tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15599412509745237862024-03-14T01:41:01.846-07:00Confessions of a Pixel and ink-stained wretchLeonard C Suskin's musings on writing, parenthood, and the wonderful world of commercial AV.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.comBlogger342125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-57644600345635901532021-10-04T03:01:00.002-07:002021-10-04T03:01:15.994-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2021 - Day the Third<div><br /></div><div>Three days of this! Here's a vignette about what you do when you reach an edge of the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>The world's topology is complicated - it has many, many edges.</div><div><br /></div><div>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div><div><br /></div><div>"Come here. You've got to see what I found!"</div><div><br /></div><div>It's Maddy, of course. She's always the reckless one, the mad one. The one sneaking through neighbor's yards, who found the tree you could climb to hop over to the roof of the school. </div><div><br /></div><div>You're all out together, in the kind of early fall day you when you can still pretend it's summer. The kind our parents still call "Indian Summer" no matter how many times we tell them not to, then awkwardly joke that it's "Native American Summer" or some other such silliness. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's Maddy who always gets you all into trouble.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mike looks skeptical, like he always does. "What is it this time? Are we gonna get in trouble again?" Mike was the last one down from the school roof. The principal caught him and made him spend an hour carrying books to different classrooms. He didn't turn the rest of us in, but he still never forgave Maddy.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nothing like that. Look, this'll be great. You've just got to see it. But you have to hurry. It doesn't stay there for long."</div><div><br /></div><div><br />You follow, not open for long being a magic phrase. After all, we don't want to miss out on something that isn't there for long, do we?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This adventure leads you on bikes down the busy street and to the sculpture garden behind the tiny art museum our parents drag us to sometimes. Past the lake, to the wide grassy hills nobody ever wanders past. Not because there's anything to stop us, but because there's nothing there. Just well-manicured grass and perfectly straight hedges.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before long we get there, to a perfectly straight row of hedges with a perfectly round hole through the middle. The sunlight, from straight overhead, leaves the hole perfectly dark. This must be the "it doesn't stay for long" Maddy was talking about. Her eyes are bright. </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's a gateway. To another world."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Another world?" Mike looks at the hole. The gateway. He doesn't step closer, doesn't shy away. "What's this other world like?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It looks like this one, but EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT." Her eyes are wide, bright. Mike shakes his head. "Except for when you guys talk me into trouble, I LIKE this world. It's where I keep all my stuff."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Maddy shakes her head. "Well, I want to explore." </div><div><br /></div><div>You find yourself between Mike and Maddy, as he edges back towards the hole and she steps forward.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maddy walks through the hole and vanishes.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-Nth1M8-mu0qEGRCuD8l5cSsFU1FsYsp9W0Q-jC5Vax2n4T_NxLdZuV9gCI4mP423drtdHwVxzPO5WsV5B5FL0zuIRfN_iGqQvTmYN8_IL8jpcOpm8obuWCyoOJFvxwCZW4FUFu5sR0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-Nth1M8-mu0qEGRCuD8l5cSsFU1FsYsp9W0Q-jC5Vax2n4T_NxLdZuV9gCI4mP423drtdHwVxzPO5WsV5B5FL0zuIRfN_iGqQvTmYN8_IL8jpcOpm8obuWCyoOJFvxwCZW4FUFu5sR0/w400-h400/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You follow. Darkness washes over you, as the world vanishes for just a moment. Then step out into the light, on the other side of the hedge. Maddy smiles at you. "I knew you'd come. We can't go back through, or we'd end up back in the same world." The back of the hedgerow is less even, less finely cared for. You smell damp earth, something a bit wild. You walk along the hedge together for a bit, her hand in yours. Then you find a thin spot between hedges and slip through, branches tearing at your skin. You walk back along the hedges until you find this world's version of Mike, with this world's version of the bicycles another you and another Maddy had left behind when they went exploring, off to a different world.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Or you don't follow. Maddy gives the two of you a look of disappointment, disappearing into the darkness as she steps through the hole. You and Mike share a look of resignation. Minutes later another world's Maddy appears from a gap in the hedges a ways down. Not a portal, not a tunnel, just a gap. Neither of you stop her from taking your Maddy's bike to ride home in silence, her disappointment hanging in the air between you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You glance back once, knowing that your choice matters. That now everything is the different.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or everything is the same. </div>Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-61562725529860768462021-10-03T02:39:00.002-07:002021-10-03T02:39:19.143-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2021 - Day the Second<p> </p><p>The Long Way Home</p><p><br /></p><p>You take the long way home from school, along the backroads. You always told your mother that it was because the noise of the busier street bothers you, and she always pretends to believe you.</p><p><br /></p><p>The truth is that you don't know who will be home today. Which monster.</p><p><br /></p><p>The first time was weeks ago. You remember standing out in the yard, kicking a soccer ball against the house. The tall grass of the lawn worn to dirt patches where you stood, twelve yards from the side of the house. You'd paced it, to be sure. Your mother's voice through the kitchen window "You've lost your goddam mind". </p><p><br /></p><p>You stopped kicking. He'd lost his mind? Was your father a zombie, a shambling undead creature with no thoughts, feeding on brains? You stayed out until darkness had fallen, until you could barely see the ball. </p><p><br /></p><p>When you finally came in to dinner at the kitchen table (the dining room was only for Sundays or holidays) his mind was indeed gone - he ate with an absent-minded, glassy-eyed stare. Didn't say anything. Spent the last part of the meal scaping a line of crumbs out of the table's central joint with the tiny pocket screwdriver he always carried. He didn't say good night when you excused yourself to bed.</p><p><br /></p><p>Then there was the time he'd lost his senses. That was worse. His eyes were glassy, he barely picked at his dinner. He must have lost his sense of taste as well. </p><p><br /></p><p>"Are you going to eat your food or just stare at it?" You almost reflexively answer "I'm eating", but she wasn't looking at you. There was not a word the rest of the meal, but that's what it's like when you someone loses their senses.</p><p><br /></p><p>So today, you take the long way home. You don't want to see the mind-numbed zombie or the deaf-mute senseless drone. </p><p><br /></p><p>Your mother is standing outside the front steps as you approach, "You'd better hurry in. Your father's going to lose his head if you make me keep dinner waiting any longer."</p><p><br /></p><p>Lose ... his head? A real monster this time, all shoulders and body and appetite and anger? Arms even longer, able to reach you from even farther? What was the head but the wobbly bit on the top? The place he kept his mind and senses? Without his head, it's just the monster.</p><p><br /></p><p>You hear heavy steps down the stairs. You see his feet, the long arms, the mouth. It's hard to know without a face, but he looks angry.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbW3bIE1FOeJ1wSDjlYkYj3pPo-2UwP42Ole49mtPseASc_qr2kYwL6OrJ6yZDDIMzeA0LjV4r1KEzvsj8G27mkNMSTRxppyt2qg50grR6iKuDCXbdVTo9S6v-9htcVmWUGvuzYKaznyQ/s910/tumblr_a6ec04d764f12daf3fdd6abc77957cd5_f5cc9d09_640.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="910" data-original-width="433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbW3bIE1FOeJ1wSDjlYkYj3pPo-2UwP42Ole49mtPseASc_qr2kYwL6OrJ6yZDDIMzeA0LjV4r1KEzvsj8G27mkNMSTRxppyt2qg50grR6iKuDCXbdVTo9S6v-9htcVmWUGvuzYKaznyQ/s320/tumblr_a6ec04d764f12daf3fdd6abc77957cd5_f5cc9d09_640.png" width="152" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Resigned to your fate, you step inside. </p><p><br /></p><p>If you get another chance, you'll never take the long way again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-21535196591278679702021-10-02T03:50:00.004-07:002021-10-02T03:50:55.017-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2021 , Day the First<p> Good morning friends, if anyone is still here.</p><p><br /></p><p>These pages have remained empty for a long time, and I skipped this whole exercise last year as pandemic brain kind of melted me. The game is the same - one piece of flash fiction per day, written one day late in the early morning. Just little sketches here to get the brain moving and put us in the October mood.</p><p><br /></p><p>Project is courtesy of Andrea Trask, sometimes known as Bliss Morgan. If you want to play along, prompts are <a href="https://nightmarefuelproject.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">here</a> on the Tumblr. She also has a <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Blisstopia" target="_blank">Patreon</a> for those who wish to patreonise her. </p><p><br /></p><p>Now, on with it.</p><p><br /></p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p><br /><br /></p><p>There are whispers of a place, isolated but not too isolated, where the anonymous acolyte of worth holds a book. If you find him - and it isn't as hard as one would think - you'll be shown a single page.</p><p><br /></p><p>On it is be written the greatest day of your life. The only price is that you need to look, and you'll always carry that knowledge that on one shining day - perhaps in the future, perhaps lost in your past - you had your best moment. And none before or since would measure up.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nobody ever asks what "greatest" means. Not that the acolytes would ever tell.</p><p><br /></p><p>I arrive on a chill October day, accompanied by a youth. They laugh nervously as we travel the tree-lined ghost-walk to the weathered stone temple of worth. "You're almost fifty. Whatever your time is, it's in the past. Why bother?"</p><p><br /></p><p>I smile. "Maybe I just need a reminder. But we're here for you."</p><p><br /></p><p>We step in. The acolyte is where we'd been told, covered in heavy robes. Impossible to tell who it was, male or female. They were holding a black-leatherbound book, as worn with the ravages of time as the building around us. They look first at the youth, beckon with one crooked finger. He steps forward, the book is held up to him and opened. </p><p><br /></p><p>"October 31, 2036. You tell the truth to yourself." That's how it was written - always in the present tense, as if it is always unfolding. Right now.</p><p> 2036. Fifteen years from now. </p><p><br /></p><p>The youth steps back. "but.. I never lie for myself. It'll take fifteen years? For just that?"</p><p><br />The figure is silent. It always was. </p><p><br /></p><p>I stepped forward to complete the ritual, but I already know.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM8Uz4rmSm8s4rbm2adX1VVfRQd6kLYb1V0H6i06DTcqmgamvo08xrtI6d6jGcs_9tbJ7q0RmdXyovP-Jis0o0HdqKtAd9j6NaWaSaB3EZ03ozmAPEToZLtDXDuKCXNrX2T7GGCa2UyY/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="496" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM8Uz4rmSm8s4rbm2adX1VVfRQd6kLYb1V0H6i06DTcqmgamvo08xrtI6d6jGcs_9tbJ7q0RmdXyovP-Jis0o0HdqKtAd9j6NaWaSaB3EZ03ozmAPEToZLtDXDuKCXNrX2T7GGCa2UyY/w232-h350/image.png" width="232" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>"November 27, 2001. You go where you need to be."</p><p><br /></p><p>The youth laughs, again nervously. "That's it? You went where you need to go twenty years ago? Some life, eh? You must be disappointed. What's left to live for?"</p><p><br /></p><p>I barely hear. Because it's the date I knew. I remember the shoes I was wearing, the brown rockports with the frayed lace on one side, because I was tying them when I got the phone call. She was scared. She didn't think the doctors were paying her enough attention. She knew it was time for work, but she needed me.</p><p><br /></p><p>I remembered she was wearing her glasses because I was left clutching them as a nurse ushered me away from the others who'd answered my calls for help.</p><p><br /></p><p>The same nurse - or maybe a different one - asks me if she was wearing a watch. I say I don't know, and then she hands it to me. Stupidly, absurdly, I'll always wonder why she asked that.</p><p><br /></p><p>Then I'm standing in a tiny, anonymous office built for painful conversations, staring at that watch, not even seeing what time it showed, as I'm handed a phone. "Do you need to call her family? Anyone?" I hold the receiver in my hand for a long time before I realize that I don't know what I'd even say to them. I set it down and say something. I don't remember what.</p><p><br /></p><p>The rest is a blur from of fear, anger, frustration. The fear fades slowly over the next days, weeks, months. The sense of "not out of the woods" and "could happen again" that lingered like the scent of something long departed until, without fanfare, it is gone. Almost. There will be reminders later, over the years. Nothing is ever over.</p><p><br /></p><p>I smile at the youth. "What I have to live for is the same reason I skipped work that day. It could have been the worst day of my life. It WAS one of the worst days. But also the greatest. I know if given the choice, you'd do the same"</p><p><br />We leave that place, having learned nothing. </p>Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-50764441013293802412019-10-08T06:05:00.002-07:002019-10-08T06:05:32.510-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2019, Day the Sixth - Batteries<br />
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Still two days behind, but that's better than three days behind. </div>
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Perchance I'll catch up soon.</div>
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Other things I love? Witches and bad decisions. Image from the BotanyShitPosts Tumblr</div>
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Batteries</div>
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He had that look in his eyes. The look that says he has an
idea, a brilliant idea. The look that says he can’t believe that he didn’t
think of it before, but he knows exactly why none of the rest of us did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are, after all, not nearly as smart as he is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It wasn’t the look that hooked you; you’ve seen that look
lots of times. It was the closet door. The one in the back of his apartment,
the one with the steel hasp and the shiny steel padlock. The one you’ve never
seen open, the one he’d only smile about if you asked one of those nights you
slept over with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That door. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Was open.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_wG8fMKOp24KSh4Kpe1cB00SP8OXvf2Li3JHryRi5vYS5qgbZSh44kJ4v8Y7MxaVDG-19KYendCy9OOSkhbx_ONLjp5UITEIg6ZVpNQ41dCoqd-R5gFt1bugbHyDhz46I-F7ErsbZAQ/s1600/NMF+Day+6+-+Botanyshitposts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_wG8fMKOp24KSh4Kpe1cB00SP8OXvf2Li3JHryRi5vYS5qgbZSh44kJ4v8Y7MxaVDG-19KYendCy9OOSkhbx_ONLjp5UITEIg6ZVpNQ41dCoqd-R5gFt1bugbHyDhz46I-F7ErsbZAQ/s320/NMF+Day+6+-+Botanyshitposts.jpg" width="169" /></a>Not only that, it seemed to be … glowing. That’s impossible.
Who puts a light in a closet? Unless he’s growing weed in there, but there’d be
no need to keep THAT a secret from you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“This’ll be great.” You took a seat on the bed as he paced
the short length of the bedroom, your eyes constantly drawn to that open door.
He was all jangly limbs and frenetic energy and piercing blue eyes, dressed in
a threadbare band-logo T-shirt and a pair of hundred-dollar jeans. Yeah, Mike
was Mike and this was shaping up to be a classic Mike type of evening. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look, most of this happened before I met you and I didn’t
know if it was real or it would work, but couple years ago I got a real apprenticeship
with a real witch.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The hinges on your jaw loosen as you try to formulate a
response. “A… witch?” That was a response. You feel dumb, the way he always
makes you feel dumb. One of these days you’ll be quick enough to keep up with
him. Today was not the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, they’re still around. They mostly only take other
women, but, well, you have to know how to talk to them. About balance and
harmony and all that. And find the right one who’se old enough and alone enough
and fears the things she knows will die with her if she can’t pass them on. It
takes some looking, but you know me. I’ve always been good at looking. And good
looking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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You smile weakly. The joke may be wearing thin, but part of
you will always remember the awkward confidence with which he made it the first
time. There’s an eager little boy in there somewhere, one both proud of himself
and eager to please and quick as lightning. You fell in love with that little
boy, even if the same old jokes are starting to run thin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And now, the moment .He steps in to the closet, comes out
with several two-liter bottles, with some kind of plant growing in each. Deep
emerald-green leaves, rich brown roots. Strange sigils are etched onto each
bottlecap in what appears to be black sharpie. “Watch this!” he says, then
mutters a few words under his breath. The air in the apartment suddenly feels
clearer, healthier. Even a bit brighter. Certainly cooler and less humid. “See?
Environmental control. Temperature, humidity, spirit. We’ve been cooling our air
with clunky nineteenth century technology for too long, compressing gasses and
letting them decompress. IT’s time to move to the future!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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You are genuinely amazed, your head feels clearer. Clear
enough that something here seems wrong. “What did your witch say about this
plan?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He waves a hand dismissively. “You know witches. Always
playing it safe. Too meddlesome. To big a risk. Too harmful.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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As he talks the bottleplant fades before your eyes, from a
lush green to a muted tan. He sees your looking. “They always do that, but it’s
fine. We can always recharge them, take a little from the world outside. Even
from the ocean. Nobody’ll miss it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nobody?” You stand up and look him in the eye. “You sure
about that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He smiles, nods equally. “Nobody. Just take a little energy,
release a bit of psychic waste. Maybe into the ocean. What’s a nightmare or two
to a fish? And we’ll all get to be happy and comfortable.” He pauses. “I’m
gonna need investors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Capital. We’re going
to be rich!”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You take a deep breath of the cool, dry, spiritually
cleansed air. To be rich with him would be good, right? And worth putting up
with the same old jokes for a few more years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe this time he got it right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the closet, the remaining plants fade to grey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-9417803409718718052019-10-07T06:38:00.002-07:002019-10-07T06:38:34.567-07:00Nightmare Fuel Day the Fifth - WIshI love wishes. I love deals with genies and the devil and any supernatural being with the ability to give us the very worst thing it possibly could - exactly what we want.<br />
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At the very least, we get lovely little puzzle stories of humans trying to outsmart a virtual god. Here's a quick tale of someone who thought he won the wishing game.<br />
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The Third Wish</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your wish is my
command, and very well-phrased, if I do say.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ll admit that I was pleased with myself. Yes, I know I
wasn’t the first to wish for immortality, but I’ve read enough stories to know
that wishing was a fool’s game, unless you’re clever and careful. I studied
first. I read up on contract law. On fairy tales. On myths. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was going to get this right, and carefully so. Avoid
disease or senescence or an eternity of pain. And this was just one wish,
carefully worded. I’d keep the other two in reserve, as an emergency measure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwB5d9Vo9r8U7bRPOJCrwMAis84t-ep9pnsi4Yft8pjqc1Sqrwe_ZxoK5HVLYSsYa0dbv6LhQReCm89Arh21vdBUv1dkvCPGw0m9E7-QqCbE7FVstu0T5HXT0ewjo6G_4ILIkt9LeQorM/s1600/NMF+Day+5+-+Image+by+Andrea+Trask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwB5d9Vo9r8U7bRPOJCrwMAis84t-ep9pnsi4Yft8pjqc1Sqrwe_ZxoK5HVLYSsYa0dbv6LhQReCm89Arh21vdBUv1dkvCPGw0m9E7-QqCbE7FVstu0T5HXT0ewjo6G_4ILIkt9LeQorM/s320/NMF+Day+5+-+Image+by+Andrea+Trask.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Andrea Trask</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s just… well, nevermind. I’m sure you’ve thought of all
of it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t matter how I found the genie or bound him to do
my bidding, but that I did. And this one was clearly impressed, and respectful.
I’m not so arrogant as to not listen; after all, I DID still have two wishes
left, and haven’t even created myself a fortune. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s just that the wish was perfectly worded for all
natural or supernatural illnesses, all age related failings physical and
mental, all germs, diseases, curses, afflictions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nodded, impatient. “Yes, Genie. I know I what I wished
for. It’s very careful and very much ironclad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Only… did you not think of accidents? A fire? A car crash? Lightning?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I thought those fell under aflictions?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No… you’re not protected from misadventure or disasters.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“OK.. so for my next wish, I wish to be protected…” I
continued very carefuly and quickly, modifying the language from my
anti-illness wish to include all natural and man-made disasters, accidents,
misadventures, and acts of god. It’s good to be smart, and to have earned the
respect of the genie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten years later I’d still not used that last wish. I had a
house, a wife, a baby, a car. The secret is to find a way to live comfortably,
with the security that you’re taken car of and it’ll all work out. It isn’t
hard to win the wishing-game if you aren’t greedy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fire alarm didn’t wake me at first, but that’s OK. After
all, I was protected, and protected well. The smoke smelled like a campfire,
the flames a gentle warmth. I smiled until I heard the screaming from my
daughter’s room, then jumped out of bed in a panic, running through the
smoke-filled rooms. It didn’t even sting my eyes, but obscured my vision.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t need to hear the rest. I found them, my wife and
the baby, in the nursery. Ran them outside, but it was too late, much too late.
Cradling my baby’s lifeless body, I looked up at the house. The protection had
held, with even the siding around my bedroom window clean and unmarked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh… I wish it had been me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those are the last words I ever spoke. As the world faded
away I heard the baby’s laughter and realized something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d won the wishing game after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-26487361699953690912019-10-07T06:33:00.000-07:002019-10-07T06:33:02.734-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2019 Day the Fourth - Grave<br />
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I've fallen behind, but might do some two-a-days to catch up. Image is in the public domain, source unknown.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Grave</div>
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<br /></div>
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“You gotta see this!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Calvin would admit, it wasn’t that first thing he’d have
expected. They’d only turned off the wooded trail behind the school a few
minutes ago, but this space was hidden by thick underbrush and a low rise in
the soft earth. Somehow, here in the trackless woods, someone had brought a
casket, its finish long faded to a mottled rorshach of mold, but the lid and
tapered sides still appearing solid and whole. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLY-pfz7qwyf-sP-aBrcl4ISUKFYAQutXcgG5cZ9uJUGs4rQTAm4MRgcEwZrdggNimUSCDyRatQe8kYGLhYavzHJkE4YXMSNIO4625bHd3KXO6Fu4F4M5_7HH8-PjNSZbrhHjplXZGPQ/s1600/NMF+Day+4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="668" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLY-pfz7qwyf-sP-aBrcl4ISUKFYAQutXcgG5cZ9uJUGs4rQTAm4MRgcEwZrdggNimUSCDyRatQe8kYGLhYavzHJkE4YXMSNIO4625bHd3KXO6Fu4F4M5_7HH8-PjNSZbrhHjplXZGPQ/s320/NMF+Day+4.png" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s… a coffin”. Moments like this never find Cal at his
brightest. Neither does time with Bruce, truth be told. He always seems to be
thinking a step ahead of everyone. In class. On the track team. Out here
noplace. “uh… why?” IT seemed a good question. They might not be quite old
enough to drink or even vote, but they were past the age at which the mere
sight of a coffin should mean that much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that either had yet seen death.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m gonna take her out here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Take who out here? And… why? Won’t the coffin gross her
out? Whoever it is?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bruce laughed. “Does it matter who? And it’s perfect.” He
tapped the top of the casket with the back of his hand. “Solid. And the way
it’s propped up here, it’s the perfect height to bend her over it. And get
this..” he paused. “It’s a grave for her virginity.” He gave that cocky grin of
his that always made Cal either want to punch him or to be him. Sometimes both.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bruce coaxed Diana to the spot on the very next day. It felt
right to him, her dark hair and affected black-painted nails and dark lipstick
the color of old blood. That’s the kind of girl you fuck on the creepy coffin
in the middle of the woods. Certainly not platinum-blond Lana from the
cheerleading and the debate team. No, this was a place for the pale-skinned
wisp with her darklined eyes and bad poetry. She didn’t gasp in shock when she
saw it, didn’t even have a catch in her breath. Bruce glanced sideways at her,
saw her biting her lip thoughtfully. Maybe this wasn’t right? Maybe Lana or
Diana or someone else would be appropriately spooked and give in more eagerly.
Maybe he’d gotten too much into the looks of the thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No matter. He sat boldly on the macabre bit of woodland
furniture, patted the faded hardwood top next to him. “Join me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laughed. Not an unpleasant or cruel laugh, but a laugh
nonetheless. “Do you know,” she said, “that Mary Shelley was said to have lost
her virginity on a grave?” She paused. “On her <i>mothers’s</i> grave.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s.. very interesting.” She’d still not sat down; Bruce
wasn’t sure he was doing this right. Wasn’t sure why she was the one standing
and him sitting. But.. .she was talking about losing virginity. That’s a good
sign, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And you know…” she leaned in close to him, traced his
jawline with one of those red-painted nails. Up close he could see that the
polish was chipped at one end. That little imperfection drew his eye, “You
know… nobody remembers the name of the guy she lost it with. Just hers.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her eyes flick down almost imperceptibly to his lap, then
back to the head of the casket. “So you need to ask… whose story is this? And
whose grave are we about to defile?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks later the search was winding down; they’d keep
looking, of course, but it was winding down to the rote performance of those
who know they’d never find who they were looking for. Cal returned to the
clearing for what felt like the hundredth time; off the path into the trackless
woods, over the low earthen hill and… to nothing. No coffin, no half-dug grave.
Just a gentle depression in the soft earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-9545158508904599732019-10-06T04:50:00.000-07:002019-10-06T04:50:33.268-07:00Nightmare Fuel - Day the Third. Nothing<br />
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm running behind here; might catch up this week.<br />
<br />
This fit the prompt better before some changes; I like this version of the story better, so take the image as metaphorical.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOqlh_K086lky6hs_pOhUNWKW_XKL6WMBQ_FVBPXDJydtj5DaIqJQsdh7LGyArqTDLzMOHvC0ovlhMDyMlInZjju-mPPtw8sseKHUWifPUZsd_nXS6uAwVT467sHe8Bz_-Usnl897W9w/s1600/NMF+Day+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOqlh_K086lky6hs_pOhUNWKW_XKL6WMBQ_FVBPXDJydtj5DaIqJQsdh7LGyArqTDLzMOHvC0ovlhMDyMlInZjju-mPPtw8sseKHUWifPUZsd_nXS6uAwVT467sHe8Bz_-Usnl897W9w/s320/NMF+Day+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between the pounding in your head and the late-night darkness
you fumble to get the key into the latch. Why didn’t she leave the light on for
you? You fumble once more, and the door pushes open. It hadn’t even been
locked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wonderful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You step into the darkness, push the door shut behind you.
Making sure it locks. The lock feels strange under your fingers, but the
deadbolt slides into place with a reassuring click.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You take two steps into the room, stumble. The chair isn’t where
you remembered it, but that’s just your mind playing tricks. She wouldn’t
rearrange the furniture. Would she?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know you’re late again, know that happy hour drinks went
a bit too long. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can imagine the conversation. The same one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s never had a job like yours, never gotten
office politics. Doesn’t realize that you need to be seen at happy hour with
the crew, like it or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ll sleep on the couch tonight, wake her in the morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dawn comes, and with it the expected pounding headache. Light
streams through the curtains onto the yellow couch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yellow?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You shake your head violently. Your couch is blue. You blink
twice, disoriented, but the wrong furniture remains. And the wrong wall color. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the fumbling with your key.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You quietly curse yourself, grab your shoes. You’ll slip out,
get to the right house. And then figure out an explanation. Shit, she’ll
probably think you were having an affair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You quietly get to your feet, slip your shoes back on. Undo
the deadbolt and push open the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The daylight stabs into your eyes like daggers. You close
them tightly, then open them cautiously again, turn to look at the mailbox to
see where you’ve ended up. It is.. #4.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s your house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heart pounding you run back inside, but nothing matches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wrong furniture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No wife, no kids.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just you. In your house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That wasn’t yours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-70580779401991215372019-10-02T14:36:00.001-07:002019-10-02T14:36:34.082-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2019 - Day the Second. A Guide to the NYC Subway<br />
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<br /></div>
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Less narrative for day two, I'm not sure what this is. A pose poem? A meditation? Random words on a page?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Regardless, it's atmospheric (I think)</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOwyw9GCNJKKo38OlNfgo7HFck0mrLnwPZCFskemnIm94aKso4ypMqqKwFNorjKxjW2Fnj8NsvUPOlEAlgY5EAyKfxHe_BCcuK8waPDGWStWVNHCDp3BN1U4IUdTsSi7VbQwTJJq7ekE/s1600/NMF+Day+2+-+Anubis+in+Hakone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="700" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOwyw9GCNJKKo38OlNfgo7HFck0mrLnwPZCFskemnIm94aKso4ypMqqKwFNorjKxjW2Fnj8NsvUPOlEAlgY5EAyKfxHe_BCcuK8waPDGWStWVNHCDp3BN1U4IUdTsSi7VbQwTJJq7ekE/s320/NMF+Day+2+-+Anubis+in+Hakone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anubis in Hakone, by Joanna Karowicz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Adventurer’s Guide to the New York City Subway<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Go to City Hall station. When the attendant in the booth is distracted,
duck under the yellow caution tape, into the old part of the station. The part
that’s not been refurbished. To the old place, with character and memory. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Count the third steel door, the battered beige paint flaking
off. You’ll need to push hard to force it open; no matter how many come through
it always sticks. That’s just the way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hope that nobody heard the scrape of rusty old steel on
stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Find the old turnstyle, one of the last to still take
tokens. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Consider paying with the old-style token you found at the museum
shop. The shape of a thing becomes the thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Consider paying with the genuine antique token you found at
the estate sale last week. A dead man’s coin to enter a dead realm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Consider jumping the turnstyle. After all, you broke a rule
to be here. What’s one more?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Make your choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take a moment to study the mosaics on the wall while you
await the train. See that the tiles are arranged shapes of gloves, posed as if
worn by invisible people. White opera gloves, dirty grey work gloves, childs’
mittens, their once cheerful colors muted by layers of grime. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ponder your hands, and wonder what gloves you’d wear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the train is here. An old one, with the genuine leather
straps overhead. The car empty save for Anubis, who never remembers his stop,
always rides until the end of the line, sometimes back again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stand clear of the closing doors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t sit to close to him; gods of death need their space,
as, honestly, do you. You’re past the end of the line anyway, the last stop two
streets or two decades or a thousand years behind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ride past the glorious old City Hall station, the one you
came here to see, the one with the vaulted ceiling and gilt columns and a glorious
smell of decay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ride until the tracks end and even Anubis has gotten off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ride until a stranger boards, having bought or stolen his
way onto the train, meets your eye across the old car wondering just what god
you are. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br /><br />
Leave something behind when you disembark, checking the station map for a clue as to where you are as the train rattles onward, farther past the end of the line.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-68997068594935560392019-10-01T06:15:00.003-07:002019-10-01T06:15:56.628-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2019, Day the First - At the Loom<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow, it's been a long time since I've written here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Greetings, again, I'll try to not neglect this space.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's October, and for the better part of the past decade that's meant Andrea Trask's annual "Nightmare Fuel" project, in which anyone moved to do so writes little horror stories based on a daily image prompt. I like this as a bit of a daily writing exercise, but sometimes fade out if my pieces start feeling too much alike.</div>
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So it begins, for this year. Enjoy, and thanks for listening.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The day after her death you tore your clothes, as was the
custom. The cry of rent fabric echoed your own in a way that dulled the pain,
dimmed it if even for a moment. You fell onto the bed where she took her last
breath, your hands falling to the heavy woven blanket. Your tore and pulled and
unraveled until your hands ached, until the threads cut into soft fingers
unused to this violence, as her absence cut into the soft parts of your heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You tore and tore and tore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month after her death you gathered up the tangled threads,
straightened them, unknotted them. Wound them onto spools. Untangling them tangled
something deep in your gut as the touch worried against the raw callouses on
your fingers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You wound, wound, and stored.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month after her death you purchased a loom, you learned to
weave. You bought yarns of different colors, different thickness, different
feel. Natural, artificial. You watched instructional videos, you learned of
warp and weft and counts and other arcane secrets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You practiced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year after her death your hands were calloused, strong, no
longer smooth and soft like your heart. You wove blankets and tapestries and
throw-rugs. You wove geometric patterns, you wove landscapes, you wove tromp l’oeil
effects designed to look like windows. You’d hang them on a bare wall, imagine them
real windows. Imagine her standing outside, just out of your view. If the loom
were wider you’d be able to see her. You took some pieces to local craft fairs,
you opened a little online store. Mostly you wove.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You wove and you dreamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten years after her death you’d mastered the tromp l’oeil,
the window to nowhere. Windows into cloudscapes and pastoral landscapes and
heavens and dark underworlds, but no matter how wide you wove she’d always be
just out of sight, just unreachable. Your home became full of them, walls hung
with dizzying patchworks of faux windows and archways. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You wove, and you searched.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty years after her death, you took those long-forgotten
threads from the closet. The ones that had been her blanket. You unspooled the
long-faded yarn, slowly, reverently. Died it in blacks and browns, the color of
the earth to which she’d returned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEm87JqOctOwse2U2jWNsV2zGl-K270-NuTba-kAUfNiEuMGOTujAwYsOMQR2f3buYAaN_8F1VvvA0-9nsK2ubcL1pDv9703_t8xaXcNOOPtGlCaND9s_fxr0PDpo9tagJ0aCr9x1gTdg/s1600/NMF+Day+1+-+Stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEm87JqOctOwse2U2jWNsV2zGl-K270-NuTba-kAUfNiEuMGOTujAwYsOMQR2f3buYAaN_8F1VvvA0-9nsK2ubcL1pDv9703_t8xaXcNOOPtGlCaND9s_fxr0PDpo9tagJ0aCr9x1gTdg/s320/NMF+Day+1+-+Stairs.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you wove.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your final piece, a simple throw-rug. Too narrow, because there
was only but so much thread from that old blanket. In the warp and weave a shape
formed – a simple wooden staircase, downward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You wove your way to the underworld, an Orpheus of the loom,
descending on the stairs of your art to again meet her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-67714335951611225352018-11-20T04:44:00.002-08:002018-11-20T04:44:36.285-08:00Thoughts on Trans Day of Remembrance, 2018As we prepare to kick off the joyous part of the holiday season, today is a somber and serious day for reflection and mourning. Since 1999, November 20th has been observed as the Transgender Day of Remembrance in which we take the time to remember those lost to anti-trans violence. We need to take the time to remember because this is a population who, as a society, we have failed. We continue to fail them.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first time I posted this, in 2014, I told the story of one of my juggler friends commenting that we're lucky to have one of our trans friends in our lives, because too many are lost to suicide or to murder. While the official TDOR count doesn't include those who've taken their own lives, I feel that their blood is on our hands for all the harms we as a society inflict.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Too many of us refuse to use the correct pronouns.</div>
<div>
We fight to keep them out of public restrooms.</div>
<div>
The United States justice department has argued to the Supreme Court that employment discrimination against trans people should be legal.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, there are bright spots. Legal protections were confirmed in a Massachusetts referendum this past election day - the first time trans rights were defended at the ballot box. More people are learning, more are trying to learn.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It isn't enough. Not yet.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What can we do, my cisgender brothers and sisters? At the very least we need to not be part of the problem. Learn to use the correct pronouns. Learn which language is and isn't harmful. When you hear someone say something transphobic, correct them. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember those we've lost. Mourn the dead, fight for the living.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Following is the list of names. All killed this year for who they were, throughout the world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We need to do better. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sSmLZhazdDP_Z2xfujjPHu97aJSYDChb9kw4P2wMuahWeDfkg8AXsTOlgvToHnp41_7a7oXia1r0YIEtF9tZy_OY-YfN2P6MF5X8r0RFoEi6x20QCiIi9zZPEEppT7cAiNwI2UAU9iQ/s1600/For+Remembrance.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2sSmLZhazdDP_Z2xfujjPHu97aJSYDChb9kw4P2wMuahWeDfkg8AXsTOlgvToHnp41_7a7oXia1r0YIEtF9tZy_OY-YfN2P6MF5X8r0RFoEi6x20QCiIi9zZPEEppT7cAiNwI2UAU9iQ/s1600/For+Remembrance.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<b>Argentina</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carolina/Camila Angulo Paredes</div>
<div>
Buenos Aires, Argentina</div>
<div>
29-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lourdes Reinoso</div>
<div>
Tucuman, Argentina</div>
<div>
14-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ynina</div>
<div>
Puerto Madryn, Argentina</div>
<div>
30-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Adriana Estefanía Bonetto</div>
<div>
San Jose del Rincon, Argentina</div>
<div>
8-Feb-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cinthia Moreira</div>
<div>
Villa Alen, Argentina</div>
<div>
22-Feb-18</div>
<div>
decapitated/dismembered</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sol Gómez</div>
<div>
Santa Fe, Argentina</div>
<div>
7-Mar-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Julia Ponce</div>
<div>
Buenos Aires, Argentina</div>
<div>
23-Jul-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yanelis Rodríguez</div>
<div>
Argentina, Argentina</div>
<div>
31-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bangladesh</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sonia Akter</div>
<div>
Morrelganj, Bangladesh</div>
<div>
31-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Brazil</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
L. de Souza Pereira</div>
<div>
Manaus, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Nov-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Uberlândia, Brazil</div>
<div>
28-Nov-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Milena</div>
<div>
Arapiraca, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Dec-17</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Andressa Xoda</div>
<div>
Pauladas E Tiros – Salvador, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eduarda Figueiredo</div>
<div>
Porto Seguro, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Júlia Volp</div>
<div>
Florianópolis, Brazil</div>
<div>
4-Dec-17</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jéssica Dimy</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sabrina</div>
<div>
Uberaba, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Luany Aquamarine</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
9-Dec-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Luna Shine</div>
<div>
Viana, Brazil</div>
<div>
11-Dec-17</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marquete F. C. de Lima</div>
<div>
Altinho, Brazil</div>
<div>
13-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kebeca G. de Souza</div>
<div>
Gurupi, Brazil</div>
<div>
16-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Larissa Paiva</div>
<div>
Sao Paulo, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Dec-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rose</div>
<div>
João Pessoa, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Dec-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lorrany “Lhoane” Oliveira</div>
<div>
Santaluz, Brazil</div>
<div>
26-Dec-17</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
V. O. Silva</div>
<div>
Uberaba, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Dec-17</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Silvia Gomes Marques</div>
<div>
Belem, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fany Diniz</div>
<div>
Belem, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C. Sobral</div>
<div>
Feira de Santana, Brazil</div>
<div>
5-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Brasília, Brazil</div>
<div>
5-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
W. Peixoto</div>
<div>
Piripiri, Brazil</div>
<div>
9-Jan-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C. Figueiredo</div>
<div>
Recife, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carol Alves</div>
<div>
Tangará da Serra, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kelly</div>
<div>
Belém, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Concórdia do Pará, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Júlia de Arruda</div>
<div>
Várzea Grande, Brazil</div>
<div>
21-Jan-18</div>
<div>
other</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lohane</div>
<div>
Governador Newton Bello, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rios Dayane Macklarenn</div>
<div>
São Bernardo do Campo, Brazil</div>
<div>
26-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Raquel Cosinele</div>
<div>
Recife, Brazil</div>
<div>
27-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Samira de Alcantara</div>
<div>
Nossa Senhora do Socorro, Brazil</div>
<div>
29-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Natália Ketlyn</div>
<div>
Campos Altos, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hemilly Dbx</div>
<div>
Garanhuns, Brazil</div>
<div>
6-Feb-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anninha Ferreira Rochee</div>
<div>
Colatina, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Feb-18</div>
<div>
decapitated/dismembered</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A. da S. Silvério</div>
<div>
Vitíoria de São Antão, Brazil</div>
<div>
8-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lohan</div>
<div>
Vitoria, Brazil</div>
<div>
8-Feb-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Milonga F. L. Martins</div>
<div>
Pacajus, Brazil</div>
<div>
9-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dominique</div>
<div>
Uberlândia, Brazil</div>
<div>
10-Feb-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nayra Winston</div>
<div>
Rio Largo, Brazil</div>
<div>
10-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Fortaleza, Brazil</div>
<div>
11-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bruna</div>
<div>
Belém, Brazil</div>
<div>
12-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Keila</div>
<div>
Salvador, Brazil</div>
<div>
12-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Joao Pessoa, Brazil</div>
<div>
12-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
K. Silva</div>
<div>
Manaus, Brazil</div>
<div>
13-Feb-18</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pérola</div>
<div>
Sao Paulo, Brazil</div>
<div>
14-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bruna Ferrari</div>
<div>
Concórdia do Pará, Brazil</div>
<div>
15-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Laysla Oliveira</div>
<div>
Ribeirão Preto, Brazil</div>
<div>
18-Feb-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Amanda Rios</div>
<div>
João Pessoa, Brazil</div>
<div>
19-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eduarda Brasil</div>
<div>
Araras, Brazil</div>
<div>
19-Feb-18</div>
<div>
other</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rayana Ribeiro</div>
<div>
João Pessoa, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bia Rocha</div>
<div>
Recife, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Claudia Oliveira</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fernanda Caetano</div>
<div>
Lapa, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kimberlys Ochoa</div>
<div>
Lara, Venezuela</div>
<div>
25-Feb-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fernanda “Pit” Dias</div>
<div>
São Mateus, Brazil</div>
<div>
27-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alessandra da Silva Alves</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shayene</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Palola</div>
<div>
João Pessoa, Brazil</div>
<div>
4-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Samielly Castro</div>
<div>
São Paulo, Brazil</div>
<div>
4-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pâmela Tabete</div>
<div>
Craiba, Brazil</div>
<div>
8-Mar-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thalita da Silva</div>
<div>
Barra do Garças, Brazil</div>
<div>
13-Mar-18</div>
<div>
throat cut</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. Oliveira da Silva</div>
<div>
Vila Velha, Brazil</div>
<div>
16-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Ilha do Governador, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Mar-18</div>
<div>
decapitated/dismembered</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bruna Gabriel</div>
<div>
Ananindeua, Brazil</div>
<div>
19-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
N. Naza</div>
<div>
Ananindeua, Brazil</div>
<div>
19-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paola Oliveira</div>
<div>
Luziânia, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alanis Burgo</div>
<div>
Pelotas, Brazil</div>
<div>
22-Mar-18</div>
<div>
suffocated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Giorginye Dias de Siqueira</div>
<div>
Aparecida de Goiânia, Brazil</div>
<div>
22-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
São Leopoldo, Brazil</div>
<div>
22-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Daniela Santos</div>
<div>
Ibicaraí, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Mar-18</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cleide Aládio Zaramarine Neto</div>
<div>
Itaberaí, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-Mar-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hilda de Melo Matias</div>
<div>
Barbalha, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eduarda Amaro</div>
<div>
Pelotas, Brazil</div>
<div>
29-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Elvira Costa Ferreira</div>
<div>
Maranguape, Brazil</div>
<div>
2-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Andressa Muda</div>
<div>
Macaé, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Apr-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Benjamin de Jesus Sousa</div>
<div>
Teresina, Brazil</div>
<div>
6-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Angra Alessandra Cupertino</div>
<div>
Feira de Santana, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Millany Spencer</div>
<div>
Nossa Senhora do Socorro, Brazil</div>
<div>
14-Apr-18</div>
<div>
Beaten and strangled</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nati da Silva</div>
<div>
Lajeado, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nycoly Souza Nardoni Bhals</div>
<div>
Governador Valadares, Brazil</div>
<div>
22-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gabriely Fancciny</div>
<div>
Porto Velho, Brazil</div>
<div>
28-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Matheusx Passarelli</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
29-Apr-18</div>
<div>
burned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Raunna Silva</div>
<div>
Niterói, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Campo Grande, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bianca Santos Albuquerque</div>
<div>
Araras, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paulinha</div>
<div>
Fortaleza, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C. Alves</div>
<div>
Vitória da Conquista, Brazil</div>
<div>
8-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Myrella Mhell</div>
<div>
Pirapora, Brazil</div>
<div>
21-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Pandora</div>
<div>
Santa Rita, Brazil</div>
<div>
21-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Beatriz Ribeiro</div>
<div>
Bacabal, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-May-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
D.R.C.</div>
<div>
Jundiaí, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-May-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I. Silva</div>
<div>
Itaberaí, Brazil</div>
<div>
29-May-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Patrícia Pereira</div>
<div>
Maracanaú, Brazil</div>
<div>
31-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nayra Matos</div>
<div>
Maracanaú, Brazil</div>
<div>
31-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Britney Vaz</div>
<div>
Colniza, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Vitória</div>
<div>
Salvador, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Manaus, Brazil</div>
<div>
6-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kamila Roberta</div>
<div>
Florianópolis, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Jun-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fernanda Reichert</div>
<div>
São Leopoldo, Brazil</div>
<div>
9-Jun-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tiffanny Montel</div>
<div>
Boa Vista, Brazil</div>
<div>
10-Jun-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Agatha Gomes (Bebê)</div>
<div>
Belford Roxo, Brazil</div>
<div>
19-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thalia Costa Barboza</div>
<div>
São Borja, Brazil</div>
<div>
21-Jun-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nikolly Silva</div>
<div>
Cabo Frio, Brazil</div>
<div>
22-Jun-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gaby Scheifer</div>
<div>
Ponta Grossa, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Jun-18</div>
<div>
run-over by car</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Índia da Silva Pellegrine</div>
<div>
Salvador, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bruna da Conceição</div>
<div>
Lagarto, Brazil</div>
<div>
25-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carla Croft</div>
<div>
Pacajus, Brazil</div>
<div>
29-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deepa</div>
<div>
Jalandhar, India</div>
<div>
3-Jul-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mirela</div>
<div>
Balneário Camboriú, Brazil</div>
<div>
4-Jul-18</div>
<div>
strangled/hanged</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shirley dos Santos</div>
<div>
Recife, Brazil</div>
<div>
4-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Michele Silveira</div>
<div>
Itaperuna, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fernanda da Biz</div>
<div>
Campo Grande, Brazil</div>
<div>
8-Jul-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Aisha Albuquerque</div>
<div>
Curitiba, Brazil</div>
<div>
13-Jul-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Daniela Cicarelli</div>
<div>
Gurupi, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lay Neves de Santana</div>
<div>
Camaçari, Brazil</div>
<div>
17-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Itaperuna, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paola Villefort</div>
<div>
Nova Serrana, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Jul-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Daiane Souza</div>
<div>
Porto Alegre, Brazil</div>
<div>
26-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gaby Arantes</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
28-Jul-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dudu dos Santos Duarte</div>
<div>
Paraisópolis, Brazil</div>
<div>
3-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lalesca</div>
<div>
Salvador, Brazil</div>
<div>
5-Aug-18</div>
<div>
throat cut</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paloma Ferreira</div>
<div>
Fortaleza, Brazil</div>
<div>
6-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paolla “LelÍ” Blayton</div>
<div>
Campos, Brazil</div>
<div>
7-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Karlla da Silva Balbino</div>
<div>
Caratinga, Brazil</div>
<div>
9-Aug-18</div>
<div>
strangled/hanged</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
T‚nia Lopes</div>
<div>
Florianópolis, Brazil</div>
<div>
10-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Renata</div>
<div>
Cabo de Santo Agostinho, Brazil</div>
<div>
12-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Krispim Souza de Araujo</div>
<div>
Mossóro, Brazil</div>
<div>
14-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
D. M. Teixeira</div>
<div>
Mossóro, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A. L. da Silva Bezerra</div>
<div>
Mossóro, Brazil</div>
<div>
20-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Evelin Ferrari</div>
<div>
Caruaru, Brazil</div>
<div>
21-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. F. de Souza</div>
<div>
Curitiba, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sheila dos Santos</div>
<div>
Buriticupu, Brazil</div>
<div>
23-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paola dos Reis</div>
<div>
Cuiaba, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rayka</div>
<div>
Praia Grande, Brazil</div>
<div>
30-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Manaus, Brazil</div>
<div>
31-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deia Alves Maciel</div>
<div>
Goiania, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maria Luíza</div>
<div>
Sao Paulo, Brazil</div>
<div>
1-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rafaela Sena</div>
<div>
Xique-xique, Brazil</div>
<div>
2-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil</div>
<div>
6-Sep-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Monique Manardi Lee</div>
<div>
Sao Paulo, Brazil</div>
<div>
11-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Abya Passos Mantovanny</div>
<div>
Cuiaba, Brazil</div>
<div>
15-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kemily</div>
<div>
Belem, Brazil</div>
<div>
16-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. Oliveira de Araújo</div>
<div>
Martins, Brazil</div>
<div>
24-Sep-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nicolly</div>
<div>
Lagarto, Brazil</div>
<div>
26-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Bolivia</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Veronica Carbajal Pinto</div>
<div>
La Paz, Bolivia</div>
<div>
27-Nov-17</div>
<div>
suffocated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Adri Adely Jurado</div>
<div>
La Paz, Bolivia</div>
<div>
13-Jul-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Chile</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paloma</div>
<div>
Santiago, Chile</div>
<div>
14-Feb-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Colombia</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marilyn Cipriany Guzmán</div>
<div>
Medellín, Colombia</div>
<div>
30-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chelsy/Cristal Grisales Molina</div>
<div>
La Virginia, Colombia</div>
<div>
24-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Silvana Pineda</div>
<div>
La Dorada, Colombia</div>
<div>
27-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. A. Marín Marín</div>
<div>
Soacha, Colombia</div>
<div>
1-Feb-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tatiana/Tetris/Muelas</div>
<div>
Bogota, Colombia</div>
<div>
10-Feb-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alexa Amero Sierra</div>
<div>
Bogota, Colombia</div>
<div>
9-Mar-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lorena Molina López</div>
<div>
Montenegro, Colombia</div>
<div>
25-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alejandra Torres Torres</div>
<div>
Manizales, Colombia</div>
<div>
22-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Abril Natasha Quiñónez</div>
<div>
Cali, Colombia</div>
<div>
12-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lili Chirinos Carrillo</div>
<div>
Valledupar, Colombia</div>
<div>
18-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot in the head</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Cordova, Colombia</div>
<div>
31-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carol Perez Guerrero</div>
<div>
Ciudad Bolivar, Colombia</div>
<div>
22-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Cochabamba, Colombia</div>
<div>
23-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Valeria Sandoval</div>
<div>
Cali, Colombia</div>
<div>
28-Sep-18</div>
<div>
asphyxiated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Dominican Republic</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Blanca</div>
<div>
La Vega, Dominican Republic</div>
<div>
27-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Ecuador</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Isabel Borja Suárez</div>
<div>
Quevedo, Ecuador</div>
<div>
13-May-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>El Salvador</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Departamente de la Paz, El Salvador</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chalchuapa, El Salvador</div>
<div>
18-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Cuscatlan, El Salvador</div>
<div>
8-Mar-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
D. A. Portillo Jiménez</div>
<div>
El Salvador, El Salvador</div>
<div>
21-Mar-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Geovanny Romero Ortiz</div>
<div>
Santa Ana, El Salvador</div>
<div>
3-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Soyopango, El Salvador</div>
<div>
31-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>France</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Flávia Luiza</div>
<div>
Paris, France</div>
<div>
27-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Vanessa Campos</div>
<div>
Paris, France</div>
<div>
17-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Fiji</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lucky Salavuki</div>
<div>
Suva, Fiji</div>
<div>
17-May-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Guatamala</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
E. G. Sarat</div>
<div>
Xela, Guatamala</div>
<div>
27-Nov-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A. Sis</div>
<div>
Salama, Guatamala</div>
<div>
16-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yessika Ruedas Gómez</div>
<div>
Jalapa, Guatamala</div>
<div>
28-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Débora Ramos Cordón</div>
<div>
Chiquimula, Guatamala</div>
<div>
22-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Honduras</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tyty</div>
<div>
San Pedro Sula, Honduras</div>
<div>
23-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>India</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mohit</div>
<div>
New Delhi, India</div>
<div>
17-Dec-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Devudamma Surya Narayana</div>
<div>
Anakapalle, India</div>
<div>
24-Dec-17</div>
<div>
burned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
V. Alphonze</div>
<div>
Madurai, India</div>
<div>
10-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chanchal</div>
<div>
Aashiana, India</div>
<div>
22-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Manju</div>
<div>
Khajrana, India</div>
<div>
7-May-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chandraiah</div>
<div>
Hyderabad, India</div>
<div>
26-May-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Italy</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ximena Garcia</div>
<div>
Nemi, Italy</div>
<div>
10-Mar-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rafaella Rotocalco</div>
<div>
Rome, Italy</div>
<div>
11-Sep-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
San Giorgio, Italy</div>
<div>
23-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Mexico</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kendrika Itzel D Espino</div>
<div>
Chihuahua, Mexico</div>
<div>
24-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of four cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of four cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of four cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of four cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sandra</div>
<div>
Nuevo Leon, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Nov-17</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Estado de Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
7-Dec-17</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Geraldine Contreras</div>
<div>
Colima, Mexico</div>
<div>
9-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C.N.</div>
<div>
Guerrero, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Canoa</div>
<div>
Fortaleza, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
31-Dec-17</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
G. Carrera</div>
<div>
Tamaulipas, Mexico</div>
<div>
5-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
11-Jan-18</div>
<div>
throat cut</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jessica González</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
11-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paola Carranco</div>
<div>
Ciudad De Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
26-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brigith</div>
<div>
Quintara Roo, Mexico</div>
<div>
27-Jan-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C. Antuan</div>
<div>
Guanajuato, Mexico</div>
<div>
12-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Ciudad Victoria, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot, one of three cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Ciudad Victoria, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot, one of three cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Ciudad Victoria, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot, one of three cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Samantha</div>
<div>
Guerrero, Mexico</div>
<div>
6-Mar-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Sinaloa, Mexico</div>
<div>
7-Mar-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sheila</div>
<div>
Nayarit, Mexico</div>
<div>
15-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Charly</div>
<div>
Puebla, Mexico</div>
<div>
22-Mar-18</div>
<div>
decapitated/dismembered</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yoselyn</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
4-Apr-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Grechen Alina Lara García</div>
<div>
Nuevo Leon, Mexico</div>
<div>
9-Apr-18</div>
<div>
tortured and suffocated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Nuevo Leon, Mexico</div>
<div>
17-Apr-18</div>
<div>
Tortured and strangled</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brisa</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
22-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Puebla, Mexico</div>
<div>
23-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A.</div>
<div>
Jalisco, Mexico</div>
<div>
25-Apr-18</div>
<div>
stoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Guerrero, Mexico</div>
<div>
27-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Nuevo Leon, Mexico</div>
<div>
21-May-18</div>
<div>
suffocated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yamileth Quintero</div>
<div>
Sinaloa, Mexico</div>
<div>
24-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maritza Harrera</div>
<div>
Guerrero, Mexico</div>
<div>
25-May-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
S. Antolli</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
29-May-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. Martínez Cepeda</div>
<div>
Coahuila, Mexico</div>
<div>
10-Jun-18</div>
<div>
asphyxiatied and hit by a rock</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Michoacan, Mexico</div>
<div>
14-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Colima, Mexico</div>
<div>
16-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nataly Briyith Sánchez</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
19-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alexa GutiÈrrez</div>
<div>
Aguascalientes, Mexico</div>
<div>
24-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Katy</div>
<div>
Morelos, Mexico</div>
<div>
24-Jun-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Chiapas, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Unknown, one of six cases on this date</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Estado de Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
10-Jul-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chanel</div>
<div>
Estado de Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
15-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
L. M. Cocom Guzmán</div>
<div>
Yucatan, Mexico</div>
<div>
15-Jul-18</div>
<div>
strangled</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alexa Altamirano Martínez</div>
<div>
Guanajuato, Mexico</div>
<div>
23-Jul-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alaska Contreras Ponce</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
26-Jul-18</div>
<div>
tortured</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Linda</div>
<div>
Estado de Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
26-Jul-18</div>
<div>
suffocated</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Guanajuato, Mexico</div>
<div>
5-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
M.R.M.</div>
<div>
Quintana Roo, Mexico</div>
<div>
6-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. C. M.</div>
<div>
Oaxaca, Mexico</div>
<div>
12-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Guerrero, Mexico</div>
<div>
30-Aug-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jhoana Hernández</div>
<div>
Veracruz, Mexico</div>
<div>
1-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ana Corina Burgos</div>
<div>
Ciudad de Mexico, Mexico</div>
<div>
11-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Azuani Díaz García</div>
<div>
Chilapa, Mexico</div>
<div>
22-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dayana Letran</div>
<div>
Acayucan, Mexico</div>
<div>
26-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Paulina Domínguez Hernández</div>
<div>
Cotzacoalco, Mexico</div>
<div>
27-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>New Zealand</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Zena Campbell</div>
<div>
Wellington, New Zealand</div>
<div>
11-Feb-18</div>
<div>
strangled/hanged</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Pakistan</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Spogmai</div>
<div>
Peshawar, Pakistan</div>
<div>
26-Nov-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chutki</div>
<div>
Peshawar, Pakistan</div>
<div>
27-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sheena</div>
<div>
Swabi, Pakistan</div>
<div>
22-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Muni</div>
<div>
Kotkay, Pakistan</div>
<div>
4-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sania</div>
<div>
Hafizabad, Pakistan</div>
<div>
20-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nasir Naso</div>
<div>
Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, Pakistan</div>
<div>
18-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Aug-18</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Sahiwal, Pakistan</div>
<div>
6-Sep-18</div>
<div>
burned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Paraguay</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ada Mía Naomi Gomez Rivas</div>
<div>
Piribebuy, Paraguay</div>
<div>
27-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nicol Ortellado Ferreira</div>
<div>
Puerto Oblidago, Paraguay</div>
<div>
27-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Peru</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
J. E. Ruidíaz Fernández</div>
<div>
Lima, Peru</div>
<div>
11-Feb-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yamilet</div>
<div>
Iquitos, Peru</div>
<div>
14-Mar-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Philippines</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unknown Name</div>
<div>
Pasay City, Philippines</div>
<div>
23-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Unknown</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>South Africa</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ousi Kagiso</div>
<div>
Rustenburg, South Africa</div>
<div>
6-Jan-18</div>
<div>
strangled/hanged</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gugu Modise</div>
<div>
Ventersdorp, South Africa</div>
<div>
1-Sep-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Spain</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eli</div>
<div>
Valladolid, Spain</div>
<div>
22-Sep-18</div>
<div>
beaten</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Trinidad and Tobago</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Keon Alister Patterson</div>
<div>
St. Clair, Trinidad and Tobago</div>
<div>
5-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Turkey</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I. Y.</div>
<div>
Zonguldak, Turkey</div>
<div>
5-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kader Ataman</div>
<div>
Ayvalik Sarimsakli, Turkey</div>
<div>
13-Dec-17</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Kristina</div>
<div>
Beyoglu, Turkey</div>
<div>
8-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nefes</div>
<div>
Ankara, Turkey</div>
<div>
10-Mar-18</div>
<div>
strangled/hanged</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Simge Avci</div>
<div>
Samsun, Turkey</div>
<div>
13-Jul-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Begüm</div>
<div>
Bursa, Turkey</div>
<div>
19-Aug-18</div>
<div>
burned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Esra Ates</div>
<div>
Beyoglu, Turkey</div>
<div>
25-Aug-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>United Kingdom</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Naomi Hersi</div>
<div>
London, United Kingdom</div>
<div>
18-Mar-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>United States of America</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brooklyn BreYanna Stevenson</div>
<div>
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, United States of America</div>
<div>
27-Nov-17</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Brandi Seals</div>
<div>
Houston, Texas, United States of America</div>
<div>
13-Dec-17</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Zakaria “Z” Fry</div>
<div>
Albuquerque, New Mexico, United States of America</div>
<div>
Jan-18</div>
<div>
Blunt force trauma</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Christa Leigh Steele-Knudslien</div>
<div>
North Adams, Massachusetts, United States of America</div>
<div>
6-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Stabbed and bludgeoned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Viccky Gutierrez</div>
<div>
Los Angeles, California, United States of America</div>
<div>
10-Jan-18</div>
<div>
Undetermined</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Celine Walker</div>
<div>
Jacksonville, Florida, United States of America</div>
<div>
4-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tonya Harvey</div>
<div>
Buffalo, New York, United States of America</div>
<div>
6-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Phylicia Mitchell</div>
<div>
Cleveland, Ohio, United States of America</div>
<div>
23-Feb-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Amia Tyrae Berryman</div>
<div>
Baton Rogue, Louisiana, United States of America</div>
<div>
26-Mar-18</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sasha Wall</div>
<div>
Chicago, Illinois, United States of America</div>
<div>
1-Apr-18</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carla Patricia Flores-Pavon, United States of America</div>
<div>
Dallas, Texas</div>
<div>
9-May-18</div>
<div>
Strangled to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nino Fortson</div>
<div>
Atlanta, Georgia, United States of America</div>
<div>
13-May-18</div>
<div>
Shot multiple times</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gigi Pierce</div>
<div>
Portland, Oregon, United States of America</div>
<div>
21-May-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Antash’a Devine Sherrington English</div>
<div>
Jacksonville, Florida, United States of America</div>
<div>
1-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Diamond Stephens</div>
<div>
Meridian, Mississippi, United States of America</div>
<div>
18-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cathalina Christina James</div>
<div>
Jacksonville, Florida, United States of America</div>
<div>
24-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Keisha “Pokey” Wells</div>
<div>
Cleveland, Ohio, United States of America</div>
<div>
24-Jun-18</div>
<div>
Shot and killed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sasha Garden</div>
<div>
Orlando, Florida, United States of America</div>
<div>
19-Jul-18</div>
<div>
Undetermined</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dejanay Stanton</div>
<div>
Chicago, Illinois, United States of America</div>
<div>
30-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Vontashia Bell</div>
<div>
Shreveport, Louisiana, United States of America</div>
<div>
30-Aug-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shantee Tucker</div>
<div>
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States of America</div>
<div>
5-Sep-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Londonn Moore</div>
<div>
Port Charlotte, Florida, United States of America</div>
<div>
8-Sep-18</div>
<div>
Shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ciara Minaj Carter Frazier</div>
<div>
Chicago, Illinois, United States of America</div>
<div>
3-Oct-18</div>
<div>
Shot to death</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Venezuela</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Vicky Julieth Alvarado</div>
<div>
Moran, Venezuela</div>
<div>
27-Jan-18</div>
<div>
stabbed</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Malvina Paiva</div>
<div>
Caracas, Venezuela</div>
<div>
3-Mar-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
China Colón</div>
<div>
Naguanagua, Venezuela</div>
<div>
24-Apr-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rosada Durán Romero</div>
<div>
Lara, Venezuela</div>
<div>
17-May-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Carol Pérez Guerrero</div>
<div>
Bolivar, Venezuela</div>
<div>
23-Sep-18</div>
<div>
shot</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-64675375221582743982018-10-09T14:28:00.003-07:002018-10-09T14:28:54.498-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Ninth - Fireflies<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day the Ninth. This time we'll do a more-or-less all dialog story, of the kind Terry Bison used to write sometimes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Fireflies</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The scene: late summer, far from the city. The flickering of
fireflies still danced through the warm night air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I caught one!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look at it. It keeps wriggling towards the light.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, they’re persistent, but pretty ugly.”<br />
<br />
“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I </b>think it’s beautiful, even if it
doesn’t have the right number of legs or the right number of eyes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I keep it? I’ll put it in a jar and feed it every
night, I promise.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, what did I say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That keeping them is cruel.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And what happened to the last one?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“well…?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I PROMISE I won’t let this one die. I promise!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look at it. It isn’t even full-grown yet. Just give it a
dream of something pleasant and let it go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy yawned, got up from the corner of the yard where he must
have fallen asleep. He brushed some grass off his pants and headed inside, the
memory of dancing lights fading from his mind. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_TKVhy3JrPFnO9UMhrV56k4WhM3Owl5I7b21jURe2TPKFFq8H2YmXSzYowswkEVmkF-y-56-RDp3A14N8zIHq_GodkicZ6VLYrPQ35AiojHtehzYjiIMdB5zyDJA9L_APhahNsTpo8A/s1600/2018+Day+9.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_TKVhy3JrPFnO9UMhrV56k4WhM3Owl5I7b21jURe2TPKFFq8H2YmXSzYowswkEVmkF-y-56-RDp3A14N8zIHq_GodkicZ6VLYrPQ35AiojHtehzYjiIMdB5zyDJA9L_APhahNsTpo8A/s320/2018+Day+9.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Brian Luong </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-45912053329117640762018-10-08T14:47:00.001-07:002018-10-08T14:47:14.677-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the eighth - The Mirror<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eight stories in eight days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All caught up. We might try something different stylistically or thematically tomorrow, depending on the prompt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The Mirror</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a world in which dwelled much ill in this world,
much that gives despair. A world in which even dreams are too dear for most, in
which few joys are open to most.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Few paths to joy save the pilgrimage to the mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A crystal lake as clear as daylight, as still as a newborn robin,
huddled in its nest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps as fragile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mirror reflects the land around it perfectly, the trees,
the sky, the ancient fortress built in times forgotten. For as long as that fortress
stood, so too did the tales of the mirror. That the world we see through those stillclear
waters is not a reflection of our world, but of its opposite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A world in which the fortress, hear long abandoned, teams
with life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A world ruled by a lineage of successions of benevolent
matriarchs. A world in which that famous travelling scientist had a beard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A world other than this one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Few go. It’s remote, it’s isolated, it is, to be honest, a
bit underwhelming. You can’t see into this mirror world, merely gaze and know that
it’s there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some, that is enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They return to their homes and their lives with a sense of acceptance,
if not peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some that is enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For others a glance into the mirror is not enough. Each year
some take the pilgrimage, fill their pockets with stones, and step into the
stillness of the mirror. What they find on the other side we’ll never know, but
we can hope that they’ve found peace. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you see them come to your world, wherever you are, show kindness to them.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfswQ0ER1kqN1FlfhSd0gjOYIN-mYPMnNaUDey263kkDiSyaBhSY31zjb8OqfnGxgbMSR9NYvybxbM0huWCQdVavBiEDvnn1bKHrotNMCO_s-0aM1oHf9jYdS_W4PkDToSzLR0FFhH3Ao/s1600/2018+Day+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfswQ0ER1kqN1FlfhSd0gjOYIN-mYPMnNaUDey263kkDiSyaBhSY31zjb8OqfnGxgbMSR9NYvybxbM0huWCQdVavBiEDvnn1bKHrotNMCO_s-0aM1oHf9jYdS_W4PkDToSzLR0FFhH3Ao/s320/2018+Day+8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-67421091905555844322018-10-08T04:37:00.001-07:002018-10-08T04:37:26.793-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Seventh<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven days of this. This time I'm a day late because Sunday is a day for family (as well as long twitter chats about the world of commercial AV technology, but that's another topic). Perhaps I'll catch up soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Some Trees</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The three dandelions grew less than a foot apart, in the
ragged grass. The first had nine visible leaves. The second – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>---"Lucas! The ball!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucas’s examination of the field was cut short by his father’s
strident yell, above the voices of his coach, teammates, their parents. Not the
coach’s parents. That would be silly. Lucas’s head jerked upward at the sound
of their voices, only to see the ball sail past him, a blue-shirted opponent
behind. He turned to follow a moment too late, helplessly watched from behind
the fake, the shot, the goal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three to nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Heads UP Lucas! Stop watching the dandelions and start
watching the game.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He did put his head up, looked over the grass, through the
goalposts to the woods behind. The first row of trees were dead. That’s what he
always noticed; stick-figure trees, bare of leaves all year long. Trees like
giant people with no clothes or faces or leaves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Creepy trees that would eat the coach and the families and
his dad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another kid had told Lucas that kids used to vanish into the
woods, never to be seen again. Maybe the trees got them? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe the trees were people, the vanished kids all grow up and watching the soccer game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ball didn’t come near Lucas again until his two mandatory
quarters had been played and coach pulled him out. Improbably, they scored four
goals in the second half to win it, 4-3. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlt9xMYLNu1ww-0aKnSHDnz-T0_4K5Iefs4Gyp34J665kbWo6nZH8SRlHOCIrAFd9D2qZ14lt8MMLmX1ZQg1McWa1Hb_nhlCNVnXpTOJ8A5rhOwkq9D2tUMR8eX4TSRN3rU9r4BXjmk0Y/s1600/2018+Day+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="540" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlt9xMYLNu1ww-0aKnSHDnz-T0_4K5Iefs4Gyp34J665kbWo6nZH8SRlHOCIrAFd9D2qZ14lt8MMLmX1ZQg1McWa1Hb_nhlCNVnXpTOJ8A5rhOwkq9D2tUMR8eX4TSRN3rU9r4BXjmk0Y/s320/2018+Day+7.jpg" width="320" /></a>Lucas watched the trees as coach gathered the team to the
middle of the field to congratulate them on a hard-fought win, tell him he was
proud of them. Were the trees closer?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would they take him next, away from the false congratulations
for a game he didn’t help win? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucas watched them draw closer as the coach slapped the
backs and shook the hands of his teammates. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-46557893751472128612018-10-06T05:53:00.000-07:002018-10-06T05:53:49.308-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, day the sixth<div dir="ltr">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgriW1V9hTrHPH1KTf7AyiZehfQplNUO0xuArgF2n81KZtQIAeKDoGzdDgEek6vtzWv2r0s7074IfKjIJBXO4glPIHxKL9ehw6Hdishd7KTDUssFmPo_kcvZz7q8sPYNv1ZdjZNV93YXTs/s1600/MVIMG_20181006_074751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgriW1V9hTrHPH1KTf7AyiZehfQplNUO0xuArgF2n81KZtQIAeKDoGzdDgEek6vtzWv2r0s7074IfKjIJBXO4glPIHxKL9ehw6Hdishd7KTDUssFmPo_kcvZz7q8sPYNv1ZdjZNV93YXTs/s200/MVIMG_20181006_074751.jpg" width="150" /></a>Today is an experiment in process rather than style; this was written over the course of 35 minutes and 42 seconds on an exercise bike at the gym on my phone. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm not sure if that made it make less sense or more; it is a different experience, and a change in the level of focus.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;">
Too Few for a Coven</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Three is too few for a coven. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You all knew that. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Oh, three would have been fine were they mother and maiden and crone, but Jane wasn't quite a maiden anymore, Becky not much closer. They took pains to avoid motherhood, and even their mothers weren't crones. Not by far.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Still, Mary and you and Becky were all that they had, here in the bedroom community where Becky and Mary's dad slept after a day's work and Jane's mother did what single suburban mothers did.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
She survived.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You are too few for a coven, but they needed to be something. The three amigos and three musketeers are all men and boys, and they'd had enough of men and boys.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Especially Jane.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
So a coven you'd be. The White Pines Conclave, named for the coniferous wood and not <u>the</u> abandoned 1950s mental hospital alongside it. The people of White Pines had an unspoken deal with the restless dead of many decades ago - each side would pretend the other didn't exist.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
It went well.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The world works by unspoken bargains of this sort. You don't talk about the creepy ruins. Don't ask your neighbor how he can afford a new BMW all of a sudden. Don't ask the woman across the street why she's wearing so much make-up in a Sunday morning.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You don't ask what happened at homecoming. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You know, but you don't ask.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Instead you take your two best friends and call yourself a coven even though you aren't. You gather twigs and feathers and pretty rocks with magic powerz, even though your family is lapsed Catholics except your grandmother who still kept trying to get you to say the rosary, until the day she died.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You still keep her beads in your purse because she'd have wanted it, though they mean nothing to you. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You all know the irony of Mary being named for the Virgin, but you make that joke. You did once, and knew it was a mistake. Now you think it sometimes when meet her eyes as you say the name, in your secret space where the hospital washroom was, by the ancient stone washbasin.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Sometimes in this space you finger your grandmother's beads, think of the other Mary, who was a whore.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Beloved by Jesus.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You think all these things as you three sit in the stone space, once the home of those suffering hysteria were once sequestered. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Maybe someday you'll sacrifice a goat or a squirrel or a young virgin boy, summon a demon to this place, raze the sleepy little town to the ground, like they deserve.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Maybe someday.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
For now, you're too few for a coven, but you'll be one anyway.</div>
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Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-8357764974772700222018-10-05T11:49:00.000-07:002018-10-05T11:49:21.409-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Fifth - A Winter Vacation<br />
Day the Fifth. Let's head south, for a winter vacation.<br />
<br />
No, it's not you; I think these are getting stranger as the month goes along. This is only day 5, so I'm not sure where we'll end up.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Winter Vacation</div>
<br />
<br />
Inana came to the great terminal, at the port at the edge of the air.<br />
<br />
She awaited her turn, approached the first of the guardians of the air,<br />
<br />
Was asked to remove her shoes, her sparkling bejeweled belt and her jacket, crafted from the leather of an ancient and long extinct beast adorned with bright brass buttons.<br />
.<br />
The shoes and jacket were returned to her, but he belt buckle was sharp-edged, needed to be surrendered before she could ride to the skies.<br />
<br />
She descended to the south, disembarked from another port, this one named for a sacred forest. She considered this a good omen.<br />
<br />
She stepped into the oppressive heat, surrendering the jacket she'd reclaimed from the guardians in the north.<br />
<br />
She traveled on, first by hired car (leaving her bag behind) then on foot.<br />
<br />
Which each garment, each accoutrement she left behind she felt a bit weaker, a bit lighter, but certain she was on the right path. After all, she'd done this before. This was far from her first descent to a place too hot, too far, too much stinking of death and decay.<br />
<br />
She left a single shoe behind in the grass, limped along a mile before discarding the other at the side of the road. She should have saved them for last, but the locals in places like this get strange around too much bared flesh.<br />
<br />
Still, her clothes she discarded only blocks later as she neared the gates.<br />
<br />
Of course there were gates.<br />
<br />
These were faux-wrought iron, set in stucco towerettes with faux-tile roofs.<br />
<br />
No sentry save an outdoor-rated dome camera and an RFID sensor.<br />
<br />
No matter; there was form to such things. Inana removed the rest of her clothing, her body bared to the unblinking gaze of the camera as she slipped through the gates and into the community.<br />
<br />
She strode past identical Spanish-style ranch homes, shedding her skin at the base of a palm tree, leaving her bones piled up aside the next.<br />
<br />
<br />
At last at her destination, she enters his home and settles in, alongside him, and waits.<br />
<br />
That what this is for, after all.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0a57u3i-A8y2lWOPfIHH0Q1j-t6gGWLV1YavL5_28OECoQ5yaiUNOtqTLHr7Je_8vWg7OI29_D7RO0RyUvHoz_BemPj8lBfDdkPpWgsawwxjpDr4ib58SGidT6BrDHy0w1FVRBCI7So/s1600/001.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="530" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0a57u3i-A8y2lWOPfIHH0Q1j-t6gGWLV1YavL5_28OECoQ5yaiUNOtqTLHr7Je_8vWg7OI29_D7RO0RyUvHoz_BemPj8lBfDdkPpWgsawwxjpDr4ib58SGidT6BrDHy0w1FVRBCI7So/s320/001.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Hilary Truman</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Perhaps when the waiting is over she'll recollect her bones<br />
and her flesh<br />
and her clothes<br />
and that discarded shoe<br />
and the jacket<br />
and her favorite belt<br />
<br />
and return North for the coming Spring.<br />
<br />
After.<br />
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<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-11973640674631087682018-10-04T14:39:00.001-07:002018-10-04T14:39:46.008-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Fourth - Minutes from the Early October Meeting of the Coven<br />
Day four. The days I don't commute are harder because I don't have the time on the train for writing.<br />
<br />
Some days are dialog, some days stories, some days odd little experiments. This is that kind of day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Minutes from the Early October Meeting of the Coven</div>
<br />
<br />
Old Business<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Renew binding spells on current leadership</li>
<ul>
<li>Enjoin against the doing of harm</li>
<li>Add to list of focus ingredients </li>
<ul>
<li>Beer to enjoin against harm done through drunken debauchery</li>
<li>A baby rattle to enjoin against harm done to children and other youth</li>
<li>A coin to enjoin against continued theft of resources.</li>
</ul>
</ul>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li>Review the possibility of curses against current leadership</li>
<ul>
<li>Discussion -- will this make us "as bad as they are?"</li>
<li>Redirect energies to healing?</li>
<li>"Save what we love" vs "destroy what we hate"</li>
<ul>
<li>This is understood to be a quote from a movie. It still fits us</li>
</ul>
<li>To be revisited next full moon.</li>
</ul>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
New Business</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Robes ordered - should be available before moonlit nights get too cold.</li>
<li>Candles are traditional, but damage to the ceiling is getting out of hand. We need to do a better job of cleaning up after ourselves.</li>
</ul>
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Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-6587333564243260462018-10-03T11:42:00.000-07:002018-10-03T11:44:33.546-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Third - Remembrance of Reconstruction<br />
This one is nakedly topical, drawn heavily on current events for the last year. Also a ghost story, because October is the time for ghosts.<br />
<br />
So... boo!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Remembrance of Reconstruction</div>
<br />
You never fired a gun, barely held one. You remember that, barely.<br />
<br />
Memories are always hazy, from before your death. They all get tangled up by how the living look back at you, where you're memorialized, the passing of time.<br />
<br />
<br />
You must have for a time posed as a soldier, because that's who you are, here in the hereafter. That's what people see when they look.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpU6rEqX8b4Th9BNGJo9-HuhjXXzBPjVu9EPzaNfW2vnc5UDQ1-h8VHUpMQN1QDDy2WKqo8drJdNz1Cb8cgmvRq0PQCJSpfYszYUHZe5iR0Ha5Qv8wJXgVRDCHJqH59agAae8HnFfbLlU/s1600/001.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpU6rEqX8b4Th9BNGJo9-HuhjXXzBPjVu9EPzaNfW2vnc5UDQ1-h8VHUpMQN1QDDy2WKqo8drJdNz1Cb8cgmvRq0PQCJSpfYszYUHZe5iR0Ha5Qv8wJXgVRDCHJqH59agAae8HnFfbLlU/s320/001.heic" width="320" /></a></div>
You don't remember anger from your life either, but you feel that. It's nearly the first thing you remember from the years after your death - a seething resentment. You feel spread out, losing your sense of space.<br />
<br />
You're in a meadow.<br />
<br />
At the edge of a forest.<br />
<br />
Outside a courthouse.<br />
<br />
In a public park.<br />
<br />
You're many places. The further you stretch, the less you remember yourself. You lose your hometown, your first kiss, your job.<br />
<br />
You forget your name.<br />
<br />
<br />
You remember hatred, anger.<br />
<br />
Grass grows short and scraggly around your markers, trees grow stunted. Autumn comes a bit earlier, spring a bit later. You are winter. You are death, or death's cousin.<br />
<br />
Then, slowly, perhaps, the world changes. Your awareness of the courthouses and the parks and the town squares fade. Still you are hatred, you are bitter anger, but your world is shrinking.<br />
<br />
Finally, there's nearly nothing more. Just a quiet, dark place near the edge of the cemetery, beneath an oak tree too old and too strong to care for your anger.<br />
<br />
Finally, not even a memory remains.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-63033878448177297812018-10-02T14:20:00.002-07:002018-10-02T14:20:32.728-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018, Day the Second - The Vigil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Day two. The round window felt reminiscent of an eye. That and the rude, unmade bed made me think of a sad, solitary watcher. Who was he watching? For what end? Come join us for the vigil.</div>
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The Vigil </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I never use the lamp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I brought it up to the attic, of course, for the possibility of reading. By day the
great window gives enough light to read by and by night… well, we know the
problems of lighting a lamp by night. It would mean that they could see in,
that I couldn’t see out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That you could see in, that I could not see you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t know to keep your lamps out. Don’t know or don’t
care, it’s all the same. While your windows aren’t as grand as mine, they are
broad enough and tall enough and covered only by the thinnest, gauziest of
shades. Pinprick shades, some call them. Not enough to keep you safe, to keep
your lamplight from spilling outside to where they can see you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You likely don’t even think about them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s OK. I do. And I watch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IsUXklD0ZixgjqJu9Q0Lpl6l48dzhrBJBMRXo6knzYvvWScHHt3wqZAH2tdhbJQVuHR2_r1fTVK-YgBvulUmRcaqES66deD0L0W__-iyTy75u-bbtpLDMxKBGoN5ez9QDGXYyXwG69E/s1600/2018+Day+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IsUXklD0ZixgjqJu9Q0Lpl6l48dzhrBJBMRXo6knzYvvWScHHt3wqZAH2tdhbJQVuHR2_r1fTVK-YgBvulUmRcaqES66deD0L0W__-iyTy75u-bbtpLDMxKBGoN5ez9QDGXYyXwG69E/s320/2018+Day+2.jpg" width="317" /></a>It’s lonely, this vigil from the attic with no company save
the empty bottle and the sounds of crickets. No company save for the lonely,
hard men outside. The ones who walk with their eyes up, hoping to peek through
those pinprick shades for a glance at the swell of your breasts, the curve of
your hip, the delicate lines of your neck. From up here I see all of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If any tried anything, I’d be there in a flash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t know it, but you’re safe. I keep you safe, through
the lonely, dark nights. In the daylight I leave, my attic bed unmade, my
window gazing at yours, my home’s eye to your home’s eye, my home’s soul to
yours. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the night I return to my vigil. I never use the lamp. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-49627036855156450232018-10-01T07:30:00.000-07:002018-10-01T07:30:00.028-07:00Nightmare Fuel 2018 - Day the First!It's that time again! Daily Flash Fiction through the month of October, sometimes dark, sometimes creepy. The estimable Bliss Morgan as usual hosts it <a href="https://plus.google.com/collection/QNsxAB" target="_blank">here</a>, on the Google+ social network. Yes, Google+ is still a thing.<br />
<br />
Here's my first, as I start getting into it. We'll see how many we get this year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Like a Japanese Girl</div>
<br />
"Draw me like one of your Japanese girls."<br />
<br />
She knew it was a corny line, but knew his type. The kind of guy who insisted that he read <i>manga, </i>not comic books. The kind who went to Aikido class three days a week, who insisted he knew what "ki" is. The guy whose prize possession is that Yoshitako Amano book he got the author to sign. Yeah, that book by the mainstream western author.<br />
<br />
That type of guy.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Al3Vtabh6GDNGwE3f3_lLn0TbI1GD-EJu2UpZVlIXs3lM79lb98SL2oKVIKiyhBEU3l-MUh1pU-hcgO7bQABuPGn37gfr6SlvasDuNZO8gcHaCWIyxudB0cCTIi7b3bkIP50iID6RCU/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Al3Vtabh6GDNGwE3f3_lLn0TbI1GD-EJu2UpZVlIXs3lM79lb98SL2oKVIKiyhBEU3l-MUh1pU-hcgO7bQABuPGn37gfr6SlvasDuNZO8gcHaCWIyxudB0cCTIi7b3bkIP50iID6RCU/s320/001.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lustige Blätter,</i><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start; white-space: pre-wrap;">circa 1899</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She also knew that, as easily mistaken for a white-bread suburban American as she was, she fit the type. Straight black hair. Fair skin. What else did he really need? She knew his type, she could smell desperation. To be fair, she could fit quite a few types.<br />
<br />
So he went home, studied his <i>manga</i>-not-comics, scoured the web for drawings.<br />
<br />
On the first day, he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a schoolgirl, starched white blouse, pleated skirt, maryjanes. Her hair playful bound in pigtails, a playful smile on her face. Smooth penstrokes, her face youthful and vulnerable. She shook her head. '<br />
<br />
"I'm not that kind of Japanese girl," she giggled. She kissed his cheek, invited him back the next day.<br />
<br />
So he went home, took the book of court photos from his bookcase and studied.<br />
<br />
On the second day he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a geisha, her kimono poorly tied with a too-long obi. He never did get the hang of drawing knots. Her eyes narrow, her hair done up high. His penstrokes were long and languid, with flourishes meant to hint at whatever design the kimono would have; he wasn't sure on that either. She shook her head,<br />
<br />
"no, no, no. I'm not that kind of Japanese girl either. You get one more try." She sighed sadly, kissed him lightly on the lips, bade him return the next day.<br />
<br />
So he went home, one more time. He studied reproduction woodblock prints of demons and devils.<br />
<br />
On the third day he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a monster, her nude body hidden behind a mound of skulls, her eyes a touch mad. His pen skipped across her face, barely outlining it, but lingering over the skulls. He drew her hair down, weaving between the mound of skulls like a river. She shook her head,<br />
<br />
"I suppose I'm not a Japanese girl after all." she whispered as she lead him to her bed, silently. The next words she spoke - as if the time between hadn't passed at all - were barely a whisper, all breath and no voice, "but I am a monster."<br />
<br />
Truth be told, he wasn't a meal worth savoring, but was a meal nonetheless. She briefly considered keeping his skull, but she had enough already.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-61262015888004495662018-07-20T06:56:00.000-07:002018-07-20T06:56:15.454-07:00Flash Fiction Friday - Returning<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>One more Friday flash. A quick piece not at all inspired by the fact that my child is at last returning home after a month at sleepaway camp.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p>Returning</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You weren’t thinking about your partner or your child when
you made the wish. You should have been, but who wouldn’t wish to live forever?
It’s what people have sought throughout the ages. Your wish was granted; you’d
join the revels in the fairy realm and live forever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So they took you, away from this world, to the fairy realm
and the revels there. So you dances, you frolicked. You drank sweet nectar, ate
ambrosia. You thought you’d stay for a day, return to your family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moon rose, the moon set. And again, and again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through it all you dance, you eat, and you drink. Finally,
you realized that even if this iss life eternal, it isn’t really a life. SO you
leave, walking back towards your home and family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You leave the glen where the fey held their revels, you walk
through a dark forest. You remember to stay on the path, confident that it
would leave back, back to your world. The path always leaves home, for those
who stay on it. This you believe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year passes. You forget the sound of your partner’s voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You reach the end of the forest, find yourself at the edge
of a trackless desert. Surely home will be on the other side. Surely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You walk, navigating by the inconstant stars and the memory
of your child’s eyes. Bright blue eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’ve learned your lesson from the revel, resist the
temptation to pause at an oasis and drink. You’re hungry and thirsty. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten more years pass before you leave the desert. You forget
the color of your child’s hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You come to the ocean, build a raft of driftwood. Home must
be nearby. You push off into the sea and drift.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twenty years pass, and then another twenty. You forget your
partner’s voice, the color of your child’s hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You forget your own name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You drift until, in the distance, you spy a lighthouse. Its
beacon is blue, the color of your child’s eyes. The only thing you remember.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjZWqK3Ot7c8r1s0cY3NNFpvvlR8xG3z3sI1yC4TPQJVUtegRICSnBj-dBXbqw59BHM_H88PoeHIU8jvwK1mJcBlkig8gCzFpBBC9E0sU7E-Q_oW4lY1xMwil5l1p9nU1uC0VVbrRZVw/s1600/DSCN00051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjZWqK3Ot7c8r1s0cY3NNFpvvlR8xG3z3sI1yC4TPQJVUtegRICSnBj-dBXbqw59BHM_H88PoeHIU8jvwK1mJcBlkig8gCzFpBBC9E0sU7E-Q_oW4lY1xMwil5l1p9nU1uC0VVbrRZVw/s320/DSCN00051.JPG" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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On the shore, beyond the beach you find a small house in
which an old, old person sits watching the sea. Their eyes are blue, the blue
you remember.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You great them. Tears well up in those blue eyes as you
embrace, and as you realize that you did it all wrong. They should have
wandered, you should have stayed home to wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-63093837048607996742018-07-13T13:53:00.001-07:002018-07-13T13:53:54.518-07:00Flash Fiction Friday - The Laptop Whisperer<br />
A fragment this time, which like so many fragments may or may not stretch out to a full length work.<br />
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I like the character of the "laptop whisperer" and we'll perhaps learn about him and see a bit more of him.<br />
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The Laptop Whisperer</div>
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<br />
They called him the laptop whisperer.<br />
<br />
Nobody really knew how he did it, but they knew he did. He'd wave his hand over a power brick -- always his left hand, the one with the jagged scar near the little finger - and stare off into space for a moment. Then he'd tell us, without fail and with one hundred percent accuracy, whether or not there was something wrong with it. A loose connection, a fluctuation in the output voltage. He'd get it right. Every time.<br />
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If anyone asked how he did it, he'd smile, wave his fingers in complex patterns, and say, "Maybe I'm a wizard".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuu7TPPFgh5dYhQHQZkRcHNAJPDA4sFhddSGyNAVkstRD_5JmmdMH8vPq8SEpRClh9ilPIfosGYbBDAEsBQ4SnAU2xhMFVwIsUJEGcmzY0C4zfuyR4LyetO8FiWQP6orVYtNEfmslBbas/s1600/IMG_20180713_164949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuu7TPPFgh5dYhQHQZkRcHNAJPDA4sFhddSGyNAVkstRD_5JmmdMH8vPq8SEpRClh9ilPIfosGYbBDAEsBQ4SnAU2xhMFVwIsUJEGcmzY0C4zfuyR4LyetO8FiWQP6orVYtNEfmslBbas/s320/IMG_20180713_164949.jpg" width="240" /></a>He was not, of course, a wizard. Just someone willing to take risks, who knew that the human body and brain are flexible and adaptable, that the brain will learn to recognize anything, including a magnetic sensor implanted in your left hand, behind a surgical scar.<br />
<br />
It became an obsession with him, this second-sight. He of course added more. He can smell WiFi. taste magnetic fields. Hear variations in background radiation. He outgrew DIY modifications, sought far and wide for those with medical training, and resources, and few ethics.<br />
<br />
He began to think himself a wizard.<br />
<br />
The brain is flexible, but the brain is not infinite.<br />
<br />
It's the last one that did him in -- cosmic background radiation. You see, the universe is never silent. It's always there, a hum in the back of his head that he just can't tune out.<br />
<br />
He hasn't slept in weeks. It keeps him awake, the universe. After a time, it learns how to make sense of things.<br />
<br />
<br />
As he lies awake, with no other sound, he hears it. He's starting to make sense of it. He hasn't yet, but he's starting to.<br />
<br />
The universe is talking to him.<br />
<br />
<br />
What's it saying? Is it telling him the secret meaning of creation? Is it guiding him, teaching him? Is it telling him to commit unspeakable evils?<br />
<br />
<br />
Until we're willing to reshape our brains as he did, and learn to listen.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-31824940603602322532018-07-06T04:53:00.000-07:002018-07-06T04:53:53.423-07:00Flash Fiction Friday - The Fairy GuardianFlash Fiction Friday again - with a trip to suburbia and a glance at one of those odious "blue lives matter" flags. Are the people who fly them what we'd expect? <br />
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The Fairy Guardian</div>
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<br />
Nobody in the suburbs knows anyone else. Oh, I know they see me out every morning to raise the flag with the blue stripe across the middle. From that they probably think they know everything about me. That I'm a steady man. Solid. Reliable. Honorable. Those things are true, if they could see beyond the wooden stockade fence they'd see another side.<br />
<br />
They'd see the fairy garden.<br />
<br />
It started with Mrs. Gant, who used to live next door. The kind of neighborhood catlady that would have been hanged as a witch in a different century. She always had the most perfect garden, the most vibrant flowers, the fattest tomatoes. I like gardening myself (see, you don't know everything about me) and asked her secret.<br />
<br />
I remember to this day, how it felt to come into her yard. Like I was intruding into a feminine space where men don't belong. The smell of lavender and hibiscus, the delicate garden statues, the path of decorative stepping stones leading to a hidden spot beneath the forsythia bush where broken seashells were arranged in an abstract pattern. She waved her arm expansively, inviting me to take in the space, "This is my secret. I do it for them, to make them feel welcome."<br />
<br />
"To make who feel welcome?"<br />
<br />
She smiled. "The fey folk, of course. Fairies love lavender and hibiscus and spaces decorated with pretty stoneworks and little bits from far-off places. I give them a home and they give me their blessings."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbCqBt0AYcAuMkjNj2EwqNYTzfakYV4T39NydJ38ZfXn_9j3i-Agf5EcKgp-17utsY1R_YDSDxiCA_JOrvS9JL8mxlssFvTBe4JYrD0bKHB40J7TZsa1DZPKDB2ch-FswKP_XwNlKCkk/s1600/IMG_20170528_181325_832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbCqBt0AYcAuMkjNj2EwqNYTzfakYV4T39NydJ38ZfXn_9j3i-Agf5EcKgp-17utsY1R_YDSDxiCA_JOrvS9JL8mxlssFvTBe4JYrD0bKHB40J7TZsa1DZPKDB2ch-FswKP_XwNlKCkk/s320/IMG_20170528_181325_832.jpg" width="320" /></a>It seemed true. Her yard was brighter than the others, her flowers grew bigger and more vibrant. Even the air had a different feel, a different energy. Even her sky seemed brighter.<br />
<br />
Mrs Gant is long gone, but I learned from her, and even gathered some of the things from her fairy garden. A few of the little statues, a handful of seasells. The flowers I grew myself. The fairy-home <br />
grew from a corner to where it is now, filling in the fenced-in backyard, with worn stepping stones cutting paths through fields of cultivated wildflowers. I think all the fairies from the neighborhood have come to live here by now, which is good. IT means it's time.<br />
<br />
How to attract fairies isn't the only thing I've learned.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I turned on the garden hose which loops the yard three times. Three is a magic number, and fairies can't cross running water. Those that are here will remain here. They'll remain here as I sprinkle the garden with iron filings, they'll weaken.<br />
<br />
They'll die.<br />
<br />
And after that this cul-de-sac will be what it always should have been - a human place. Mrs. Gant attracted the infestation, I'm exterminating it.<br />
<br />
I'm doing it for the neighbors, for the children. They deserve a human place.<br />
<br />
They deserve protectors.<br />
<br />
And now you know me.Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-59777025670969467252018-06-29T07:51:00.003-07:002018-06-29T07:52:01.663-07:00Flash Fiction Friday - She Remembers<br />
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Hello everybody! Let's bring Flash Fiction Friday - and this blog - back. </div>
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I'm commuting thrice a week, so these will all be super-short pieces I can finish on my morning commute from Huntington to Penn Station. </div>
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Most of these will come with a picture, though the picture may or may not have anything directly to do with the story. </div>
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We'll see how many Fridays I can keep this up this time. </div>
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She Remembers</div>
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She watches from the sky. It’s all she can do now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That, and remember.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She remembers travelling, from great cities with terraced
hanging gardens, past the life-giving river peopled by her single-headed cousins.
Across the sea to the bottomless lake she called home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Travelers would see her, but rarely and only once. Some
whispered that beyond her lake lay the realm of the dead, where men eternally
slumber. She cared not for that, only for the cool waters of the lake, the way
the bones of its fish crunch when she caught them in one of her mouths. Yes,
her time in the lake was the best time of her life, or at least the most peaceful.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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She’d have been pleased to know that is how we named her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xhxz1iInbNKPIDKtiE8kueZYGubOwcFljXnLkYIKqRMwVfpGlmy5sLDJC-NZYJnf4NBGRxmz4ff3VtgUhXBrulbDUqb8BAkPHYul-cyO7BeFLcnwaBLjoQgj36-6-yt1lcCbC0ASm0E/s1600/Dg0WuDAW4AAhhbI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="567" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xhxz1iInbNKPIDKtiE8kueZYGubOwcFljXnLkYIKqRMwVfpGlmy5sLDJC-NZYJnf4NBGRxmz4ff3VtgUhXBrulbDUqb8BAkPHYul-cyO7BeFLcnwaBLjoQgj36-6-yt1lcCbC0ASm0E/s320/Dg0WuDAW4AAhhbI.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture by Luciano Garbati</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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That time was long ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It ended the way all such things end, with a hero. You know
the kind, and you know the story. We tell it again and again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Greater than any mortal man, clad in valor and glory and the
skin of a lion, wielding a blade. They always wield a blade.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They always bring a friend, a sidekick, a spearcarrier. Were
the hero alone, who would tell their tale?<o:p></o:p></div>
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You know the story of the fight. IT’s been told enough. What
you don’t know, what you perhaps never wondered, is why? Why would she not snap
up the spearcarrier, break her in those mighty jaws, extinguish the burning
brand in his fist as she extinguished his life? She was not a stupid beast, and
she’s known the hero would not prevail. Could not prevail alone. This she knew,
but there’s something we don’t know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The hero – the one wearing the skin of another beast he’d slain
– was not the first. She was a proving ground, a test. Her mistress would call
to her, she’d rise. And fight. Sometimes she’d flee and the hero could say she’d
been vanquished. Sometimes she’d taste flesh and bones that crunch so much
harder than those of fishes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Always she’d leave with another wound, another scar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was tired. She was done. So she fought, hard enough to
put on a good show, not smart enough to win. Each kiss of the flame seared,
burned, ached. And then her last head was struck clean off, and then it was
over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Darkness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Until her mistress gathered what was left, painted her
essence into the vault of stars where she remains now, a dream, an idea, the
last of her kind. Would she weep to know that we think of her – if at all – as a
mere monster, an obstacle, a footnote in the hero’s story?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or have her thoughts grown beyond us as she looks down from what
is left of the heavens, now littered with younger and tamer dreams?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Watching.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Remembering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-10168427705103232932017-10-31T10:56:00.002-07:002017-10-31T10:56:51.191-07:00Nightmare Fuel Day the Thirty-First - The Door<div dir="ltr">
Welcome to the end of October. This is the "official" 30th prompt, but I added an extra one AND a prologue, so this marks the thirty-second day of daily flash fiction.</div>
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We'll end in the woods, at the door. Thanks for reading along with me.<br /></div>
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The Door</div>
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It was the eighteenth day that that Billy came to see me. That I remember. </div>
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I remember everything since the first day. Or, I guess, the last one.</div>
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God, I hope it wasn't the last one.</div>
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He was never my favorite of Justin's friends, but he was the one who came to my front door on the eighteenth day. None of the others came near. And, I have to give credit, looked me in the eye, as hard as that must have been. </div>
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"Mary..." He trailed off. I swallowed my annoyance; back when I was twelve years old I'd never have called a friend's parent by her first name. Especially if that friend had been missing for eighteen days. "Mary... there's something I never told you. About ... about Justin."</div>
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I looked down at him. He was pale, his face drawn. Still, his eyes stayed on mine. "It's just... this is crazy, but the last place I saw him...it was at the mystery door." the last bit came rushed, almost in a single breath. Now it was my turn to stare. </div>
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"The mystery door? Where's that? And why the hell didn't you tell anyone?"</div>
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"It's in the woods. It sounds crazy, but... can I show you?"</div>
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I was still numb. You'd know the feeling if your son was gone for eighteen days, but I hope to god you never do. </div>
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I didn't get dressed, didn't even lock the door. Just closed it behind me and followed him, still in my housecoat. </div>
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We didn't speak as he lead me around the corner to the block. Through the small park, through the hole in the fence behind it, to the woods.</div>
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Justin wasn't supposed to play in the woods. Still I said nothing. After a time, he said, "I'm sorry it's so long. I wanted to wait 'til it was just you. You know, Justin was afraid of..." he trailed off again, his ears red. I knew. And, mad as I was, I understood.</div>
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I was afraid of him too.</div>
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The only sound was the crunch of dry leaves beneath our feet until we came to a clearing. I don't know what I expected when he said "mystery door", but nothing this literal: a simple wooden door with peeling white paint, standing alone in its frame with no visible support or purpose. </div>
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He looked up at me. "Justin ran ahead, and.. I heard the door slam. Then I didn't hear nothing. He was gone."</div>
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I approached the door. It was battered and weathered, not handing quite true in its frame. I thought along the side I could see some light, brighter than it should have been. As if the other side of it was a well-lit room and not, as we could see, simply more forest. </div>
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This is crazy, but I tried the doorknob, even though behind the door was clearly nothing. You do crazy things after eighteen days. The knob turned with some difficulty, but the door was stuck. I slammed on the wooden panels again and again with my hand, the drumbeat of flesh on wood echoing through the woods until I left bloody palmprints on the door. Still it didnt budge.</div>
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At some point I sat on the forest floor, leaned back against the door and wept. At some point Billy touched my shoulder, made what was meant as a comforting noise, and left.</div>
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At some point a raven landed atop the doorframe, bringing with it ill omens.</div>
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At some point we passed from the eighteenth day to the nineteenth, and beyond.</div>
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I'll wait. At some point this damn door will open.</div>
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Czhorathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15456061999435980085noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1559941250974523786.post-62027895532689028642017-10-31T04:29:00.001-07:002017-10-31T04:29:30.690-07:00Nightmare Fuel, Day the Thirtieth - The Tree Surgeon<div dir="ltr">
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I'm not an ordinary tree surgeon. I'm the kind who knows the forest and all the things which grow in it.</div>
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Yes, many of them are just trees. Most, to tell the truth. Just like most people are just people and not vampires or werewolves or something.</div>
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Oh, you thought those were just myths? You can go right on believing that. It's fine with me.</div>
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Anyway, the one sort of tree every red-blooded man cares about is the dryad tree. Part tree, part magic woman creature. Even more magical than normal women, and more beautiful. Really, it's true. I ain't never seen a dryad that wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, a bit exotic. Skin the color of old teak or mahogany, those leaf-green eyes, a voice like wind through branches. Oh, those dryad girls are special alright. Some think that the fairywoman thing lives in the tree, but a smart guy knows they're really the same. Take care of the tree and you're taking care of the woman.</div>
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They're also shy, also tricky. They'll magic you into a deep sleep, set forest creatures on you, get you lost or choked to death by the very living vines. Maybe get to forest to lead you around in circles until you get yourself drowned in a naiad pool. Even someone like me, a guy who really cares about trees and wants them healthy - even a guy like me can be a victim. You gotta earn their trust first.</div>
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How? I earn it the old fashioned way, with some iron spikes and a hammer. Oh, not too many. They are fairyfolk, and you know cold iron's bad for 'em. But one spike, deep into the trunk just above the rootline, that's usually enough. You can feel the whole wood tremble sometimes as you drive the spike in, the blunted tip penetrating old, strong wood. Pounding in a single spike is all it takes.</div>
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Usually.</div>
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Yeah, the last one screamed at first, but I know she was grateful when I shimmied up the trunk with my climbing belt, a sturdy saw hanging from it. Cold iron blade, of course. I felt her eyes on me as I found the dead branches, one by one. Cut each one off. Cut the one the woodpecker had been worrying at, that would soon die itself. I could see the pain in her eyes, know that she needed me.</div>
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I know it hurts her, but it's for the good in the long term. Always for the good. </div>
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And yes, the sap does have medicinal properties and yes, I did collect some. You know that's not why I do it.</div>
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So I climbed back down, my work done. The girlpart of the dryad was pale and shaken from the ordeal, mute like they always are. </div>
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I took my reward, gathered my tools and left the wood, the coldiron spike still in place, binding her to me.</div>
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