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Scare the hell out of me please  :taz:
(https://i.ibb.co/LCw1KYK/halloween-by-cody-a-j-simpson-11qek79xjm-700x920.jpg)
(https://i.ibb.co/NCJnMnC/in-the-night-421l1i62zf.jpg)
(https://i.ibb.co/1mrzjXX/hunted-by-oliver-odmark-8e2wbqnxjo-793x1100.jpg)

(https://preview.redd.it/4t25spqfg6m51.png?width=960&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=da58a255827f936c02c80ed248ab66d1848fe817)

Four more years of Trump.

Four more!

Oooooooooh-oooooooooh!
*spooky handgestures*

While I'm looking at the pic Hydra posted this is what happened in matter of seconds. I'm sure something's going to change in the pic or something will move forward. I notice a small shadow on the slightly upper left side. Something blurry is standing on the road in there. I try to get ready for the image -I'm so sure some thing will happen- and I notice the shadow is moving down! I keep looking and looking... It's just little DUST on my screen!

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 15, 2020, 01:40:36 AM
Four more years of Trump.

Four more!

Oooooooooh-oooooooooh!
*spooky handgestures*

(https://redditupvoted.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/trump-1-jannesb.jpg?w=720&h=719)

8:18 By "Pumpkin Rot"

My neighbors are quiet people.  I rarely see them, but when I do there's always a friendly wave or a warm smile.  We almost never interact, so when they asked me over for dinner I was a little surprised.  And truthfully a little uncomfortable - I had gotten used to our somewhat antisocial relationship.  I had grown accustomed to our distance.  I'm a bad liar, so it was easier to say yes than to make up some excuse. They told me the night and the time and I told them I would be looking forward to it.
                       
I'll admit that I had a very nice time.  We didn't say much during dinner, but I felt welcome, comfortable, and relaxed.  Closer to 8:00, I noticed they had begun glancing at a clock on the wall.  Often, and with great discomfort.  And then with a palpable panic.

They feigned reassurance when I asked about their change in demeanor.  They both attempted to explain their behavior in overlapping dialogue.  I found this particularly unsettling.  Over their frantic words, I announced my appreciation for their hospitality and began to stand.

But then he asked, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

I was startled by the question and very uncomfortable.  I wanted to leave.  Badly.  I answered his question and told him that I had an open mind to such things.  And he asked me to sit.

He told me that he and his wife have had experiences.  He said that their house had a presence...a ghost.  He said that it came often.  Every night in fact.  He said it started in a corner of the basement, came up the stairs, opened the cellar door, and walked through the living room, into the dining room, and through the furthest wall.  He pointed at the wall next to where I was sitting.

I realized this was the purpose of the invitation.  They wanted a witness.  Needed one.  I could only think of two questions:  What does it look like?  and When does it happen?

He answered my last question first:  At 8:18.  Every single night.
We looked at the clock on the wall - 8:12.

Then he answered my first question:  We don't know what it looks like.

When I asked him to explain, he told me they had both been unable to look at the presence.  He said he and his wife have tried all these years, but can't.  I found this absurd.  And the entire story, which I had actually begun to believe was now either a hoax, a distasteful joke, or a delusion of two very disturbed people.  I pushed back my chair and stood.

A noise.  From under our feet, in the basement.  They looked down at their plates.  I looked at the clock - 8:18.

I could hear deep slow labored footsteps.  They sounded miles beneath us, but I knew that wasn't the case.  And then I felt the vibration.  A sickening wave of a nauseating low hum forced me hard into my chair, my legs and knees weak and useless.  I could hear the basement stairs creaking underneath a massive shifting weight.  I wiped cold sweat from my face.  The nausea was unlike anything I had ever felt.  I heard the knob of the cellar door be gripped, and then turned.  Slowly.  The door began to open.  The vertical crack of darkness from the creaking door seemed to release an even more intense low frequency hum.  I tried to stare into the darkness, to see.  To see IT.

But the putrid vibration was overwhelming.  My body contracted.  My legs and arms were drawn inward.  My entire body gripped the chair.  I could feel the muscles of my face contorting, and my eyes, as much as I fought to keep them open, closed.  Tight.

I could hear It.  Moving across the wood beams of the living room floor. They seemed to be groaning and splitting.  The sickening waves of vibration seemed to rattle every loose object in the house.  I wanted to cover my ears, but the piercing hum kept me frozen in place.  I tried to scream out, but the muscles of my jaw refused.  So I listened to it, coming closer and closer.  Ripples and waves of the sickening sound covered me.  I felt myself on the verge of fainting.  And I welcomed it.

But then It was gone.  I opened my eyes.  Just the three of us, in a quiet undisturbed house.  Nothing seemed out of place.  Except for the open cellar door.

That was three months ago.  We haven't spoken since.  And each night, despite making every effort to be busy or out of my house altogether, I find myself standing at the window which faces their house.  Looking out across our ordinary lawns.  Staring at that wall.  At 8:18.

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 15, 2020, 01:40:36 AM
Four more years of Trump.

Four more!

Oooooooooh-oooooooooh!
*spooky handgestures*

Karen masks.  Be the Left anti-feminist on your street.

(https://assets.bigcartel.com/product_images/260718626/mermaids.jpg?auto=format&fit=max&h=1000&w=1000)

(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/78/a9/7f/78a97fb04f0a6f40e90a4200f6644c8b.jpg)

Let auntie or granny pinch your cheek!

Case: #273402
Status: Disastrous.

I stare at the file and realize I have no options, over the last 2 years every monster assigned to Charlotte Dower has quit, every last one. Her first monster; a giant goldfish-faced humanoid named Bubba, had been with her for four years, and then she wasn’t scared of him anymore. After that it was a string of different common, uncommon, and rare monsters… I even assigned a sentient sock monster to her. He came back crying!

I look on my tablet, only one assignable monster left; myself. Field work has never been my cup of tea, but desperate times call for desperate measures. So at 8:03 pm, after Mrs. Gideon tucks in Charlotte and her little brother Daniel; I slither into the space beneath Charlotte’s bed.
Across the room underneath Daniel’s crib is a rookie, Chico, a standard Creep kind of monster.

I turn my attention to the bed above me, Charlotte is still awake but barely, I reach up over the bed and run an ice cold finger over her cheek, silence, so I do it again.

"I’m not afraid of you monster!" She whispers, but her voice is shaking. I can see a small clock on the wall 8:14, a door somewhere in the house slams and there is an audible hitch of breath from above me. A few minutes go by I can hear Francis Gideon yelling at his wife. There are heavy footsteps on the stairs, and loud panting breaths, Charlotte scrambles off the bed and…

She. CRAWLS. Under. The. Bed. With. Me.

"Move. Over!" Charlotte hisses at me. I do.

The door to the bedroom slams open and I smell the stench of human intoxicants before the man even steps inside.

I know why Charlotte isn’t afraid of any of my monsters; she’s afraid of her own.

Francis reaches a hand under the bed and I thrust my wrist into it, he starts to pull, I slither out.

"What the…" I cut Francis’s next words off by unfolding to my full 12 foot height. Looming over the drunken man I caress my cold fingers down his face.

"If you ever touch, scare, or harm my child again, I will find you, and I will do the same to you, for all eternity." I promise to him.
As Francis runs from the room he soils himself.

I pull Charlotte from under the bed, tuck her back under her covers and kiss her forehead goodnight. "I'll be back tomorrow night, sleep well darling."

Charlotte Dower is my child, I am the monster under her bed.

source (https://www.wattpad.com/299336678-i%27m-her-monster-i-am-the-one-hiding-under-her-bed)

Case: #273402
Status: Disastrous.

I stare at the file.....

That was clever...I wanted more...

Reminded me of this. I remember thinking this cure song might hint at some sort of abuse but was happy reading that it is not....still...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sS6t56U9tBg

Young Davis Berger was not a remarkable lad, by his own standards. At the age of sixteen, he hardly found anything of note about himself. His hair was black. His eyes were dark.  His face a competing ground for patches of facial hair and acne. The latter recently gaining ground, but it proved if anything to be a gruelling marathon.

His friends were few. His grades average. His physique underwhelming, at best. Where the cycle of dissapointing social interactions with his peers, leading to more self-induced hermit-like behaviour and awkwardness had started, he didn't know. And most of the days, he didn't care. Nor did he care to find a way to end it. Deep down perhaps he longed for the acceptance of those around him. But it was hidden deep, deep down; beneath alternating layers of discontent and self-pity.

Before the virus came, he'd enjoyed going to the local book store. Reading was one thing he loved to do. And above all, both the fantasy and horror genres spoke to him. Aside from that, he played many a video-game. But true contact, was almost solely reserved for the occasional game of D&D with a few other like-minded souls. Friends. But friends who, in truth, he only kept around because sometimes the crushing weight of loneliness became unbearable, rather than for their sparkling personalities. Roger couldn't say a single sentence that wasn't a bad joke. Mark had to weigh thirty stone and his constant shoveling of fastfood and eating with an open mouth was nauseating. Davis was no saint in that regard, he had a paunch he detested. But he prayed to whatever out there that might listen, that he'd never let himself go like that. Nor like Jamie, who seemingly had never heard of a little thing called deoderant.
These were friends. By lack of better. And he knew, behind the laughs and superficial fraternity, they thought of him in the same way. Keeping him around only because of a lack of better options.

But as the corona virus had swept the world off it's feet, even that social outlet had faded. It was just him in the house. His father had long since gone for a pack of smokes, only never to return. And his mother had chosen to spend the lockdown with her new boyfriend. On the one hand he hadn't minded. He'd grown accustomed, more than his fellow classmates for example, to the cold embrace of isolation. But even he found it hard to keep his daily routine. There was little incentive to get up. Most of his awake time was spent playing video-games or reading. But around him, night and day faded into one. And reality and escapism entwined as well. Most days he caught himself talking to himself. A trait he hadn't done since he'd been a small child; talking to his doll; Francine. The bullies in his formative years had beaten that straight out of him. He was dismayed to find himself falling back into it. It brought back bad memories. To this day he still didn't forgive his grandmother for getting him that doll. What had she been thinking, giving an actual girly doll to a boy-todler. Perhaps there everything had started going awry. In the end he'd tied a brick to the doll and thrown it down the well in the backyard.
He almost always attended the online classes, solely to maintain that slim semblence of a passage of time. A day was no longer the arching of the sun in the skies. It had become the lectures of his worn-out, balding teacher, mister Arkamay. Or another of the man's cohorts. And weekends had become a dreaded void. It was too embarassing to admit that he'd now come to look forward to the uninterested gazes of his fellow classmates. The sound of their voices. The few hours of interaction, no matter how one-sided. For Davis hardly ever raised his voice. He had no questions to ask. He didn't want to say anything stupid. He didn't want to be put on the spotlight.  He just wanted to belong, and that was easier, when people tended to forget he was there.

But it was Mr. Arkamay's class that he took, that day. Aftere some dreary explanation of the mitochondria, it came to a close. And Davis recalled well hearing the balding man's voice near the end of it. "Alright class." He said. "We'll pick this up on thursday. And next time, maybe we tell our little sisters to stay in their own room? So they don't distract us? Alright?" The man finished as he turned his webcam off and dissapeared from the screen.
There was some snickering amongst his classmates as they too dissapeared one by one.  But Davis didn't truly understand why. He hadn't even noticed a child running amock during the session. He scanned the fleeting last images of his fellow students and still couldn't find it.
He was the last one in the chatroom by then. He usually was. He tried to linger as long as he could. For now came the lone hours again. The boredom. The crushing solitude. The self blame. Now he faced reality again, knowing full well he would not like what he'd see. Much like looking into a mirror.

With a sigh he shut down his laptop. The screen faded to black, becoming a dark mirror on his barren room.
But not empty.
The abbiration caught his eye. Reflected in the screen, some ways behind him, by the open door, stood a shape. A figure, short and slightly hunched over. It was hard to make out in the black mirror. But the shock prevented him from turning around. The shape, roughly the size of a small child rose now. Slowly. Her face becoming visible from beneath the wet strands of hair. He could hear the water dripping to the wooden floor as she moved.
In her hand was something he could only imagine was a brick.

"Francine." He breathed. Finally managing to open his mouth.

It was hard to tell, in that black mirror. But it seemed like hers opened too. Far wider than it had any right to.

Holy shit. I got chills. I never get chills.

(https://i.ibb.co/XXym7g9/Vampire-lady-by-nadav-igra-5v484quuf9-1530x1080.jpg)


(https://i.ibb.co/Smx0PsM/Intruders-5-by-stefan-koidl-kgxbstgv0g-1696x1080.jpg)

I might not live through the night. I can hear them downstairs. Tonight might be the night they dare to break through.
If you are reading this. Find my parents. Tell them I love them. Tell them not to look for me. I don't want them to find me.
And tell them I'm sorry about my brother. I didn't mean for any of this.
And burn this house down. Burn it down! the ground. Don't make the mistake I made. It can not be kept at bay. It can not be contained. Leave no wall standing.
They come from out of the walls.

I've lived here for all my life. My parents, they raised me here. This is my home. I could not destroy it. Even with them now residing at Trewin lodge, it held too many memories. So I thought I could live with it. When that hole first appeared, in the living room's northern wall, I thought I could live with it. Ignore it. It was just a small hole in the wall. But every month and every year it grew bigger, after they left. Deeper and wider, corrupting the wall further and further. The rot spreading like some filthy disease! It captivated me.

When I was at home, at first it caught my eye unwillingly but occasionally. And steadily that attention grew. At work I couldn't stop thinking about it. So much so that they asked me to stop coming in. I was hearing them by then. Their hungry clicking noise. And I could imagine their pale skins ands long limbs. Their boney backs and blind faces. And always, right before weariness took over, drifting me to uncomfortable slumber, I could catch glimpses of them.

They couldn't see me. But they could hear me. Smell me. I am sure of it.
I had to keep watching. It was the only thing keeping them at bay. I sat there day and night, watching that horrible, corrupted hole; a door to some cancerous alternate dimension. And I could feel their hunger and hatred, seeping through. I sat there, fire-ax in hands, day and night. Protecting my home. Protecting the world.
Keeping you safe, whoever you are. I had too. I was the only one who could.

I was the only one who saw them.

My brother... Was it five days ago? Or six? It's hard to tell now. He came by. To check up on me. To be certain that I still took my pills. But I had to stop that.  They made me sleepy. And I needed to stay awake.
He'd let himself in. I explained it to him. I showed it to him. But he couldn't hear them. He didn't see them from the corner of his eyes.
He tried to drag me away. Take the axe off me.

I don't know how it happened. I can't remember if it was an accident. If I was angry, like that time with George. I don't know.
But I set him there. Axe in hand, to keep guard. I needed four rolls of tape to keep him propped up and bind the handle in his hands.

I had to sleep. I was so sleepy.
And it worked. They can't see, you see. But they could smell him. They knew he was there and they dared not enter.

But I hear them again now. And I'm sorry. I can't go down there again. I can't apologize to my brother. I can smell him now too, up here. They must be learning... Understanding why he is so quiet.

If I make it through the night, I'll burn this place to the ground.

Tell my parents I love them.

also, this thread reminded me of this, for some reason:

https://youtu.be/9VDvgL58h_Y

Mr.Obvious, you have a great skill. I would say it is an ability to tap into and express the primal fears inherent from our evolutionary development. I think that being "unspiritual" and a skeptic allows one to more easily explore and enjoy the rush from these primordial instincts.

I also think that the Hallowe'en festival, like many darker themed childhood nursery rhymes are a subconscious methods to teach and warn the young without too much trepidation, that entropy will win out. Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.

I also love the vintage Hallowe'en imagery before the massive commercialization occurred. Note how the messages are clearly lessons/warnings.

(https://images2.minutemediacdn.com/image/upload/c_fit,f_auto,fl_lossy,q_auto,w_728/v1555925436/shape/mentalfloss/halloween1.jpg?itok=IZvnd8zd)
(https://images2.minutemediacdn.com/image/upload/c_fit,f_auto,fl_lossy,q_auto,w_728/v1555925429/shape/mentalfloss/break_a_heart_halloween.jpg?itok=y_dVwXmS)
(https://images2.minutemediacdn.com/image/upload/c_fit,f_auto,fl_lossy,q_auto,w_728/v1555925432/shape/mentalfloss/halloween9_0.jpg?itok=aGi7SONX)

Thank you so much for that compliment! :)


I'll post a poem I wrote a good few years back. Posted it in the poetry thread way back when too.

A night of masked horrors

Once a year fake fears and plastic pretence
decorate, demonize and destroy my halls,
even silicone spiders, I spared no expense
in cobwebbing my beautiful concrete walls.
For during one spin around our very core
in every spin around the light of our lives
we mock our despair, fear and more
via boundless satire in a night of guise.

Dread does disappear in these darker days
which teach us to put things in perspective.
We at last leave the daily minotaur’s maze
and due desperation of the grey collective.
We leave duties and mortgages behind,
for who can care about such trivial dangers
when ghouls at every corner you find
and children accept candy from strangers.

This year I might become a vicious vampire
and leech life lost to claw from the undead.
Perhaps a zombie would make for great satire
if I didn’t think it might be utterly misread.
For one night let’s join nightmares and scare
and roar in laughter at each other’s costume.
Let’s transcend monstrous mankind with flair
to bask in joy for our meaningless daily gloom.

@Cassia - Being irreligious opens you up to demonic influences ;-)  Scratch an atheist, find a pagan underneath.

Quote from: Baruch on September 18, 2020, 09:29:10 AM
@Cassia - Being irreligious opens you up to demonic influences ;-)  Scratch an atheist, find a pagan underneath.

I would give Satan a chance in bed... he has to be pretty good, right? Know a few tricks he picked up from his clients and all. Jesus wouldn't even know where to start plus he has no sense of humour. Long-haired Hercules would be my first choice for sure.

You nailed it Mr.Obvious. In summary....

For one night let’s join nightmares and scare
and roar in laughter at each other’s costume.
Let’s transcend monstrous mankind with flair
to bask in joy for our meaningless daily gloom.

And this year, that irreligious eve happens on a weekend's full moon as the clock falls back...and our mortal enemy smaller than the eyeglass can see....lives on inside us.

Quote from: Cassia on September 18, 2020, 09:54:53 AM
I would give Satan a chance in bed... he has to be pretty good, right? Know a few tricks he picked up from his clients and all. Jesus wouldn't even know where to start plus he has no sense of humour. Long-haired Hercules would be my first choice for sure.

Gnostic Jesus was into young men so probably not interested in you ;-)  Long haired men  … is your real name Delilah?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEwbfnCpKA4&t=1s
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xatTdEOMX0&t=253s


Read any book by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Draconic Aiur, those were so strange and awesome. Being an occasional insomniac I know about the effects of sleep depravity, but after a concussion I was kept awake and it was getting really crazy. 

I did look into "plague doctors" a bit and wow, had no idea of all that history. Before the real John Snow, that is. Fascinating..."night air" and Nostradamus. I did know that crows get a bad rap to this day because they go right for the delicious eyes of the still warm victims.

The thing about the current plague that is strange... is how it claims the elderly. Having lots of elderly around is a relatively new thing. Natural selection doesn't need old folks to succeed..

Evolutionary biology says people get longer lived, with longer childhood … in the long term.

Quote from: drunkenshoe on September 15, 2020, 03:59:02 AM
While I'm looking at the pic Hydra posted this is what happened in matter of seconds. I'm sure something's going to change in the pic or something will move forward. I notice a small shadow on the slightly upper left side. Something blurry is standing on the road in there. I try to get ready for the image -I'm so sure some thing will happen- and I notice the shadow is moving down! I keep looking and looking... It's just little DUST on my screen!

But did you notice the "taillights" are















not on the road?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHpuAAnHdEc

The master of the short horror story....Lovecraft's own life story is well.....kinda scary. I also read plenty from Ray Bradbury..

“October Country . . . that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and mid-nights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain. . . .”

― Ray Bradbury, The October Country

Tuesday, November 3
United States Presidential election, 2020

Not much scares me these days, when I put it in to perspective that Trump could be re-elected. Nothing really is scarier than that

Quote from: PickelledEggs on September 20, 2020, 01:09:19 PM
Not much scares me these days, when I put it in to perspective that Trump could be re-elected. Nothing really is scarier than that

The ugly underbelly has been exposed. I fear it may already be over. The orange scourge is just a symptom. This nation, a land where ignorance, mythology, selfishness and cruelty are celebrated or at least tolerated by the majority. FUBAR

trump re-election is the scariest thought/worry I've ever had!  And that includes a week while I was in the US Army and was convinced I would soon be getting orders to go to Nam (while it was very much hot--got Hawaii instead).  If trump wins that will mark the end of the US as I've known it; total destruction.  He will then only leave office by his death.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 20, 2020, 02:42:59 PM
trump re-election is the scariest thought/worry I've ever had!  And that includes a week while I was in the US Army and was convinced I would soon be getting orders to go to Nam (while it was very much hot--got Hawaii instead).  If trump wins that will mark the end of the US as I've known it; total destruction.  He will then only leave office by his death.

You must have supported Nixon back in the day ;-)

Heavily condensed from, “Amnesia and carrots” a short story of mine from 83.

The mind heard it…softly, then slightly louder but not urgent, “Reggie? Mr. Meyer? Mr. Myer? Reggie?”
He woke to a bright room, awash in white…too white, too damn bright. He turned his head and squinted. His eyes quickly adjusted, he saw the wall and a shaded window, linoleum floor, white ceiling. As his head slowly turned toward the voice, his mind also recognized a hospital room. He was in a hospital room. Shit!
A hundred scenarios flashed across his eyes, he fearfully looked at the equally white clad nurse.
“What happened”, was the words his mind asked, she looked at him as if he did not even speak.
“How are you feeling”, her mouth moved, words came out.
“What happened”, again he asked, and again she heard nothing.
She took a step closer, placed her hand on his shoulder as if to provide comfort…assurance.
“You were in a very severe motorcycle accident” her mouth said. “You suffered a very nasty head wound from your helmet and…” her silent stutter quickened his fear, “….I am afraid you lost one of your legs”.
His fear seemed to dissipate as quickly as he heard the words from her mouth, he lifted his head slightly, suddenly aware of the pain in his neck and head..”yep”, he said matter of fact to himself, “legs gone”. He reached down with his right arm to stroke what was left of his right leg, but his head throbbed too much.
He laid back,  pain, fear, anger and sorrow fell across him at the same time. What the hell happened he wondered.
“The doctors think you may have a hard time remembering for a while, amnesia they say. You had to have some surgery on your skull but we believe in time you will be fine.” As his mind interpreted her words he also detected what seemed like…almost a laugh in her voice.
“Your wife and son will be here tomorrow”, her voice very close to his head now, “relax, going to give you a little sleep juice, ha, you’ll be better soon.”
He had lots of questions but the ability to ask, quickly faded to nothing and then he was awake again.
His mind was sharper now, clearer, he was aware of his surroundings, a movement to his left and he saw the back of a nurse as she adjusted some bags on the IV stand.
“Where am I”, he asked.
“Da nurses and da doctor will soon come”, she said without turning.
He was quickly aware that her voice, her mild stutter, her halting voice was not normal, he knew immediately that she had a mental disability, and he knew because his sister spoke the same way and she was mentally disabled. Becky, he thought, is she coming too?
He slowly lifted his head, aware of the ache, “Can you tell me where I am”? he asked slowly and somewhat monotone.
“A hoshpital”, she said. “I go, nurses and doctors be here now”.
And with that she opened the door after jiggling the handle several times and walked into a dark hallway.
He looked back to his missing leg. Depression quickly grabbed him, and he fell back into the bed.
He stared at the ceiling, studied it, it was an odd ceiling for a hospital. Since when did a hospital have popcorn ceilings? Over to the window now, the shade was very old, not just old, ancient, his grandmother had pull-down shades like that. The windowsill was wood, minor dents and chips painted over. His anxiety stated to rise… “where the hell am I”? he thought, “why is a hospital hallway dark”?
The door slowly opened and in from the dark hallway a nurse, the first one, entered, followed by a man in a suit.
“I’m doctor Graham”, he had a heavy southern accent. “you had a pretty bad accident, young man, lucky to be alive…you….”
“Where am I”? He interrupted.
The doctor looked confused just for a second.
“Calvary County Hospital, you’ve been here 6 weeks”.
“Six weeks”? He slowly breathed out. “Six weeks”?
“Yessir” said Dr. Graham, “just came too yesterday. We been waiting for you for awhile”. There was almost a snicker in his voice.
He felt his head sink lower into the pillow, six weeks.
The doctor coughed a little, “they found you in a ditch about 6 miles outside Gregstown, no one knows how long you were there. Your legs were already infected, right one busted up too bad to save, left one is still hanging on. Right arm was almost torn off. Couldn’t save that either, been..”
“Ahh”, he screamed as he bolted in bed staring at the stump on his right arm, “it’s gone. It was just here yesterday”! Panicked he looked at the doctor, “What the fuck? I just used this arm yesterday”!
The doctor took a step closer, “brain damage can make one imagine all kinds of things son. You have some severe head injuries…..”
His words went into the clouds and he looked at the missing right forearm. Wild with panic and fear he fought to get to his feet, to get up, to get right again.
“Whoa, whoa” said the doctor, grabbing him and slamming him into the bed, immediately the pain in this neck and head stunned him.
He saw the nurse quickly move to the IV tray and push a button two times.
“No wait”, he said, “wait a minute”….suddenly other memories came back..  “I don’t even have a  motorcycle”…”I’m not married”, his voice trailed off as the drugs did their job.
His mind fading fast, he fought to keep his focus.
“We need to do better on this one” he heard the doctor say
“I’ll get Amy to keep a closer eye on him” said the nurse.
“Amy’s a retard”, he heard the doctor say, “what are we doing with him tonight?”
“Lower left leg… I’m thinking stew” he heard her whisper.
“With carrots?” asked the doctor.
“With carrots”, came the reply.
His mind screamed, he did not, but soon enough he was awake again.
The fog cleared quickly, his mind clear, he started to raise his head but stopped, he closed his eyes.
The fear welled within him, his heart pounded, he could hear nothing, he slowly raised his head and looked.

Friggin' Awesome aitm ! I could almost hear Rod Serling give the recap. Who knew we have such literary talent around here?

Quote from: Cassia on September 20, 2020, 01:48:35 PM
The ugly underbelly has been exposed. I fear it may already be over. The orange scourge is just a symptom. This nation, a land where ignorance, mythology, selfishness and cruelty are celebrated or at least tolerated by the majority. FUBAR

But then, NOW, there is resistence and criticism, protests. Now there is perspective. Your country or any other -because those are fairly common traits you counted up there- is dead when there is no opposition or voice against all that darkness. And if you read all this from higher ground, it is a crucial struggle for a future development. It's a phase.

I can't tell you how different American people's reactions now, compared to the past about all these issues brought up. It's a great positive difference because there is actually nothing new.

Quote from: Cassia on September 20, 2020, 01:48:35 PM
The ugly underbelly has been exposed. I fear it may already be over. The orange scourge is just a symptom. This nation, a land where ignorance, mythology, selfishness and cruelty are celebrated or at least tolerated by the majority. FUBAR

This is my view exactly. The only difference being, awhile back I began seeing the ignorance changed to stupidity---ignorance can be corrected, stupidity cannot.  FUBAR for sure.

Quote from: drunkenshoe on September 21, 2020, 06:50:39 AM
But then, NOW, there is resistence and criticism, protests. Now there is perspective. Your country or any other -because those are fairly common traits you counted up there- is dead when there is no opposition or voice against all that darkness. And if you read all this from higher ground, it is a crucial struggle for a future development. It's a phase.

I can't tell you how different American people's reactions now, compared to the past about all these issues brought up. It's a great positive difference because there is actually nothing new.

Shoe I hope your view is correct.  I hope enough of the 'average' (whatever the fuck that is) US citizens have been shocked awake to make a difference.  I have been shocked to a new awareness several times in my life; the first time when my family moved from Oregon to Alabama and I saw the 'colored' and 'white' signs all over.  Since trump,s election it has been one shock after another--one of the biggest being my realization just how deeply embedded racism is and how cruel our govt was/is.  In order to fix problems we have to be aware of them----and fixing problems this huge takes turmoil.   I hope the turmoil is productive...............I hope, I hope, I hope..............

Quote from: drunkenshoe on September 21, 2020, 06:50:39 AM
But then, NOW, there is resistence and criticism, protests. Now there is perspective. Your country or any other -because those are fairly common traits you counted up there- is dead when there is no opposition or voice against all that darkness. And if you read all this from higher ground, it is a crucial struggle for a future development. It's a phase.

I can't tell you how different American people's reactions now, compared to the past about all these issues brought up. It's a great positive difference because there is actually nothing new.

Yes, the prophet, Althusser, predicted all, European intelligencia are gods.  Eternal Return of the French Revolution?

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 21, 2020, 09:14:57 AM
Shoe I hope your view is correct.  I hope enough of the 'average' (whatever the fuck that is) US citizens have been shocked awake to make a difference.  I have been shocked to a new awareness several times in my life; the first time when my family moved from Oregon to Alabama and I saw the 'colored' and 'white' signs all over.  Since trump,s election it has been one shock after another--one of the biggest being my realization just how deeply embedded racism is and how cruel our govt was/is.  In order to fix problems we have to be aware of them----and fixing problems this huge takes turmoil.   I hope the turmoil is productive...............I hope, I hope, I hope..............

Fix America?  Fix Turkey first!

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 21, 2020, 09:14:57 AM
Shoe I hope your view is correct.  I hope enough of the 'average' (whatever the fuck that is) US citizens have been shocked awake to make a difference.  I have been shocked to a new awareness several times in my life; the first time when my family moved from Oregon to Alabama and I saw the 'colored' and 'white' signs all over.  Since trump,s election it has been one shock after another--one of the biggest being my realization just how deeply embedded racism is and how cruel our govt was/is.  In order to fix problems we have to be aware of them----and fixing problems this huge takes turmoil.   I hope the turmoil is productive...............I hope, I hope, I hope..............

Hope is an illusion. Cast it aside, and push through.

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 21, 2020, 12:10:36 PM
Hope is an illusion. Cast it aside, and push through.

,'The Great Experiment' is an illusion, as is the saying 'Our Democracy is not always good, but it beats any other form of govt!'--or some such shit.  But hope is what keeps fires within burning and allows us to fight to move forward.  Without it, what's the point??  I use it to allow me to move forward.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 21, 2020, 09:14:57 AM
Shoe I hope your view is correct.  I hope enough of the 'average' (whatever the fuck that is) US citizens have been shocked awake to make a difference.  I have been shocked to a new awareness several times in my life; the first time when my family moved from Oregon to Alabama and I saw the 'colored' and 'white' signs all over.  Since trump,s election it has been one shock after another--one of the biggest being my realization just how deeply embedded racism is and how cruel our govt was/is.  In order to fix problems we have to be aware of them----and fixing problems this huge takes turmoil.   I hope the turmoil is productive...............I hope, I hope, I hope..............

Mike, I have had internet connection since 1994. You have any idea how early that is for this region? As you may guess we haven't had any turkish sites then and fuck the ones we have now. I have spent a lot of time with your people in the last 25 years, with very different groups; every age, gender, ethnic, religious, politics... I was just a kid with too much free time on her hands trying to practice English then. A kid had no idea this would be 'the new world'. Before I traveled to the US, American culture and Americans were just 'la la land' to me. And of course everything has changed when I traveled to the country, met Americans, talk about all this bullshit and made friends with them.

I'm not making a prophecy. I can't tell you the differnce and the awarenesses I had to go trhough about/with your culture and people. (At some point, your culture and people have become my field of interest.) And the unbelievable similarities you are going through with the one I live in.

This is not something that came out of nowhere, you know that very well. You have much more life experiences than I do. So many things have happened in the last decades while people have gone on to live as if everything was OK or as if every bullshit about the old propaganda ever worked.

Well, something's gotta give. This has started long time ago. And I know how idealistic or silly this sounds to you, or any of you that I'm saying this, it feels like because I love the country, but no. By the time passes on, I get it more and more clearly that why certain things have evolved the way they had in the US, only. LOL Because there has always been a real danger there to the system covers us all, so it can take some real damage. Real damage. Not in our life time? Call me romantic... I don't care if I don't see it. I don't expect to see it.

Yes, it is very bad. I woke up to my sis's text in the middle of the night: "Ginsburg's dead." And things have also gone very good. These protests you have been living through are so important and so precious... I wish you could be proud of them besides everything!

LOL You guys have been living in your closed pool soo long...Do you think we don't have eyes or ears or we don't get it? We live in the main source of that shit. You, American people, you are ALIVE; you do actually count, you, morons. Do you have any idea how many people in the world are surprised 'Oh wait these yanks are not just a 300 million zombies chasing the carrot we know. It's alive!' You don't care? You SHOULD. I wish you could know the actual support behind the resistence and the people, though it is too far away and silent.

It's gonna get worse and worse. And? It's just the beginning. Hang in there.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 21, 2020, 12:40:04 PM
,'The Great Experiment' is an illusion, as is the saying 'Our Democracy is not always good, but it beats any other form of govt!'--or some such shit.  But hope is what keeps fires within burning and allows us to fight to move forward.  Without it, what's the point??  I use it to allow me to move forward.

Without it, what's the point?

I can' t say what the point is, but I can say what motivator is left. The true gritt stemming from raw determination, seethe from discontent and pure hatred. A desire to fight, despite the odds, not under the impression that a change in the world is likely, or even possible, but from the knowledge That it is necessary and a bare refusal to accept the status quo.
Hope will cloud you, soften you; channel and hone your brass, unfiltered rage.
A cornered animal might not get free. Giving it hope won't either. But by fuck's sake, can it be dangerous. And by fuck can it wound.

Anyways, I will admit to being drunk, when I posted last and this post. Sorry if it don't make sense.

Dude. I hate Baruch.

Let's not derail a thread folks.

Sorry. I have no sources, just tried to find some old photos. At least the last one is of a bit of something.

(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ef/f6/78/eff678311be5bcae554cb1f6f4827d6a.jpg)

(https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fi.insider.com%2F5b3a76c386c52b19008b458c%3Fwidth%3D600%26format%3Djpeg%26auto%3Dwebp&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.insider.com%2Fscary-real-photos-2018-6&tbnid=88B38QPRaAnu6M&vet=12ahUKEwiB6uPP7_rrAhVDlBoKHT6bBXkQMyggegUIARD0AQ..i&docid=wa9mSxDmHnaodM&w=527&h=395&q=original%20scary%20photographs&ved=2ahUKEwiB6uPP7_rrAhVDlBoKHT6bBXkQMyggegUIARD0AQ#imgrc=88B38QPRaAnu6M&imgdii=UqwRJUALGY4bDM)

(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a6/c8/e0/a6c8e0a6efab6d21f703829db8a32a75.jpg)

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 21, 2020, 01:41:58 PM
Without it, what's the point?

I can' t say what the point is, but I can say what motivator is left. The true gritt stemming from raw determination, seethe from discontent and pure hatred. A desire to fight, despite the odds, not under the impression that a change in the world is likely, or even possible, but from the knowledge That it is necessary and a bare refusal to accept the status quo.
Hope will cloud you, soften you; channel and hone your brass, unfiltered rage.
A cornered animal might not get free. Giving it hope won't either. But by fuck's sake, can it be dangerous. And by fuck can it wound.

Anyways, I will admit to being drunk, when I posted last and this post. Sorry if it don't make sense.

I hear you!  Seething hatred is a strong force, without doubt!  Maybe we are stumbling over symantics.  For me, hope even underlines hatred.

Quote from: PickelledEggs on September 21, 2020, 01:48:55 PM
Dude. I hate Baruch.

You artistic guys, I love you too, but not like I "love" Munch.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 21, 2020, 12:40:04 PM
,'The Great Experiment' is an illusion, as is the saying 'Our Democracy is not always good, but it beats any other form of govt!'--or some such shit.  But hope is what keeps fires within burning and allows us to fight to move forward.  Without it, what's the point??  I use it to allow me to move forward.

Youth is full of illusions.  We have outlived ours.  Dischordianism is my solace.  Hatred is yours?  I feel sorry for your so called contentment, seems very Hellish to me.

Quote from: drunkenshoe on September 21, 2020, 02:29:24 PM
Sorry. I have no sources, just tried to find some old photos. At least the last one is of a bit of something.

(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ef/f6/78/eff678311be5bcae554cb1f6f4827d6a.jpg)

(https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fi.insider.com%2F5b3a76c386c52b19008b458c%3Fwidth%3D600%26format%3Djpeg%26auto%3Dwebp&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.insider.com%2Fscary-real-photos-2018-6&tbnid=88B38QPRaAnu6M&vet=12ahUKEwiB6uPP7_rrAhVDlBoKHT6bBXkQMyggegUIARD0AQ..i&docid=wa9mSxDmHnaodM&w=527&h=395&q=original%20scary%20photographs&ved=2ahUKEwiB6uPP7_rrAhVDlBoKHT6bBXkQMyggegUIARD0AQ#imgrc=88B38QPRaAnu6M&imgdii=UqwRJUALGY4bDM)

(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/a6/c8/e0/a6c8e0a6efab6d21f703829db8a32a75.jpg)

There is something unnerving about old photos like that. Perhaps the very in-focus man in that first photo is dead. A 'memento mori' for the family. I found a book full of odd photos like that in a 2nd hand shop. The Victorians were very found of posing their deceased children for morbid pictures. Since the exposure time back then was so long the dead were often seen more sharply than the slightly-blurred living, because the dead usually stay very still.

(https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/660/cpsprodpb/168BB/production/_89874329_children.jpg)
(https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/624/cpsprodpb/574B/production/_89874322_yong-ldy.jpg)
(https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/624/cpsprodpb/3728/production/_89902141_17346b6d-e98e-4f5f-8bd6-e388c1a0c154.jpg)

My brother loved Christmas, but I always found it to be kinda strange and spooky. Jesus of Nazareth (who was born in Bethlehem) did supposedly trigger a massacre of babies. And then there was this guy who...
...sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake!
When Tim Burton came out with the Nightmare Christmas movie, I remember thinking, "yeah well that makes sense"
(https://i.ibb.co/Bf0wjVL/Santa-is-coming-by-stefan-koidl-cqdym2nlwf-1186x1080.jpg)

I have seen it so many times, I can look at pics and listen the music in my head.

http://fanaru.com/nightmare-before-christmas/image/246700-nightmare-before-christmas-jack-skellington-and-shakepeare.gif

When shall we meet again?!*

*I have been watching  Wyrd Sisters...

PS If you get into any book/movie discussion...One of the best few  rare examples to give against the obvious. Holy crap...I've forgotten. What a masterpiece.

https://www6.kisscartoon.love/wyrd-sisters-1997/#mv-info

Quote from: Cassia on September 21, 2020, 10:34:34 PMThe Victorians were very found of posing their deceased children for morbid pictures.

Yes, that's why the main room is now called the "living room" as part of the phasing out of such practices.  It made sense for the Victorians, though.  Photography was new and expensive, so post-mortem photos would have to suffice for remembering a dead relative.

The Victorian era was also a time in which people were much more likely to die at home.  Nowadays, people are rushed to a hospital and returned in one of two states.  Death is more concealed and hush-hush than it was in the past.  It may strike us as needlessly morbid, but it made sense in the context of their era and circumstances.

I don’t consider it morbid at all. They finally had an opportunity, unavailable to previous humans, sans the money for a portrait painter which they could not afford, to have a lasting image of their loved one. If camera’s didn’t exist until today, we would all do the same thing.

Quote from: aitm on September 26, 2020, 05:34:40 PM
I don’t consider it morbid at all. They finally had an opportunity, unavailable to previous humans, sans the money for a portrait painter which they could not afford, to have a lasting image of their loved one. If camera’s didn’t exist until today, we would all do the same thing.

My great-grand father lay in state in the foyer in his open casket for the extended family and friends to pay their respects.  My father did the same, but at a funeral home.  We celebrated a family meal at home (wake) after my father's death, but a catered meal (wake) at the funeral home after my mother's death.  The old Irish custom was so the relatives could consume the sins of the deceased to lessen their time in Purgatory.  At least, unlike South Italy or South Greece, we don't still practice scheduled exemption and reburial of the bones, which was why ancients used limestone sarcophagi.  My in-laws were both buried in the ground after pickling.  My parents were both cremated like the Greco-Roman heroes they were ;-)

I think it seems creepy because of the low quality black and white (pics get damaged and people always see things in it that is not there) and that the tradition of photographing the dead back then.

The concept of ime is so powerful, perhaps it nudges back to the absolute fear in us. Death. Everyone in those pics are dead. 

(https://preview.redd.it/ruhmasghvpp51.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=c307d4bf3ca05eab5ea45e182ca85d90e4a91c0b)

Van Gogh, on a bad day ;-)

Quote from: Cassia on September 21, 2020, 10:57:05 PM
My brother loved Christmas, but I always found it to be kinda strange and spooky. Jesus of Nazareth (who was born in Bethlehem) did supposedly trigger a massacre of babies. And then there was this guy who...
...sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good
So be good for goodness sake!
When Tim Burton came out with the Nightmare Christmas movie, I remember thinking, "yeah well that makes sense"
(https://i.ibb.co/Bf0wjVL/Santa-is-coming-by-stefan-koidl-cqdym2nlwf-1186x1080.jpg)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tI0o4WwpXTY&feature=youtu.be

Home alone (part 1)


Miles felt the sweat running down his back. The cold morning air almost freezing it to his body. His tracksuit clung to his back and he could smell himself. A good stank. The smell of perseverance and improvement. As he ran through the woods, Rover, his dobermann at his side, he couldn't recall feeling more alive. Underneath his feet, the kept woodland path stretched on. Nature was reclaiming it here and there, but by the time he'd come back to his private abode it would all be neat and propper once more.
Feeling the ground underneath his feet. Smelling the fresh air of the hills around him. With the sound of Rover beside him, Miles knew this was what life was about. He'd needed this. Put it off for far too long. At 6:30 in the morning, things were shaping up to be a perfect day. And not even the lack of sun and the abundance of gray skies could change that.

He didn't even think about work anymore. Aside from perhaps that second-hand fleeting realisation that he wasn't even thinking about the thing he was avoiding. The last few months at the office had been terrible. The pandemic had pulled the emergency break on the train of progress. Stopping many multinationals in their tracks. And while a few flourished, as the invisible hand of economics might predict, others suffered. Miles' business, a train-manufacturing  organisation named Wabtec, wasn't one of those.

Almost overnight the entire transportation business was overhauled; a significant blow to the company. It had been hell for months. Rearanging budgets. Demanding follow-up on cliënts trying to get out of contracts... And the lay-offs. The lay-offs might have been the worst part of it.
It was hard enough to find ways to cut costs on the one hand and make sure that he and his  fellow executives still got a sizeable bonus at the end of the year. But needing to do that in the dark, unseen by the already infuriated public, angry for them firing nearly a tenth of their employees, was most stressful. And he really could do without the added pleas and curses from those most unfortunate souls. They would just have to face reality and be men about. It wasn't like he could change anything about it. In the end, he was no more a cog in the same machine. A better and more valuable cog, yes, surely having proved himself indispensable over the past few months. But he was only following orders, just like all of them. It wasn't his responsibility that they lost their livelyhood. And he didn't need the blame for it.

As the bad memories clouded his mind, unwillingly. He sped up the pace. His dog, unaware of his master's inner turmoil, enjoyed this even more.

All it served was that he ran out of road sooner. He stopped at the bank of the rushing river. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stretched a bit. Rover sat down at his side.

"See that?" He spoke to his pet. "You can see the bridge appearing there." He nodded to where the road turned into a few slabs of stone.

Rover had a puzzled look on his face. The stones quickly disappeared into the rolling water, engulfed by it fully. It didn't worry Miles. This happened sometimes. If it had been particularly stormy for a few nights up in the far off mountains, combined with  slightly warmer weather, the river would overflow. The stone bridge would be swallowed for a few days, making his little clearing in the woods, his secret abode, a small island. The river marked the end of his domain, as it forked and engulfed the small hill, before reconnecting a few miles of to the west of the bridge.

"It's less than yesterday, boy." Miles continued, not waiting for an answer from Rover. "Two days. Maybe three. Then we can go back home."

At the mention of the word 'home', Rover's ears twitched. A familiar look of excitement seemed to crawl over his canine face. It didn't go unnoticed.

"You wanna go home, Rover?" Miles laughed, meaning not the luxury appartement back in Pittsburgh, but the loft-like house in the middle of the clearing of the middle of his private hill. A one-story, modern fusion of glass and metal. Sleek and cool. Spacious. Trendy. Classy. Tasteful. And by God almighty, worth every penny he'd put in the place.

He'd been staying there for two weeks now. After his people had prepared it for him. Cleaned up the road leading from the bridge straight to the house. Stocked the freezer and fridge with quality food and wine; enough to last for months. Cleaned the place. Got the place tip-top in order so all he had to do after his driver rolled up with him, Rover and Moxxy, was sit down, relax and enjoy the well earned R&R.
He had all the comforts he needed. A private generator providing him with heat, electricity, warm water, … Everything except internet and phone-connection. Not here, not in his sanctuary. But he had enough energy to sustain his abode for a few years. And he had Moxxy. It would cost him a bit more for a few more days of her time. But she was worth it.
A few more days didn't seem so bad. No. He was determined to enjoy them.

“Sure. Let's go home Boy.” Miles laughed. He'd fix up the dogs's dinner and then crawl back into bed with Moxxy. They could take a bath together, if she had the will to drag herself from the sheets. She'd been partying pretty hard the pas few days, really digging into his personal stash of coke. But that was alright, he'd come prepared. And he did make her work for it.

With a renewed vigour he ran back down the road, away from the river and made it to the edge of the clearing after just ten minutes. Sweat was pouring down his neck freely now, but he felt his loins afire and the blood was pumping just right. The mist outside was growing steadily but eagerly. Luckily, crossing the open field to the house in the middle didn't require much. The lights inside were burning and through the glass walls, which most of the house's walls were, he could see it clearly.

He passed by his dark Mercedes, just shy thirty feet from the main entrance to the building when he realized he was running alone. Looking back, a little ways off, Rover stood transfixed on something. It peered into the thickening mist, out to the treeline. Perhaps the dogs eyes were much better, or perhaps his keen sense of smell picked up a squirrel or some other woodland critter. Miles didn't know. Nor did he much care. But he was surprised when the dobermann began barking loudly.

Calling his faithful hound to his side didn't help. Miles had to walk over and grab the dog by his collar and drag him back into the house. When they were in, he closed the door behind him. As he moved through the entrance hall and crossed the adjacent living area, he went for the kitchen. Uncharacteristically, Rover didn't wait for his bowl impatiently. Not even when Miles grabbed the full, tender and raw steak and cut it into pieces. Instead, the dog pressed it's nose to one of the window-walls and continued to peer outside, past the 100.000 dollar car and out into the nothing that lay beyond.

Miles didn't pay attention. His mind already pressed on the blonde hooker upstairs. He finished cutting the meat and presented it hastily to his unimpressed dog.

“Be that way.” He laughed to himself as he raced up the open, wide stairs. He undid the upper part of his outfit as he went. And after turning a few corners, he came to one of the only areas protected from sight from the outside. His master bedroom / bathroom / dressing ward. The cool metal plates shielded this area from anyone who could peer inside. This was private property, but he wasn't going to let some creepy lost hunter or camper get a good view of him getting it on with one of the girls he brought here.

He would have dived enthusiastically into the king-sized bed. Where he'd hoped to find Moxxy. As he hadn't heard any soft humming, he'd known she wasn't taking a bath. And because he'd heard no running water, he'd known she wasn't taking a shower. It was therefore quite the shock not finding her between the warm sheets. Indeed, even the sheets were gone. The bare mattress and an over-abundance of pillows were the only thing to greet him.

“Moxxy?” He called out, as a dirty little smile crossed his face. She was teasing him. Hiding. He'd picked the right girl for this trip. “Moxxy?” He called out again, trying to catch her behind a wall. And then another. And then another.

It went on for over half a minute before his tone changed to confusion and a sinking feeling of worry settled in. He looked throughout the house, but couldn't find her anywhere. The car was still outside, so she couldn't have gone anywhere. He even checked the basement, but found no clue as to where she could be.

When at last he opened the door and stepped back outside, he was greeted by an immensely thick mist. Inside Rover instantly began whimpering. He didn't turn back to look but heard the hound scuffling inside, hiding behind a sofa.

“Moxxy?!” He yelled out loudly. And again. And again.

No reply came back.

Stubbornly and still persistantly calling out her name, he moved around the house. Without any reason to, he hoped he'd have more luck at the back. Again, no answer came. With some fear, he peered down the giant hole, recently digged and next summer to house a lavish swimming pool. But there was no Moxxy. There were no sheets. And there was no sign that anyone had tumbled in. No  protrusions in the mud. No blood. Nothing.

He called her name one last time. And still he heard nothing. But as he focused, he could see a blur in the thick of the fog. It was unclear how far off, but a slightly darker shape, seemingly human for as far as he could make it, wandered somewhere in the mist.

Instinctively, he ran for it. He lost track of it, once or twice, but always quickly found it. It wasn't moving towards him. Not towards the light of the house, but towards the trees. He called out after her, but she wouldn't turn. Instead the dark shadow persisted on.

It was then that the dread truly hit. He could hardly see her… If it was her. But she had to able to hear him. Even if something was preventing her from talking, the realization came that she could hear him. Why on earth would she be moving away.
Slowly he walked backwards. Back towards the house, trying to keep his eyes on his surroundings.

He could see the blur again, in the distance. But now it didn't seem to be moving away. If anything, it seemed to be creeping closer. And after a few moments, in which he unconsciously held his breath, he suddenly realized it wasn't the only one. From the corners of his eyes, two mere were flanking him.

He turned heel as fast as he could and sprinted back to the house. It's light almost completely hidden between the thick banks of fog now. But still visible. And with each desperate step, those lights turned more and more into a beacon of hope.
He couldn't hear who was chasing him. There was no sound of footsteps whatsoever. But he dared not look over his should and see how much of the distance they might've breached.

With all his might he dashed the last few yards, and to his pleasure he could not hear any footsteps behind him on the gravel. Still, he slammed the door shut behind him without hesitation. He locked the  double locks on the metal door. He'd be safe inside. The glass walls were bullet-proof and most sturdy altogether. No-one would just be getting in. And he had a gun here. He wasn't defenceless.

As he breathed hard and frantically, leaning against the door, a sound from behind him made him jump. It took him a few moments to realize it was only Rover coming back to greet his master. A worried and sad look on it's face. He knelt by the Dobermann and tried to get his own heartbeat under control.

“It's alright boy.” He lied.

Hugging his hound just as much as for his own comfort as for the whimpering creature's, he looked all about him. He couldn't see the trees anymore. He couldn't see the grass of the clearing. Not the skies above. Not even his car. The thick fog outside was all: a gray void of that held unseen horrors.

And, kneeling there by his cowering dog, as he frantically peered all around him, outside… Miles could feel them looking back at him.

To be concluded (in a few days probably)

I am right there with Miles, Mr.Obvious.
This happened to be looping...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRPofKtxRpU

Elves have certainly 'evolved' into higher beings thanks to Tolkien and others when you consider their lowly Germanic origins as causes of various illnesses. They used bows to Elfshot you with a medical condition.
(https://i.ibb.co/wBjGhN4/another-one-of-my-original-daz-figure-lorelei-1-3ynh4wmops-1080x1404.jpg)

I've grown fond of elves.  My wife liked them from the start of our relationship and I enjoyed looking at her books of elves--and Tolkien, too of course.  When I play Skyrim, I almost always play a wood elf because one of their talents is archery.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 29, 2020, 08:11:12 PM
I've grown fond of elves.  My wife liked them from the start of our relationship and I enjoyed looking at her books of elves--and Tolkien, too of course.  When I play Skyrim, I almost always play a wood elf because one of their talents is archery.

Sweet. I do enjoy my recurve bow...working on my speed at getting a 2nd arrow on target. Probably a few dozen arrows hiding in the forest surrounding the house, LOL.

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 29, 2020, 08:11:12 PM
I've grown fond of elves.  My wife liked them from the start of our relationship and I enjoyed looking at her books of elves--and Tolkien, too of course.  When I play Skyrim, I almost always play a wood elf because one of their talents is archery.

The Bosmer you meet in the games are generally pretty nice, but their lore is extremely disturbing.  Let's just say that you never want to ask where a Bosmer soldier's rations come from.

Quote from: Hydra009 on September 30, 2020, 01:39:18 AM
The Bosmer you meet in the games are generally pretty nice, but their lore is extremely disturbing.  Let's just say that you never want to ask where a Bosmer soldier's rations come from.

True.  But I just focus on the archery skill--not the other skills. :))

Home alone, part II (of presumably III)


With Rover still whimpering in the background, Miles had turned his focus to the blue modern art painting by the thick wall that separated the living room from his study. In one fell swoop he tore it from it's nail and cast  it aside. The small hidden vault now plainly visible. His fingers shook as he pushed the digits; messing up the order twice before getting it right. His eyes no longer strayed to the mist surrounding his glass abode for fear of what he might see.

When he reached in and pulled out the wooden box, his quivering hands failed to grasp it well. Along with a few shady documents and some old pictures, the small container fell to the ground. The lid broke off and a few of the bullets inside scattered across the ground. He bent down quickly and tried to grab some shells before they rolled too far off. The bulldog revolver now too saw the light of day. It took him several tries before he could fit six rounds into the weapon. Only then did he dare to rise back to his feet and look about him.

There were no dark shapes in the fog. No piercing eyes looking back at him. No taunts or sounds. No growls. No laughter. Nothing. He knew shouting wouldn't do any good. If anyone was standing there, hidden in the banks of mist, they could plainly see him holding the gun. And the walls were thick and isolated enough so that they would not be able to hear his words. Still, because it made him feel better to disrupt the constant stream of emptiness, he did.

“I'm armed!” He shouted. “I'm not afraid to use this!” He continued.

And that much was true, at least. His fear did not stem from the weapon in his hand. Quivering; not only because of the cold sweat on his bare back and neck. He gingerly made his way over to the kitchen and placed the broken box on the counter. It still had about a quarter of the shells in it. It brought him closer to the glass wall. Standing less than five feet from it, he peered beyond the translucent reflection of himself. To his right, he could just about make out the general form of the Mercedes. He wondered if he could make it. Perhaps if he turned on the fog-lights, he could find his way back to the river. The drive over would be mostly straightforward, his chances of crashing were little. And whoever or whatever was out there, probably wouldn't be able to catch up to him. Driving through the river would prove either difficult or impossible, however. The water wasn't as high as it had once been. And perhaps if the current wasn't too bad, the car would manage. But it was a tough call. And in no way, shape or form would the car be able to take him all the way to the nearest town, after going through that.

No. It would be better to wait. Both for this fog to die down and for the river to return to normal in a few days. He could do that. He was safe here. He might not be able to see far out. But this place was pretty much a bunker. And he would see it if anyone did try to get in. They could see him, but if they came close enough, he would be able to see them. Realizing that made him feel a little better. He might be able to be scared and get surprised, but he wouldn't be able to be taken off guard. There would be no sneaking into this place. He could see everything, just as much as he could be seen.

He saw something now. One of the dark shapes, perhaps a little farther away than the car. And at least a few yards to it's left. The figure moved at a walking speed. Miles followed it with his eyes, unaware that his fingers grasped the handle of the gun so much that his fingers turned white. When turning his head no longer cut it, he moved to follow. Step by step, he walked around the open interior of the loft-like building. Never taking his eyes of the unwanted guest. He was already in his study when he lost sight of it.

That's when he heard the rattle at the door. Violent shaking. Intense. Perhaps desperate. Or impatient. He could not tell. He heard and saw Rover bolt up the staircase, off to the master bedroom.

“Go away!” Miles cried out as he moved around the thick wall that housed his safe. He stepped over the discarded painting and held his arm outstretched. The short barrel pointing at the door. The door-handle continued to shake and sputter. Shaking almost as hard as his outstretched hand.

He neared, shouting for it to go away. Knowing full well the outside world was deaf to him, but feeling the need none the less. His heart pumped relentlessy and frantically. Untill it almost seemed to crash-stop when he saw her appear.

The blond woman was distraught beyond description. Her formerly well-kept, shoulder-high hair now unkempt and laced with dirt. She clutched the bloodied and muddied sheet, clinging to her breath-taking voluptuous form, as she finally left the doorhandle alone. Now she focused her attention on the glass wall beside it. Her blood-covered fist smashed into it repeatedly as he could see her cry. Without hearing the words he knew she was begging to be let in. Pleading. When her eyes fell on him, they went from utter fear to a terrified form of frustration. The hopeful desperation shaped her resignated shade of anger into a disserviced wrath. This was not the Moxxy he knew. Not the sweet and sensual girl: always in control. Gone was that cocky smile on her full lips. That knowing glance in her blue eyes. Gone that grace, as she nearly chipped her long nails and smeared blood across the glass in the process, as she tried to be let in.

He moved for the door instinctively. Even with shaking hands, her reappearance given him purpose. He managed to undo the first lock. She was still heaving outside, next to the door, watching him anxiously as his free hand moved for the second lock.

But he hesitated. A brief check-up on her… The smallest of glances… It took him off guard. It was only a hint. And it was only there for a brief second. But it was unmistakeable. She was no longer shaking with fear. No more did she appear terrified. Only  impatient. And in those eyes, for a mere flicker… He saw a hunger unlike any other.

It threw him off. Like some dark reflection into a nightmarish world, he saw the prositute before him, one part of his mind telling him there was no doubt it was her, another screaming madly that she only nearly was. Something was missing. Or added. Or just wrong. Moxxy was Moxxy. And she wasn't.

In moment the haunted surprise, he turned slightly and took a step backwards. He felt the carpet underneath his feet, but he didn't take his eyes off of her. The hairs on his back crawled upright. This was wrong. All of it.

The moment he did. The flicker returned. Unabashed. She cocked her head and closed her eyes slowly, seemingly focussing on some other sense. Her body swayed slightly, as if she'd been out partying, the buzz starting to flow just right and some slow song came on and seduced her to the floor. With the flick of a wrist, the dirtied sheets fell to the ground.

He could see now her beautiful body covered in patches of blood. Some still wet. Some dried. Her naked form before him turned into a horrific mockery of itself. It was still there. Still Moxxy. Still perfect. But not right. Perhaps too ideal in shape now. And so very repulsive, both in its flawlessness as well as because of the caked stains.

And he could see now. As she thwirled slightly, dancing to a tune beyond his hearing: None of the blood… None of it… came from her. There were no gashes or bruises. No wounds at all. Not on her front, nor her back. Not under her arms, as they rose up when she brushed her red fingers through her hair as she bit her lip.

Her eyes opened again as she pressed her the front of her form to the glass. The stains began sticking to the outside of the wall. She seemed to mouth his name as she smiled darkly and drunkly at him. A slight moan seemed to escape her breath as she gently pushed her chest away from the glass. And suggestively her hand trailed from her bellybutton on her flat stomach up to her right nipple. The excess blood on her index- and middle-finger she used it to smear a message on the see-through wall.  Miles watched the letters appear in mirror writing.

“Stop Hiding.” It said.

Miles had absent-mindedly backed up further, all this time. He was crying now. The tears flowing freely as all courage seemed to leave him. Already he was in the middle of the living room, the back of his leg already bumping into the coffee table by the time he finished writing.

Last he saw of her, she pressed her soft lips to the glass, leaving a perfect imprint in a mixture of blood and red lipstick, next to the message.
Her tongue ran of it hungrily, before she returned her gaze to him one last time. Her eyes piercing him; nailing him to the ground where he stood. Without turning and without taking her eyes off him, she walked backwards. And in less than five paces, the mist had engulfed her completely. Leaving him only with the dirtied sheets and her blood-stained imprints.

This was gold...

The smallest of glances… It took him off guard. It was only a hint. And it was only there for a brief second. But it was unmistakeable. She was no longer shaking with fear. No more did she appear terrified. Only  impatient.

This story is brilliant because in times of true danger the brain is prone to go into super-detail mode. You know what I mean? During the 3 seconds (at the age of 16) when I skidded on a wet road into the back of an unlighted, broke-down truck... I registered the song on the radio, how my brake pedal felt like a sponge, how I was worried about my hot coffee splashing, how the street light was a weird pink glow, and how the windshield shattered on its own just before my left hand with a rope bracelet the went through it. That 3 seconds was like 5 minutes. Ahh...damn. I enjoy the atmosphere more than the events or people.
(https://i.ibb.co/933QgCL/Jeanette-voerman-by-omri-koresh-7np26lt0vv-1080x1080.jpg)

This is scary to me.  Walked the dogs at 5:30 am this morning and noticed a full moon.  Those are always beautiful.  This one was a dark orange and I thought to myself, 'fuck no!!!!!'.  Then I noticed the smell of smoke, the smell like all the neighborhood fireplaces were going; not possible since it will be 99 degrees again today.  By the time I neared the end of our walk, the moon was barely visible because of the deep smoke cover.  Another 2/3 weeks (or more) of visible smoke--this batch from an area about 3 hr drive from us.  Napa Valley--expect a rise in wine prices............................

Quote from: Mike Cl on October 01, 2020, 09:48:29 AM
This is scary to me.  Walked the dogs at 5:30 am this morning and noticed a full moon.  Those are always beautiful.  This one was a dark orange and I thought to myself, 'fuck no!!!!!'.  Then I noticed the smell of smoke, the smell like all the neighborhood fireplaces were going; not possible since it will be 99 degrees again today.  By the time I neared the end of our walk, the moon was barely visible because of the deep smoke cover.  Another 2/3 weeks (or more) of visible smoke--this batch from an area about 3 hr drive from us.  Napa Valley--expect a rise in wine prices............................

Yeah, we saw a gorgeous "sunrise" once. Except it was only 3:30 AM and headed our way. Fortunately the wind shifted and we could actually fight the fire back using water from the pond and a gasoline powered pump. Not fun when you call the Fire Dept. and no one answers. It was just that one year so far.

Quote from: Mike Cl on October 01, 2020, 09:48:29 AM
This is scary to me.  Walked the dogs at 5:30 am this morning and noticed a full moon.  Those are always beautiful.  This one was a dark orange and I thought to myself, 'fuck no!!!!!'.  Then I noticed the smell of smoke, the smell like all the neighborhood fireplaces were going; not possible since it will be 99 degrees again today.  By the time I neared the end of our walk, the moon was barely visible because of the deep smoke cover.  Another 2/3 weeks (or more) of visible smoke--this batch from an area about 3 hr drive from us.  Napa Valley--expect a rise in wine prices............................

Take care.  Have a bug-out plan and act on it if you need to.

The 1885 poem "Little Orphant Annie" by James Whitcomb Riley was the namesake for the famous comic strip. The poem was a Halloween favorite and tells of bad children who are snatched away by goblins as a result of their misbehavior. Excerpt:

---

"Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayersâ€"
An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbley-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you, ef you don't watch out!"

---

(https://i.ibb.co/ysyfskz/Mara-by-ivan-khotenov-f3h5pe9p67-1080x1498.jpg)

Quote from: Mike Cl on September 29, 2020, 08:11:12 PM
I've grown fond of elves.  My wife liked them from the start of our relationship and I enjoyed looking at her books of elves--and Tolkien, too of course.  When I play Skyrim, I almost always play a wood elf because one of their talents is archery.

Have you ever seen Hawk the Slayer? A good archery movie. That elf is fast!

Quote from: Unbeliever on October 01, 2020, 09:56:32 PM
Have you ever seen Hawk the Slayer? A good archery movie. That elf is fast!

Not only haven't seen it, I'd not heard of it.  Have to look it up.

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 30, 2020, 06:34:51 PM
Home alone, part II (of presumably III)


With Rover still whimpering in the background, Miles had turned his focus to the blue modern art painting by the thick wall that separated the living room from his study. In one fell swoop he tore it from it's nail and cast  it aside. The small hidden vault now plainly visible. His fingers shook as he pushed the digits; messing up the order twice before getting it right. His eyes no longer strayed to the mist surrounding his glass abode for fear of what he might see.

When he reached in and pulled out the wooden box, his quivering hands failed to grasp it well. Along with a few shady documents and some old pictures, the small container fell to the ground. The lid broke off and a few of the bullets inside scattered across the ground. He bent down quickly and tried to grab some shells before they rolled too far off. The bulldog revolver now too saw the light of day. It took him several tries before he could fit six rounds into the weapon. Only then did he dare to rise back to his feet and look about him.

There were no dark shapes in the fog. No piercing eyes looking back at him. No taunts or sounds. No growls. No laughter. Nothing. He knew shouting wouldn't do any good. If anyone was standing there, hidden in the banks of mist, they could plainly see him holding the gun. And the walls were thick and isolated enough so that they would not be able to hear his words. Still, because it made him feel better to disrupt the constant stream of emptiness, he did.

“I'm armed!” He shouted. “I'm not afraid to use this!” He continued.

And that much was true, at least. His fear did not stem from the weapon in his hand. Quivering; not only because of the cold sweat on his bare back and neck. He gingerly made his way over to the kitchen and placed the broken box on the counter. It still had about a quarter of the shells in it. It brought him closer to the glass wall. Standing less than five feet from it, he peered beyond the translucent reflection of himself. To his right, he could just about make out the general form of the Mercedes. He wondered if he could make it. Perhaps if he turned on the fog-lights, he could find his way back to the river. The drive over would be mostly straightforward, his chances of crashing were little. And whoever or whatever was out there, probably wouldn't be able to catch up to him. Driving through the river would prove either difficult or impossible, however. The water wasn't as high as it had once been. And perhaps if the current wasn't too bad, the car would manage. But it was a tough call. And in no way, shape or form would the car be able to take him all the way to the nearest town, after going through that.

No. It would be better to wait. Both for this fog to die down and for the river to return to normal in a few days. He could do that. He was safe here. He might not be able to see far out. But this place was pretty much a bunker. And he would see it if anyone did try to get in. They could see him, but if they came close enough, he would be able to see them. Realizing that made him feel a little better. He might be able to be scared and get surprised, but he wouldn't be able to be taken off guard. There would be no sneaking into this place. He could see everything, just as much as he could be seen.

He saw something now. One of the dark shapes, perhaps a little farther away than the car. And at least a few yards to it's left. The figure moved at a walking speed. Miles followed it with his eyes, unaware that his fingers grasped the handle of the gun so much that his fingers turned white. When turning his head no longer cut it, he moved to follow. Step by step, he walked around the open interior of the loft-like building. Never taking his eyes of the unwanted guest. He was already in his study when he lost sight of it.

That's when he heard the rattle at the door. Violent shaking. Intense. Perhaps desperate. Or impatient. He could not tell. He heard and saw Rover bolt up the staircase, off to the master bedroom.

“Go away!” Miles cried out as he moved around the thick wall that housed his safe. He stepped over the discarded painting and held his arm outstretched. The short barrel pointing at the door. The door-handle continued to shake and sputter. Shaking almost as hard as his outstretched hand.

He neared, shouting for it to go away. Knowing full well the outside world was deaf to him, but feeling the need none the less. His heart pumped relentlessy and frantically. Untill it almost seemed to crash-stop when he saw her appear.

The blond woman was distraught beyond description. Her formerly well-kept, shoulder-high hair now unkempt and laced with dirt. She clutched the bloodied and muddied sheet, clinging to her breath-taking voluptuous form, as she finally left the doorhandle alone. Now she focused her attention on the glass wall beside it. Her blood-covered fist smashed into it repeatedly as he could see her cry. Without hearing the words he knew she was begging to be let in. Pleading. When her eyes fell on him, they went from utter fear to a terrified form of frustration. The hopeful desperation shaped her resignated shade of anger into a disserviced wrath. This was not the Moxxy he knew. Not the sweet and sensual girl: always in control. Gone was that cocky smile on her full lips. That knowing glance in her blue eyes. Gone that grace, as she nearly chipped her long nails and smeared blood across the glass in the process, as she tried to be let in.

He moved for the door instinctively. Even with shaking hands, her reappearance given him purpose. He managed to undo the first lock. She was still heaving outside, next to the door, watching him anxiously as his free hand moved for the second lock.

But he hesitated. A brief check-up on her… The smallest of glances… It took him off guard. It was only a hint. And it was only there for a brief second. But it was unmistakeable. She was no longer shaking with fear. No more did she appear terrified. Only  impatient. And in those eyes, for a mere flicker… He saw a hunger unlike any other.

It threw him off. Like some dark reflection into a nightmarish world, he saw the prositute before him, one part of his mind telling him there was no doubt it was her, another screaming madly that she only nearly was. Something was missing. Or added. Or just wrong. Moxxy was Moxxy. And she wasn't.

In moment the haunted surprise, he turned slightly and took a step backwards. He felt the carpet underneath his feet, but he didn't take his eyes off of her. The hairs on his back crawled upright. This was wrong. All of it.

The moment he did. The flicker returned. Unabashed. She cocked her head and closed her eyes slowly, seemingly focussing on some other sense. Her body swayed slightly, as if she'd been out partying, the buzz starting to flow just right and some slow song came on and seduced her to the floor. With the flick of a wrist, the dirtied sheets fell to the ground.

He could see now her beautiful body covered in patches of blood. Some still wet. Some dried. Her naked form before him turned into a horrific mockery of itself. It was still there. Still Moxxy. Still perfect. But not right. Perhaps too ideal in shape now. And so very repulsive, both in its flawlessness as well as because of the caked stains.

And he could see now. As she thwirled slightly, dancing to a tune beyond his hearing: None of the blood… None of it… came from her. There were no gashes or bruises. No wounds at all. Not on her front, nor her back. Not under her arms, as they rose up when she brushed her red fingers through her hair as she bit her lip.

Her eyes opened again as she pressed her the front of her form to the glass. The stains began sticking to the outside of the wall. She seemed to mouth his name as she smiled darkly and drunkly at him. A slight moan seemed to escape her breath as she gently pushed her chest away from the glass. And suggestively her hand trailed from her bellybutton on her flat stomach up to her right nipple. The excess blood on her index- and middle-finger she used it to smear a message on the see-through wall.  Miles watched the letters appear in mirror writing.

“Stop Hiding.” It said.

Miles had absent-mindedly backed up further, all this time. He was crying now. The tears flowing freely as all courage seemed to leave him. Already he was in the middle of the living room, the back of his leg already bumping into the coffee table by the time he finished writing.

Last he saw of her, she pressed her soft lips to the glass, leaving a perfect imprint in a mixture of blood and red lipstick, next to the message.
Her tongue ran of it hungrily, before she returned her gaze to him one last time. Her eyes piercing him; nailing him to the ground where he stood. Without turning and without taking her eyes off him, she walked backwards. And in less than five paces, the mist had engulfed her completely. Leaving him only with the dirtied sheets and her blood-stained imprints.

Good stuff. Course....bitches be crazy. 😁

The incident angle of the Autumn sun is shifting fast and I noticed this timely lampshade.
(https://i.ibb.co/7RSZWQ7/89072688-2871872772879746-8784533822105452544-o.jpg)

Squidward!

(https://preview.redd.it/d37lgw3co7r51.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=0f64dd4922c2fd88738e2e86f54842aedc668b79)

(I know he is warming up to post something that is going to move suddenly.)

---

---

---

(https://pa1.narvii.com/6009/416f4a360aa8eb26becabe430e391a88c2b0b64a_hq.gif)

Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name, Stingy Jack didn’t want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form.

Jack eventually freed the Devil, under the condition that he would not bother Jack for one year and that, should Jack die, he would not claim his soul. The next year, Jack again tricked the Devil into climbing into a tree to pick a piece of fruit. While he was up in the tree, Jack carved a sign of the cross into the tree’s bark so that the Devil could not come down until the Devil promised Jack not to bother him for ten more years.

Soon after, Jack died. As the legend goes, God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. The Devil, upset by the trick Jack had played on him and keeping his word not to claim his soul, would not allow Jack into hell. He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip (or a pumpkin in the New World) and has been roaming the Earth with ever since. This ghostly figure in known as “Jack of the Lantern,” and then, simply “Jack O’Lantern.”

(https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/001/474/869/105.jpg)
(https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/001/474/864/735.jpg)

Lasagna is made from people!!  Soylent Garfield.

He is inside his stomach isn't he?

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 14, 2020, 03:59:18 PM
He is inside his stomach isn't he?

Topologically wrong, Garfield's head would be on the outside.  But nightmares don't care.

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 14, 2020, 03:59:18 PM
He is inside his stomach isn't he?

Worse.  It's implied that Garfield ate the entirety of the interior and exterior of the house - making Jon the only thing within the house not inside Garfield's stomach.

Quote from: Hydra009 on October 14, 2020, 04:40:26 PM
Worse.  It's implied that Garfield ate the entirety of the interior and exterior of the house - making Jon the only thing within the house not inside Garfield's stomach.

LOL, I see. Can't use the word 'hate' because it is blasphemous in my faith concerning the feline species but I really don't like Garfield, and lions. I have no idea why. I mean I can't help but love Greebo?

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 17, 2020, 05:35:09 AM
LOL, I see. Can't use the word 'hate' because it is blasphemous in my faith concerning the feline species but I really don't like Garfield, and lions. I have no idea why. I mean I can't help but love Greebo?

"Greebo is a cat in Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. He is first introduced in Wyrd Sisters. He is a foul-tempered one-eyed grey tomcat whose human, Nanny Ogg, insists against all the evidence that he is a sweet, harmless kitten." ... Garfield is an asshole, not even a lovable one.  Once at the zoo, outside the cheetah pen, I heard the cheetahs meow ... adorable if you aren't running from them.  Scary short story I read years ago.  People develop virtual reality too well.  Parents go on a walking tour of the Serengeti ... they forget about the big cats there ;-(  This was written long before the always malfunctioning Holodeck on Star Trek.

Greebo is not lovable. He is a serial rapist and a killer who chases wolves and bears because nothing is around when he is out. I think the only live organism he exercises some self awareness around is Esmeralda Weatherwax. LOL, like the rest of that world.

[spoiler]If memory serves right, he gets turned into a man in Wyrd sisters. Yeah. Been a long time, forgot the details. There was a masquarade? It was Cindrella's night too.[/spoiler]

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 18, 2020, 04:49:42 PM
Greebo is not lovable. He is a serial rapist and a killer who chases wolves and bears because nothing is around when he is out. I think the only live organism he exercises some self awareness around is Esmeralda Weatherwax. LOL, like the rest of that world.

[spoiler]If memory serves right, he gets turned into a man in Wyrd sisters. Yeah. Been a long time, forgot the details. There was a masquarade? It was Cindrella's night too.[/spoiler]

My mom's orange tom cat, back in 1960, the dogs on the street went to the opposite site of the street to avoid him ;-)

Quote from: drunkenshoe on October 18, 2020, 04:49:42 PM
Greebo is not lovable. He is a serial rapist and a killer who chases wolves and bears because nothing is around when he is out. I think the only live organism he exercises some self awareness around is Esmeralda Weatherwax. LOL, like the rest of that world.

[spoiler]If memory serves right, he gets turned into a man in Wyrd sisters. Yeah. Been a long time, forgot the details. There was a masquarade? It was Cindrella's night too.[/spoiler]

Witches Abroad, methinks.

Quote from: Baruch on October 17, 2020, 11:44:10 AMScary short story I read years ago.  People develop virtual reality too well.  Parents go on a walking tour of the Serengeti ... they forget about the big cats there ;-(  This was written long before the always malfunctioning Holodeck on Star Trek.

The Veldt by Ray Bradbury.

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on October 18, 2020, 06:23:42 PM
Witches Abroad, methinks.

Yes, thank you. Stories. Lilith. How did I forget?

Home alone, part III of III

Miles didn't really recall changing his outfit. He knew he'd done so in an objective sense of the word. And the evidence was there, on him. But the entire experience had been hazy at best. The constant fear and the dreadful feeling that hiding in the mist, Moxxy's eyes were on him… And more eyes. Instinctively he knew there would be more… It kept him from thinking straight.
Unwashed. His hair unkempt. Dried sweat across his face and back. His clothes only haphazerdly fitting onto his body: a simple jeans and a rummaged white short. One white sock and one black… He knew he made a deranged appearance, to whoever might witness. Especially as he clamped the revolver like a madman. His eyes were open wide.
Remnants of the hit of cocaine still clung to his five o' clock shadow. It had been hours since he'd seen her. Or anything in the mist beyond shapeless shadows drifting just outside his vision. And he'd been growing tired. The adrenaline that had guided his feet as he'd rushed back into the house was long gone now. But he couldn't afford to nod off and let the fatigue and horror take over. So he did what he had to. There was no regret on that part as he dusted the remaining powder off of his face. Moxxy, whatever she had turned into now, was a demanding gal. He'd brought plenty of the columbian stuff. He wouldn't run out for a few more days. And he just needed to stay awake, until this thick wall of fog cleared.
He couldn't let the idea that the tires of his car had been slashed cross into his mind, lest he lose all hope. It was impossible to tell from here. But without confirmation, it was a possibility he simply couldn't and wouldn't accept. There had to be a way out. There always was.
He'd always been good at taking care of himself. He would now.
But he was nervous. Outside, the fog showed no sign of dissipating. No matter how much he paced through the house, eyeing it sternly as he did his best to strike an imposing figure to his assailants. And darkness was already starting to fall as well. Up in the hills, near the mountain range, it would be on him soon. All the lights inside the house had already been turned up. It gave some comfort, if only marginally. He would not be caught off guard.  None of the outside shadows would creep up on him.

Inside, with each step he took inside his safe haven… his prison, the frustration and anger grew. He snorted a few more lines of coke using a hundred dollar bill, to keep his edge up, a few hours later. But it didn't help him stay calm. By the time darkness had befallen the forest, he'd taken to shouting at the cowards outside. Sometimes when he thought he saw an intangible shade move through the mist. Sometimes when he didn't see a damn thing for the longest time. Sometimes he'd call them to back the fuck off. Other times to reveal themselves already. He yelled ferociously. He screamed frantically. He cried desperately.
So uncontrollably and so frequently that even Rover, hiding upstairs, stopped whimpering and howling and barking along. Perhaps exhaustion had taken the dog at last. Miles didn't feel like checking. Down here, on ground level, he could keep an almost 360° view on his surroundings. And the fear of losing that for even a second, was too much to bare.
He would not be caught off guard. He would not. He never was. He was a planner. He got shit done. He was in control. Always in control. He would fix this. Keep himself safe. Get out of here. Leave this nightmare behind. At all costs. He would.
He'd finally stopped pacing, somewhere just past midnight. With his gun in his right hand and his left hand nervously twitching and patting over his nose and mouth, he felt his body tense and shaking as he sat uneasily on the edge of the sofa. He'd taken to mumbling to himself. Found that his eyes hurt. So dry they were. And indeed a thirst was overcoming him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten or drank something.
Angry mutters and uttering of contempt escaped his lips, hardly recognizable to anyone that might listen. But he knew the meaning of the words. And that was all that mattered to him. Moxxy's name was in there, often.
It took him a while to realize he was biting his nails so hard that tip of his left ringfinger was bleeding. That finally got him to get up again. Shaking the hand in an annoyed and painful manner, he moved to the kitchen. He passed Moxxy's mocking message on his way to the sink. He could feel them still. Looking. Always looking. But despite it, he opened the tap and let the cool water run  over his hand and wash the droplets of blood away. It stung, right under his nail. But he grimaced through it.
The sound of running water was, he suddenly realized with an unexpected clarity, the first actual thing he'd heard in hours and hours, that wasn't himself. So it drew his attention. It was a soft clattering. A continuous low rumble of a pattern. He focussed on it now; narrowin his eyes as he did so. It almost sounded like whispering. A hidden, soft voice…
No. He realized it wasn't a voice. It were multiple. All persistently pressing on their own message through the clutter of other wailing voices. He couldn't quite make them out. But he knew them. He knew that he knew them. They were pleas. Pleas for help. He'd heard them before. Pleas to think of their families. To consider their faithful service for all these years. Pleas to consider the damnation he sat upon them. All spiced with plenty of curses, insults, tears and powerless shouting.
And even as he couldn't make out the words. He heard the volume of their voices rise. Unable to speak and in utter disgust of the cascade of desperation and dismay. More hatred than he could ever imagine now washed over him.
He drew his hand back frantically. Shouted for the voices to stop. Ordering them to shut up. He aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Like a clap of thunder, the blast resonated throughout the house.  The mangled tap now lay broken upon the floor. Water spewed from it's remains like a fountain, crashing into the upper cupboards and soaking the entire kitchen rapidly.

The blast had seemingly finally awoken Rover, who instantly began wailing again. Miles shouted up towards the upper floor too, now. Angrily ordering the mutt to shut his god-damned yap. He fired another round out of pure frustration, into the roof as he screamed from the top of his lungs some  wordless primal cry. Still the dog did not shut up.

“Stop it!” He screamed as he stomped up the stairs blindly. “Stop it you fucking bitch!” He found the hound cowering in the bathroom. Standing in the doorway Miles continued his tirade, his voice barely winning out over Rover's insistent barking. “This is not my doing!” He accused. “You stop! You stop blaming me right now!” When his pet didn't oblige, he aimed the revolver. His arm was shaking now. “Shut up!” He warned one last time. “Shut the fuck up!”

Then, with one more clap of thunder, Miles made him. The whimper that followed as Rover collapsed to the ground removed any momentary, fleeting satisfaction. But he couldn't bring himself to get closer to the animal as it struggled for breath. It's lungs fillijng with blood as it's neck and limbs shook defiantly, yet ultimately fruitlessly.
He couldn't try to stop the bleeding. He couldn't even find it in himself to apologize. Miles was shaking. Crying. And as his dog stopped breathing altogether, the sick came over him. It was bile that made it's way up and sprayed onto the floor: his stomach completely empty.  His chest burned with pain. His throat felt like it was on fire. The sour and somewhat bitter taste was in his mouth.

“This is not my fault.” He whimpered weakly, at long last, as he backed away from the corpse. “Not my fault.” He repeated.

He was still shaking by the time he'd made his way half-way back down the stairs. And through the tears in his eyes, he could see the water still relentlessly spewing from the open water-pipe. It seeped into the kitchen and beyond. But he didn't want to focus on the water. He didn't want to. Lest he hear those wails and accusations again. He couldn't handle it.

Feeling utterly defeated, he slumped down on the steps. He even placed the gun down next to him. He bawled his eyes out. Tugged his hair. Scratched his own body and face. But nothing could take away the memories of what he'd done. He voice was a guttural wordless mess, like an inconsolable child.

The light flickered, calling his attention back to the world around him. With a stalked breath he eyed his surroundings. The lights flickered again. Without thinking about it, his eyes darted  to the spewing stream of water. As the realization dawned on him, that it was seeping into  the electronics, those very electronics failed him.

The beacon of light that had been his abode, turned pitch-dark in an instant. He could see the thick fog clinging to the window-walls of his secret house. But nothing else.

With a purposeless desperation, Miles threw himself to his feet and ran back up the steps. With shaking hands he pulled a strong flashlight from the bedside table and ran to the outer wall. He shone it through the glass, as he overlooked the fog.

He could see them now. Their dark silhouettes. Dozens of them, on this side alone, calmly walking towards the house. He could not make out their features. But somehow he knew who they were. For even if he wouldn't be able to recognize their faces, no more than he was able to recall their exact words, he would never forget their  looks of hatred. Like he would never forget the sentiment of their pleas, curses and accusations.

Letting the torch guide his way, he hurried down the stairs. The half-filled gun still in the other hand. He could see their black silhouettes now without the flashlight. Indeed, he dared not shine it upon them, as they stood frozen, surrounding the house, up to the large walls made of glass. He could sense their contempt well enough without seeing their judging faces.

“Please...” He begged as he backed up. He held the gun out in front of him, sheepishly, as he walked backwards to the cellar door.  “Please.” He pleaded. “Don't.”

The hand with the flashlight searched for the doorhandle blindly and eventually found it. The silhouettes hadn't moved an inch yet. But he heard the wordless whispers rise again, allong with the roaring crash of water. Pressing the door open, knowing full well there was no way out down there, all he could think was to run away from this particular mess, right here, right now.

Whimpering, he closed the door behind him and descended the final flight of stairs, into the pitch black basement.

He kept whispering to himself. Pleading for it to stop, as he followed the path down that his torch lit. At the bottom of the stairs, he finally dropped his revolver. Where the staircase ended, he could see now as it was lit by the single beam of light, atop his basement floor a row of railroad tracks began. As the snot and tears mingled across his beard and ran into his mouth, tasting their salt, his hands guided the beam of light gently upward, revealing more of the tracks. They came to an abrupt halt against the basement's wall, not nine yards away.

A dead end.

Behind him, atop the stairs, he could hear the doorhandle clacking. The door creaked open.

Miles swallowed meekly and turned off the flashlight.

I was dreading that part of being a project leader/manager when you had to let someone go. How fortunate that I was able to retire before that happened. I am sure I would have had similar nightmares, Mr O, so this story hits home. I much preferred pure design work to office politics anyways. What made it tolerable for me was a secret 'FU' bank roll. I do understand how difficult it is to be a boss and retain integrity.

PS Had chills again....

(https://i.ibb.co/4NGHyfd/Grandpa-spider-by-darko-vucenik-5runj3yu7s-1918x1080.jpg)

(https://i.ibb.co/tHpgM4h/Angler-fish-welded-metal-art-12-x18-ej591nja72-1440x1080.jpg)

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on October 18, 2020, 06:23:42 PM
Witches Abroad, methinks.

Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who?

What book is that from?

Quote from: Unbeliever on October 24, 2020, 01:49:38 PM
Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who?

What book is that from?

[spoiler]a wrinkle in time[/spoiler]

But I'll admit: I had to look it up.

Quote from: Cassia on October 23, 2020, 08:14:35 PM
I was dreading that part of being a project leader/manager when you had to let someone go. How fortunate that I was able to retire before that happened. I am sure I would have had similar nightmares, Mr O, so this story hits home. I much preferred pure design work to office politics anyways. What made it tolerable for me was a secret 'FU' bank roll. I do understand how difficult it is to be a boss and retain integrity.

PS Had chills again....

Agreed.  I loved hiring people, even if it was a 50/50 chance.  Got others to do the letting go ;-)

Happy Halloween, y'all.

Remember, there is nothing more scary than reality.

Because there is nothing more, at all.

And it is plenty scary, in its own right.

Quote from: Mr.Obvious on October 31, 2020, 02:08:35 PM
Happy Halloween, y'all.

Remember, there is nothing more scary than reality.

Because there is nothing more, at all.

And it is plenty scary, in its own right.

Thanks, Happy Halloween. Having a little two person party. I get to be DJ, light up some incense, maybe a clove cig or 2, probably dress-up steam punk like, have about 20 candles going and just groove like it is 1984 and we are in some dark cellar bar.

Only 363 Days Until HALLOWEEN!
(https://i.ibb.co/PrKFdD7/forest-troll-by-randis-albion-74jq8fgnvx-591x800.jpg)

Reality is scarier.  The 21st century is more evil than 1984, more feral than Animal Farm, more medicinal than Brave New World ;-(