful industrial scenes—strong men swinging square hammers, smoke stacks, and laden ships and carts. The central image on each side was gilded with gold leaf, making it strikingly dignified.
Ignoring the excitement and increasing movement around her, she felt as if she were in her own universe. She slowly pulled on the lid, finding it opened on tiny hidden hinges, revealing three ebony totems inside. They were the size and shape of a fairytale wand, resting on a bed of lush green velvet, held in place by a broad ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Even without considering the priceless nature of the artefacts, she was impressed, almost distracted, by the quality of the presentation. He didn’t have to go to such lengths; she’d expected them to be simply handed to her.
She slid one of the totems out without undoing the bow. It was cool and heavy but otherwise seemed normal. She could see layers of impossibly fine carving, this time gilded with silver. She could sense the potent magic in the object, but it felt strange. She’d examined other enchanted items before, and their enchantments were all transcendently beautiful in a complex and technical way. This was so dense it felt like nothing. Or perhaps everything? She wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t at all like the other objects. Stilling herself and trying to puzzle out its secrets brought her no closer to any revelation. She shook her head and resolved to investigate further in private. She returned the totem to its place in the box and gently closed it.
Only now did she notice the table was thick with imps, more than twenty darting and leaping energetically. Her colleagues had summoned theirs and were already giving orders.
“You two, throw the third imp as high as you can!”
“Merp!”
“All of you, cross the table as fast as you can, but walk on your hands!”
“Merp!”
“Duel with these forks!”
“Merp! Merp!”
The men were laughing and pointing between shouting out fresh orders. All the commands were pointless and frivolous, making Taritha powerfully uncomfortable. These were forces of nature, extraplanar beings of unimaginable power, and they were being made to sprint into empty mugs to see how far the mug would fly!?
She shot a questioning look to the master demonologist to gauge his reaction. He was smiling and complimenting their creativity, so maybe she was overreacting? Still, she had no interest in wasting them on silly games. Emergencies only. Or at least serious concerns only. Not for dodging knotted linen napkins, that’s for sure!
With the burden of responsibility successfully dodged, she was free to watch everyone else’s fun. The cacophony of excitement was so infectious that she found herself giggling and pointing at them racing as makeshift horses, with an imp bent over holding the tiny waist of the imp in front of him, while a third one sat atop as a rider. They were so silly looking and energetic.
“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt or anger them?” Taritha asked.
“Oh my no, it’s not like that at all. They have minds, but lack awareness, or awareness of their own mind I guess? It’s fine! They are just made out of the same stuff as demons, but not actually demonic.” The mage stood up and stretched. “They are remarkably durable, it’s unlikely anything short of silvered steel will harm them. I, on the other hand, am at risk of being badly over-tired already! I trust you will be okay, left on your own! I’ll see you in the morning!”
“I’se properly tired too, but if you want, let's pop into the factory and I’ll show you how to get them to make their own clothes. It’s just tellin’ ‘em to do that, so you’se might not need too much hand holding!” Stanisk pushed himself away from the long table, and motioned for them to follow him.
They went into the cavernous factory, just across the hallway. What was an impressive and huge room in the daylight was now an infinite blackness, like a starless night. A few men had grabbed leviathan-oil lamps off the table, and they huddled in a small circle of warm, safe light. They gathered around a long low table, and Stanisk laid out a few bolts of fabric. The fine weaves were familiar to Taritha; they were the same as those used in the clothes she’d been getting from the company.
“It’s simple enough,” Stanisk said as he put a heavy leather bag of tools on the table. “Just say what you want, with as much or as little detail, and they’ll just make that.”
“Imps, make a suit of legion plate armour, imp-sized, out of shoe leather!” Rikad said with glee.
“Merp!” replied several at once, as they began cutting and forming the leather without hesitation. The imps even used grey wool for the under-mail parts, and tiny flares of hellfire to warp the leather into the right shapes. Soon, a tiny suit of black armour lay on the table, looking like what an imperial heavy infantryman would wear, but distorted to the proportions of the gawky imps.
“I dub thee, Imperial commander, Real Imp. Don thy armour!” Rikad ordered. “Do they remember their names?” he asked over his shoulder to Stanisk.
“Oh yeah, they’re proper sharp!” he confirmed.
“Create an imp-sized lord's robe with a sash of office! When it is done, you shall be known as D’Imp Lomat! I might need a minute to think of the last one though…” Rikad said to everyone watching his imps.
Reluctantly, Taritha opened the box and invoked her three imps. She looked at them closely; as far as she could tell, they were perfectly interchangeable with every other imp.
Looking over the fabrics, she chose a striking blue, a deep red, and a golden yellow. “Imps! Make imp-sized sundresses, mainly white with these colours as a main theme. and matching coloured sun hats,” she added hastily. Their heads were distractingly inhuman, so covering them might help. She watched them work, even interrupting a few times to ask for embroidered details and minor adjustments. Once they finished, she had them don their new outfits.
Oh! The hems seem scandalously short on their long lanky legs! Better than before, but not by a lot.
“Imps, please put on the hats that match the colour of your dress.”
“Merp.”
Much better! They look like ladies now!
“You are now Lady Bluebird, Lady Crossbill, and…” She paused at the last one, thinking of songbirds that were as bright yellow as the fabric. “Miss Goldfinch!”
She leaned back and admired her little ladies. They were far less threatening now, and their dull crimson skin really made the dresses look extra vibrant.
“Dang Taritha, how did you make yours so pretty? I want some pretty ones!” Jourgun commented as he looked over.
“Drool over your own demons! These are mine!” she said playfully. There was an undercurrent of possessiveness that she didn’t expect, but these ones were hers now. “Anyways, I’m going to bed too, you guys are too slow! Have fun, boys!” she said as she devoked her imps. The new clothes fell to the work surface.
“Oh yeah, they don’t take that with ‘em, wherever they go, so just keep it in a lil bag or whatever,” Stanisk said when he saw her distress. “They gotta get dressed every time you invoke it,” he shrugged.
So much to learn today!
With a brave smile, she replaced the totems in the box and gathered the dresses and hats. “Mind if I take…” she said as she slowly lifted a lamp from near Rikad.
“Oh yeah, all yours,” he said dismissively, fully engrossed in examining the tiny lordly robes of D’Imp Lomat.
She went back to the hall, up the wide even stairs to the third floor. She’d only spent a bit of time investigating it earlier, as she and Ros had been anxious about being late for dinner. She saw the heap of her worldly possessions against the wall where she’d left them. The only furniture here was the bed, but by the sounds of it, getting some tables, chairs, and wardrobes would be easy enough tomorrow. She placed the totem box and the tiny outfits on the floor beside the bed.
The bed itself was unlike any she’d ever heard of. Crafted with thick pine beams and topped with a mattress of imported cotton, it was probably wider than her entire hovel. A family of five could sleep on it and barely touch. She couldn’t imagine a more lordly bed. Its refined look and the luxurious softness were worlds apart from the coarse fabric and straw she was used to. Sometimes in the fall, she’d add freshly fallen leaves to her straw mattress for extra comfort, but that was a fleeting pleasure. This bed, however, promised constant comfort. She eyed the pile of heavy blankets at the foot of the bed. Recently, she had bought a single blanket from the market, thin and scratchy, but these were the mage’s blankets—thick, plush, and impossibly soft.
She shut the heavy door and took off her tall boots. The floor felt smooth under her bare feet. Even having a floor was a new luxury; she was accustomed to hard-packed dirt floors like most everyone else. This wasn’t just a floor; it was a delicate herringbone pattern of different kinds of wood, obviously done by the agile imps. It was cleaner, smoother, and more level than any table she’d eaten off before the mage came to town.
She stopped admiring the floor and stripped to her shift. She felt exposed being so undressed around so many men. She reasoned it out—the iron and oak door was stronger than a hide flap, and this would doubtlessly be the safest sleep of her life. Just a reaction, not a reality. She left the lamp on the floor and got in bed.
With a panic, she yelped as the whole bed flowed underneath her, as if she’d stepped on the tail of a sleeping cat. She tried to get up but her feet were already off the floor, and she couldn’t find a stable purchase with her hands. She froze up to think her way out of it, and the bed stopped moving almost as soon as she did.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Was this an enchantment gone awry? Some bed demon?
Slowly, she log-rolled towards the edge of the bed, and the mattress under her also slowly moved, but not enough to stop her. Slow and steady, she might get free yet. Finally, she was close enough to put a foot down and stand. The bed flowed back to being perfectly flat.
She stood up, with a hand to her sternum, trying to catch her breath.
Think! What did the mage say about this today? It would magically adjust? Maybe that was all it was doing?
She leaned over and gently pushed down with a single fist. It was super pliable, then increasingly firm. But it felt unlike anything else—stacks of clothes or hides all felt different when they got pressed.
It must be magic. No time to be timid, and it would be humiliating to go to either the mage or the chief about this.
The only spell she could reliably cast was a gesture of Mana-Visualization. It caused the invisible lines of arcane energy to glow visibly, in bright colours that hinted at their use and purpose. She cast it to better examine her bed. It wasn’t enchanted as she expected; rather, hundreds and hundreds of things inside it were, and they linked and overlapped in ways she wouldn’t understand if she studied enchantments for a decade. She involuntarily took a step back from it, like finding a hundred warhorses inside a small cabinet.
She dismissed the gesture. With renewed determination, she slowly sat down on the bed. It shifted but only a bit. It was very soft and comfortable. Slowly, she turned and laid back, fighting her panic as the mattress kept shifting everywhere her body touched it, unnervingly lifelike. Fully laying down, she stopped and the mattress stopped. Even as her eyes were still wide with terror, she started to calm down. To test her theories, she rolled onto her side, and the mattress under her hip grew softer, and the part under her ribs grew firmer, until the pressure equalised. Rolling back, she felt it shift again, and once more the mattress's firmness changed all up and down her body, stopping once it was the same shape as her body’s pressure, resulting in sublime comfort.
Oh. This is incredible. I get it now!
She reached to the foot of the bed, pulled one of the soft blankets up to her chin, reached down to extinguish the lamp and drifted off into a better sleep than anyone in the history of her family ever had.
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Whenever a pop culture moment resurfaces from the early to mid 2010s on twitter, such as the Ellen Degeneres 2014 Oscars megaselfie, or celebs like Jennifer Lawrence, Justin Bieber or boy bands like One Direction are hauled out from the dusty archives I’m astounded at just how quaint and innocent it all feels, how fresh faced and unaware of how deep into cruel self recirculating, cynical irony everything would descend only a decade later.
The mindset that had inculcated in people born between the mid 80s to mid 90s, characterized by its proclivity towards twee is a means by which to keep away the grim specter of adulthood, of aging and of responsibility at bay. People like Zoey Deschanel, Gen X traitor and cultivator of artifice Wes Anderson, and foot stomping mason jar indie bands like Mumford and Sons were dominant and reigned over culture in a way that would simply be impossible today. The culture has somehow become too insincere, too ruled over by fear of candor and of silliness.
2010s culture was dominated by millenials and who, through their mawkish and saccharine sincerity, are doomed to be parodied by zoomers on Tiktok like Bianca Scaglione, culture critics who condense millennial mannerisms and speech into their purest platonic essence, putting their infantilized twee affect on full glorious display.
Gen Z culture is also dominated by a state of arrested development/infantility but its flavor has shifted - zoomers have become subsumed into the all seeing eye of the panopticon of cringe compilations and of self surveillance, and perpetually afraid that they will be denounced as cringe, revert to low stakes pale flickers of emotionality, never reaching the euphoric highs and dark nadirs of the human spirit – they have surrendered their humanity to a tyrannical banality of subjecthood, never letting their guard down for a moment to engage in the candid passion of objecthood in the way millenials experience
Here are two paragons of 2010s culture which the younger zoomer mind cannot comprehend:
• Jennifer Lawrence: The image-savy, oblique and scheming zoomer mind cannot understand Jennifer Lawrence or why someone would want to present like her, she was effusiveness, quirkiness incarnate, she was the grand high priestess of self abrogation and of outré femininity. In a way, she is an evolutionary descendant of the manic pixie dream girl trope of the early 2000s but through her dudebro conduct, moshing her mouth into a constant loud O-shape, her legs spread open during interviews and declaring at every opportunity ‘I just want to eat all the pizza,’ twisted that trope into a mutated offspring that was gross and uncouth. She pioneered the ‘NLOG’ trope, something which normie women in particular are now very hyperaware off. With her constant announcements of how much she loved pigging out on food and talking about how she simply ‘preferred to wear sweatpants around the house (as if she was unique among women in this regard) she portrayed herself as familiar and approachable, she was the anti-celebrity, rejecting the mystique of Hollywood in exchange for an open candor. She spoke with a flat, course affect and an unflattering prosody, she eschewed demureness and her unrefined demeanor contrasted with her doe eyed, debutante type features to produce a jarring authenticity that the millenial mind responded to.
•Ellen Degeneres - Ellen’s entire construction revolves around defanging and neutering fraught cultural boundaries through a messianic level of self sacrifice – through sheer charming awkwardness and by taking upon for herself the role of the goofy but lovable clown she became the sin eater for the transgressions of the world. I was able to see through her façade the moment that I listened to her cry and melt down about a puppy, which was on the surface a very sweet and lovable display of emotion but one that was quite telling considering she had never up to that point exhibited such an outpouring of emotion for any actual humans on her show, despite their many tearjerking circumstances. At the core of the fascist heart is an undying love for the innocent simplicity of animals, and I knew at that moment that she had a fundamental contempt for humanity and a casual capacity to be cruel in a similar way to control freak divas like Barbra Streisand or Jennifer Lopez. Her façade came to a crashing halt when people realized that she was not the forgiving person she presented herself as. That being said, she was an unfairly crucified messiah who deserved better than the audience she had cultivated of disloyal and ungrateful deserters who turned on her.
These kind of people feel impossible now, forever relegated to a recent yet distant seeming past, renounced and forgotten. Zoomer brains are broken, forced to wallow in the cultural cache of the favela pop of people like Bad Bunny, music for people who live in shacks with tin roofs, the cyborgian xanax of somnambulists like Billie Eillish for who the world appears only half full through ptosis eyelids. All I can say is that I am continually fascinated and astounded at how culture has shifted and I hope for a more innocent, less hyper competitive world once again.