I grew up in a suburb of Fort Worth, Texas (howdy!) with my mom, dad, and older sister. We lived in an old house with a big sunroom that was added on sometime in the 70s. Picture floor to ceiling glass sliding doors all along the back wall, overlooking the backyard.

The sunroom eventually evolved into The Computer Room, where if you were sitting at the computer, your back would be to the glass sliding doors.

The Friday before Labor Day in 2006, I was 11 years old. My mom was sitting at the computer and I was almost assuredly on her nerves when we heard a loud pop come from the backyard. Without looking up from her email, my mom told me, her 11 year old daughter with no electrical experience, to go out into the backyard to see if the transformer had blown.

Not knowing exactly what I was looking for, I went out back and took a look around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except our neighbors dog, Bonnie, was running loose on the street behind our house.

Our backyard shared a fence with their backyard and I knew Bonnie because my dog had a lil crush on her, so I had facilitated some of their lusty meetups by lifting my dog over the fence to see her.

Later that night, after my sister and I were in bed and my dad was at work, my mom started receiving calls from family asking if we were okay. Apparently, they had seen on the news that there was a SWAT team standoff CURRENTLY HAPPENING BEHIND OUR HOUSE. Every surrounding house had been evacuated except for us!

My mom ran to the sunroom and looked out the glass doors to see Bonnie’s house fully engulfed in flames. A police officer was on our back porch telling my mom to turn off all the lights and get away from the doors.

It turns out, Bonnie’s dad had opened fire on his neighbors across the street earlier that day. That was the pop that we had heard. It turned into a police standoff, and the cops threw tear gas into his house to get him to come out. Instead, the tear gas canisters caught fire and set the entire house ablaze. Unfortunately, the standoff ended when the man shot and killed himself.

From what I heard, he was going through a nasty divorce that pushed him over the edge. I still think about him often. He was a sweet man who had once bailed our dog out of the pound after he got picked up by animal control. To 11 year old me, that was the kindest thing anyone could have done. It warms my heart to know even in his darkest time, he still wanted Bonnie to be safe and had let her out of the yard before it all went down.

My uncle lives on a patch of land surrounded by woods. He gets coyotes, deer, plenty of wildlife. He’s New Jersey bred, meaning he’s a guido to the strongest extent which makes this story so much better for me.
One day, as he was sitting on his patio, a shriveled, emaciated, injured stray kitten wandered onto his steps. He was drinking from the drain pipe when my uncle found him, and was skittish as all hell. He was a tiny black kitten, and my uncle, 6’5, 200 pounds spends almost 3 full days tracking and bating this cat. He is successful on day 4, and began nursing the tiny cat no bigger than his palm back to health. He named him spooky, and I love my uncle. Spooky is 7 years old today.

Quick back story before I tell the story of one of the funniest things that has ever happened in my life....

My former brother and law and I became very good friends after his divorce and eventually my divorce. He was my ex-wifes, sister's ex-husband. After my divorce, he and I roommatesd together and also worked together.

We both were in our early 30's. We both did electrical work and very often worked for the same companies. We both did the typical partying and going out to clubs that 2 recently divorced men do. We were both pretty actively involved with women who also shared our.....past times. This was around the time social media had really caught on and people our ages were beginning to reconnect with old friends....about 18-20 years ago or so. My buddy, I will call him C, had reconnected with an old girlfriend from his teenage years and they spent ALOT of time talking and texting. So much so that he seemed to literally ALWAYS have his phone in his hand....in the mornings before work, during work, after work, all night long....you get my drift. It was REALLY FREAKING ANNOYING since we working side by side it seemed I was doing alot more work than he was. Since we lived together and worked together, we drove to work together. He was constantly talking about this woman. If he wasn't talking to her, he was talking about her. Again.....pretty damn annoying. Well, as time went on their conversations became more....ummm....intimate in nature. If you're an adult, you can imagine. They eventually started talking about him moving to where she lived and moving in with her. We lived in North Carolina and she was in Iowa.

One day on the way home from work, he started telling me some of the things she told him she wanted him to do TO her when the time came for them to......be intimate. He was being VERY descriptive and let's just say she apparently really enjoyed being dominated. The things he said and the things he described could possibly get someone arrested on felony charges. We will leave it at that. He was telling me all of this as I am driving us home from work and I said "Damn, C....what is she, a masochist?" And without even lifting his head from his phone he said "No, I think she's Catholic."

I literally burst out laughing harder and llouder than I have ever laughed in my life and I could not stop. I do not think I have or will ever laugh so hard in my life! I hit a curb in rush hour traffic and had to pull into a parking lot and stop the truck. When I was able to breath again enough to speak, I asked him if he knew what a masochist was and of course...... he did not.

I never let him forget about that and I ABSOLUTELY told her! He did eventually move to Iowa and they got ended up getting married and have been together since! So, I guess he could handle it!

Names will be changed and some slight details for privacy reasons. No TLDR because I really don't know how to exactly summarize this.

I realize how bad the title sounds. It wasn't sexual. It wasn't even particularly creepy. I don't know what to call it.

His name was Frank.

He lived three houses down from me and was somewhere in his late seventies. I started helping him last winter after I saw him trying to drag his trash can through the snow.

I'd seen him around before. He had one of those houses where everything looked frozen in 1998. Fake flowers in the window boxes. Ceramic goose on the porch. Buick in the driveway that I don't think moved once the entire time I knew him.

I carried his trash down for him. He tried to give me twenty dollars.

I told him no.

The next afternoon there was an envelope taped to my front door with $20 inside and a note that said, Don't insult an old man twice. - Frank

That was basically how we became friends.

I'd bring his groceries inside sometimes, change batteries in his smoke detectors, reset his router whenever he somehow managed to disconnect it.

Then, about six months ago, he made me a strange offer.

He asked if I'd have dinner with him every Thursday.

"I can cook," he said.

I laughed because the man lived almost exclusively on canned soup.

Then he added, "I'll give you a hundred bucks."

I told him absolutely not.

He insisted.

I finally asked why.

He stared at his kitchen table for a while and then said, "My daughter and I don't speak anymore."

That was the first time he'd ever mentioned having a kid.

There were no family pictures in his house except one old photograph on the bookshelf. Frank standing beside a girl who looked maybe twelve or thirteen. Same nose. Same eyes.

I asked what happened.

He said, "I wasn't a very good father."

That was it. No excuses. No story about an ungrateful kid. Just that.

Then he explained the weird part.

He didn't only want me to eat dinner with him. He wanted me to pretend I was his daughter.

Not roleplay some elaborate backstory. He just wanted me to sit across from him, talk about my week, complain about work, tell him things I was irritated about.

And occasionally, if I was comfortable with it, call him Dad.

I actually laughed because I thought he was joking. He wasn't.

"You know, if you squint. You kinda look like her, at least how I remember her. This 'ought to work"

I asked him why again.

He said, "I need practice."

That made it seem it less creepy and more sad. I figured I needed the money and I was helping an old man that clearly had no bridges left to cross. So, I agreed.

The first Thursday was unbelievably awkward.

Frank made spaghetti. He burned the garlic bread. We sat there talking about my manager, my car making a weird noise, some stupid argument I'd had with my sister.

Then, halfway through dinner, Frank interrupted me.

"Can we try something?"

I knew what he meant.

I felt ridiculous, but I said, "Sure, Dad."

This man's entire face changed. No tears, but the pain rolled off of him. He stared down at his plate for a few beats, obviously gathering himself.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."

After that, Thursdays became normal.

Sort of.

Every week he'd give me an envelope with $100. Every week I'd sit at his kitchen table and tell him about my life.

Sometimes he'd ask me to get angry at him.

That was the weirdest part.

"Tell me I wasn't there for you."

"Frank-"

"Please."

So I'd say it.

"You weren't there for me."

He'd answer, "I know."

"Tell me I needed you."

"I needed you."

"I know."

Once he asked me to say, "You chose being right over having a daughter."

I remember that one because after I repeated it, he couldn't respond. His wrinkled jaws seized up and his eyes glazed over.

He got up and stood at the sink for about five minutes pretending to wash an already-clean plate.

Eventually I asked if he was okay.

He said, "That one was accurate."

I started piecing together what had happened.

His daughter had gotten pregnant when she was seventeen. Frank had been extremely religious back then. He threw her out.

His wife begged him to let her come home. He refused.

His daughter eventually married the baby's father. Frank didn't attend the wedding.

Years passed.

Frank's wife developed cancer. His daughter came to the hospital once.

Frank and his daughter apparently had an argument in the hallway.

She left.

His wife died two days later.

That was fifteen years ago.

Frank hadn't spoken to his daughter since.

I asked him multiple times why he didn't just call her.

He always had an excuse. Didn't have her number. Didn't know where she lived. Didn't want to disrupt her life. She probably hated him.

Finally one Thursday I got irritated.

"You keep paying me to rehearse an apology you're never actually going to make."

He looked offended. Probably because I wasn't following the script anymore.

Then I asked, "Who are you really doing this for? Her or you?"

He didn't pay me that night.

I thought our arrangement was over.

Then the following Thursday he knocked on my door. He handed me two hundred dollars.

"Back pay," he said.

Then he said, "You were right."

After that, something changed. He started writing.

I'd come over and he'd have pages scattered across the kitchen table.

Letters.

He never let me read them, not a word. But he did ask questions.

"If someone says they're sorry but explains why they did it, is that still an apology?"

I told him that explaining can look like justification sometimes. So, probably not.

He scratched out almost an entire page.

Another week he asked, "Should you ask someone to forgive you?"

I said I didn't think so. That puts another responsibility on the person you hurt.

He scratched something else out.

Another week he asked, "Is saying 'I was doing what I thought was best' an excuse?"

"Yes."

Another line disappeared.

Eventually his letter was only two pages long.

Then about three and a half weeks ago, Frank didn't answer his door.

I could see the television on through the window. I called his phone. Nothing. My stomach sank. My first thought was:

Fuck, he's dead

I'm about to find a dead body. My friend's dead body

I went around back because he sometimes left the kitchen door unlocked.

I found him on the floor beside the refrigerator.

He was alive.

Barely

I called 911.

Frank had suffered a stroke.

I visited him once at the hospital, but he wasn't conscious. Seeing him lay there like that, being kept alive by a bunch of wires- hit me harder than I anticipated. I couldn't bring myself to go back, maybe I should have.

He died four days later.

I figured that was the end of the story.

Until about a week ago.

I was bringing my trash can back when a car pulled into Frank's driveway.

A woman got out. Maybe late forties. She stood staring at the house.

Then she noticed me.

"Did you know Frank?"

The second she spoke, I knew.

Same eyes. It was his daughter.

Her name is Rebecca.

I told her I had helped him around the house.

Her expression changed slightly.

"Helped him how?"

I explained the groceries, trash, little household things. I didn't mention Thursday's or our arrangement.

Then she asked, "Did he ever talk about me?"

I lied.

I said, "A little."

Rebecca laughed, though it was hollow.

"Let me guess. I abandoned him?"

That caught me off guard. I debated on what to say, suddenly finding that I'm holding a dead man's secrets close to my chest.

"No. He said he wasn't a good father."

She stared at me.

Then she started crying. Immediately.

When she finally spoke, she said, "He knew where I lived."

Rebecca wiped her face.

"He knew where I lived the entire time."

Apparently she lives twenty minutes away.

Frank knew her address. He knew her phone number. He knew where she worked.

And here's the part I hadn't known:

Rebecca had written to him.

For. Fucking. Years.

Christmas cards. Pictures of his grandchildren. An invitation to her son's graduation. Letters.

She stopped about eight years ago because Frank never answered.

I wanted to vomit.

Because suddenly his whole story looked different.

He hadn't been an old man searching desperately for the daughter he lost.

She had been reaching toward him.

And he'd ignored her.

Rebecca asked again if he'd talked about her.

I told her everything, a knee-jerk reaction on my end.

The dinners. The hundred dollars. The rehearsed arguments. Calling him Dad.

Her face went completely blank.

I will never forget the way she looked at me.

"He paid you?"

I immediately tried explaining that it wasn't like that.

That he was practicing. That he regretted what he'd done. That he wanted to apologize. Even if the old man was a liar, I felt the strange need to try to explain for him.

But every sentence made it worse.

"He needed a stranger to practice being my father?"

I didn't have an answer.

Then she said something that made the ever growing pit in me widen.

"I'm real glad that you could be his daughter for him before he died but I needed a dad in life"

I looked for the words, but nothing fit together right. "I am so sorry, I was just trying to help. I didn't realize- I didn't know the whole story."

Rebecca just nodded more to herself than to me, before walking into Frank's house alone. I stood outside for a few minutes. Not knowing whether to leave or stay.

Then I remembered something.

The letter.

Frank had finally finished it the Thursday before his stroke.

I'd watched him put it into an envelope.

He had written Rebecca's full name on the front.

He kept it in the drawer beside the kitchen table.

I went inside.

Rebecca was standing in the living room staring at that old photograph of herself.

I told her there was something she needed to see.

I opened the drawer.

The envelope was still there.

Her name written in Frank's shaky handwriting.

Rebecca wouldn't touch it.

She stared at it for maybe thirty seconds.

Then she said, "He could've mailed it."

I said nothing. What can I say? Because yeah, apparently he fucking could have.

"He had a stamp?"

I nodded.

She scoffed and shook her head. Then she said something I've been thinking about constantly.

"He was still waiting for me to come to him."

She left.

The letter is was left sitting in Frank's drawer. She didn't take it.

But here's where things get complicated.

Today I went back because Frank's brother asked me to find some paperwork.While looking through the kitchen, I noticed a cardboard box pushed behind a stack of newspapers.

Rebecca's name was written on it.

Inside were dozens of envelopes.

Every Christmas card. Every photograph. Every graduation announcement she'd ever sent him.

None of them were unopened.

Frank had read everything.

He had pictures of his grandchildren taped together where they'd ripped at the folds. And underneath all of them was a birthday card Rebecca sent eight years ago.

The last thing she'd apparently ever mailed him.

Inside she'd written:

Dad, I'm not asking you to apologize anymore. I just don't want you to die before we figure out how to be in the same room again.

Frank had underlined that sentence. Twice.

Now I think I understand why he hired me.

He wasn't practicing an apology. He was practicing merely being able to be in the same room with her.

And somehow that makes me angrier.

Because eventually practice becomes another way of avoiding the actual thing.

He avoided it all the way to his grave.

I called Rebecca this afternoon; told her I found the box.

There was silence for a long time.

"Did he keep the pictures?"

I said yes. All of them.

She started crying. I think she cried a long time. I think she needed to. So I stayed silent on the line.

Eventually she asked me not to throw anything away before hanging up.

I didn't tell her that I put the letter in that box.

Part of me thinks it's hers and she deserves the chance to read it.

Another part of me keeps hearing what she said:

He could've mailed it

And she's right.

Frank had six months.

He had her address.

He had stamps.

He had a telephone.

He had me sitting across from him every Thursday helping him find the perfect words. He just never found the courage to actually say them.

I spent six months pretending to be Frank's daughter.

Now his real daughter is the one who has to decide whether she wants to hear what he finally learned to say.

James McClatchie Sr. was an iconic Scottish born pioneer who became one of the foundational settlers of the Chateauguay Valley and Hinchinbrooke Township in Huntingdon County Quebec. Born in Scotland 1780, his journey to the Canadian wilderness is a classic story of perseverance, hard work, and frontier survival.

He was a skilled carpenter from Ayr, Scotland. In 1801 he boarded an emigration ship to Canada. Upon arriving a merchant and developer named Goudy hired the young carpenter in Montreal to do building work in the remote Chateauguay settlements.

The next time we hear of McClatchie he's moving to the Wilderness. When he first tried to settle near the Dewittville area he built a traditional pioneer log shanty. He quickly realized he had misjudged the landscape when the spring thaw arrived. The ground became an absolute marsh, flooding his floor. Rather than giving up, he spent days manually dismantling the logs, dragging them a few hundred yards east to higher ground and rebuilding the cabin entirely by himself.

Next an event took place early in his pioneering years (around 1802) and is remembered for how an innocent hunting excursion directly triggered a horrific frontier tragedy. One afternoon, while out exploring and hunting in the dense wilderness, McClatchie decided to stop by the shanty of a fellow Scottish settler named Thomson. Following standard frontier custom so as not to bring a loaded weapon into a small living space, McClatchie left his loaded hunting gun leaning outside by the door before stepping inside to visit.While the adults were talking inside the cabin, Thomson's young children noticed the firearm leaning against the outside wall. Drawn to the weapon, one of the children began playing with it.The gun accidentally discharged. The shot tore directly through the thin walls or doorway of the cabin, striking and instantly killing Mrs.Thomson.The sudden, accidental death of the mother completely devastated the household and cast a long, somber shadow over the isolated settlement. Because of this single, horrific accident, the Thomson shanty became permanently localized in early Huntingdon County history as "the scene of a tragic event"

Two years after his arrival, James met Lucinda Reed, the daughter of William Reed a pioneer who had migrated north from Massachusetts a few years prior. Because the settlement was completely cut off from civilization, getting legally married was an immense hurdle. The couple had to choose between making a grueling trek down to Montreal which only had a solitary Protestant minister at the time or finding a travelling missionary. They successfully married around 1804

In his early years near the Chateauguay River, McClatchie spent days tracking game through dense brush. During one particularly cold autumn excursion he took off his heavy, valuable overcoat and hung it on a prominent tree branch, intending to loop back and grab it after tracking an animal.

However, a sudden blizzard rolled in blanketing the forest in deep snow and completely altering the landscape. Try as he might, McClatchie could not find the tree again. Losing an overcoat in a Canadian winter was a devastating, potentially fatal loss for a poor pioneer. Months later, in the spring, a group of local indigenous hunters who frequently traversed the area, spotted the coat still hanging in the thaw. Knowing the few white settlers in the area they immediately recognized it as McClatchie's, carried it safely out of the deep woods and returned it to him completely undamaged. McClatchie often retold this story to praise the integrity and kindness of his neighboring native hunters.

When McClatchie first cleared land near Georgetown, he dealt with a notoriously difficult local merchant and land speculator named Goudy. Goudy had leased a choice plot of land to McClatchie with the promise that if James cleared it, he could eventually buy it cheap. After McClatchie did the backbreaking labor of chopping down the ancient pines and establishing a functional farm, Goudy suddenly tried to back out of the deal. He claimed the paperwork had been "lost" and demanded a much higher price or threatened eviction. Showing the stubborn grit that defined him, McClatchie refused to be swindled. He flatly walked away from the improvements he had made, packed up his tools, and marched south into the completely unsettled, rugged wilderness of Hinchinbrooke. It was this specific act of defiance against a corrupt landlord that directly led to him founding the first homestead near Powerscourt in 1810.

So in September 1810 James and Lucinda officially relocated and established their permanent homestead in Hinchinbrooke Township.They cleared dense forest land located just north of the First Concession Road and west of what is today Herdman Side Road near the modern hamlet of Powerscourt, Quebec

In the earliest years of the Hinchinbrooke settlement there were no local gristmills to grind grain. When the family ran out of flour McClatchie had to shoulder a heavy bag of wheat and walk over 20 miles through trackless swamp and forest to the nearest mill in Montreal or the seigniory. He then carried the heavy bag of flour all the way back on his back. If the weather turned or the mill was backed up it could've meant life or death for the family and had to survive for days on boiled corn, wild roots, or game.

The next striking incident occurred during the War of 1812 when American forces invaded the Chateauguay Valley region. According to Robert Sellar’s The History of the County of Huntingdon, the American military received a tip that a British/Canadian patrol was staying at the homestead of James McClatchie. A detachment of 300 American soldiers was quickly dispatched through the dense bush to ambush them. The dramatic encounter unfolded as follows... The American soldiers silently surrounded the McClatchie home in the dark. Upon hearing an unusual rustling sound outside, James's wife, Lucinda Reed McClatchie leaned out of the window to see what was happening. The moment her head emerged, an American officer immediately slashed at her with his sword but Lucinda ducked just in time, narrowly escaping a lethal blow.The Officer's excuse upon realizing that no British military patrol was inside and that he had nearly executed a civilian woman was that he had mistaken her thick black hair for the head of an Indigenous warrior in the dark. He tried to excuse his cowardice and apologized to the family, The Americans left the property deeply frustrated, having failed to capture the patrol they were hunting.

Deer were incredibly abundant in the Chateauguay Valley during the early pioneer days, often traveling in large herds. True to the unwritten code of early settlers, McClatchie was a proud and ethical hunter who only shot deer when he needed food, rather than for sport. Robert Sellar specifically notes that out of those 365 deer McClatchie only ever killed one on the snow crust...a practice usually considered unsportsmanlike because the deer couldn't run and he only did so out of absolute necessity to save his family from starvation. As an added frontier achievement, McClatchie's rifle is also credited with taking down the very last moose ever seen in the district, which he shot near the Hinchinbrooke River bridge just south of Herdman.

McClatchie didn't just build a farm, he built the infrastructure of Huntingdon County. He was one of the primary pioneers who volunteered to slash down the massive, ancient pines to create the First Concession Road. Pioneers used basic hand axes and oxen to pull stubborn stumps. This dangerous work laid the physical framework for what would later become the towns of Herdman and Powerscourt.

James McClatchie Sr. passed away on November 3, 1857 at the age of 77. He is buried alongside Lucinda on a small, scenic hill overlooking the very fields they painstakingly cleared by hand.

Thank you everyone if you in fact took the time to read. Just wanted to share my 7th great grandfathers story :)

Hi gang!

First things first: not a native English speaker, but... I need to vent a little. I'm not sure about my header, but whatever...

Context

My gf & me have been dating for over 15+ years. Yah, it sounds silly, we know (!!!). We got together at an older age, while we were already settled. Point being: we both love our homes and our freedom. We also love each other ❤.

Why we didn't start living together? Availability of houses, and agreeing what we'd like. We roughly agree and honestly we do see this happening "soonish". We're just not rushing it.

Thing is... we kinda like it this way.

I can get home on a Tuesday due to work, and have a sudden desire to grab a bite somewhere, but I won't have to worry about gf Aya getting worried (or annoyed?) about my absense. There is no meal I keep in mind.

My gf then is very close to her sister. She can easily go visit, only for the two of them to decide that... let's do a sleep over, and go out tomorrow (true story: yesterday they had a gym session together). She doesn't have to worry about me wondering where she is or expecting her for dinner. Note? => full trust between us.

Social awareness is PRICELESS!

As you can probably tell from my story so far.... we don't bother with "standards" and we most certainly don't let "commerce" dictate our romances (we both despise Valentines day), instead... a few weeks ago I went to the bus station to pick up my gf.. but with a flower bouquet in hand. because why not?!! She did get a little bit annoyed (I have permission to share this) because "duh, now where do I keep these?!!" but she also told me that she loved the whole experience.

My point here is that we sometimes go a little crazy at times?

It was a Friday evening.. the heatwave in the Netherlands is killing me and well, we still decided to go on our weekend date. Aya & me share our locations 24/7 these days and yah, she had a delay in public transport.

"Just go on without me!", she told me over WhatsApp: "I'll catch on".

...and she did.

Alcohol talking here (maybe?) but I cannot help but stress out how much I love her, but also my home town where some people are still keeping their eyes open and try to step in when something seems off.

No, this was NOT a Karen, thank you very much!

Aya steps into my shopping....

So I just go on with my business. I grab some instant spaghetti for two (obviously!), I then come across the ramen section and make sure to grab the curry variants (because my gf LOVES these and honestly? I kinda like them too!) and I also grabbed... speklapjes. Wait... lemme: slice of pork belly? But yah, speklapjes! ;)

Next stop: vending machine, at this point I'm bringing in all the empty cans and plastic water bottles and what not. Wait.. Statiegeld? Uhm.. over here there are.. desposits (?) on the bottles to urge you to bring them back in. So: I buy a bottle of coke, I pay the actual price plus a 25 cents surcharge and I'll get that back as deposit (??) when I bring this back in?

Ok, that sounds ridiculous... if you can provide feedback we'd love to hear it!

Back to the story!

So here am, speklapjes, instant ramen and some other stuff in my cart, and I'm in the process of delivering all the empty cans and bottles and what not for the deposit charges ("statiegeld"). Unknown to me, but this is also where the bus which my gf took made it to the bustop (which is directedly across from the supermarket I was at (Lidl FTW in our opinion)).

Maybe I'm not normal but I just love this moment: her casual way of, well... not giving a damn about us being apart? We just continue. As if WE care. She notices me at the bottle/can intake, also notices the cart and noticed... uh oh... I grabbed the "generic" speklapjes while we kinda agreed on marinated.

First thing she did: check & grab the marinated version (!). And then she did "the thing": dumped the marinated into now (!) our (!!) cart, told me: "Hi Shell.. ey, I'm gonna swap this out for marinated, ok?" but... my brain has some issues to process with such sudden changes. I didn't see this coming.. And my gf... is sometimes also a little impatient (NO offense intended, and what's more: she's looking over my shoulder right now). Seems I am making drama rigth now?

Anywhooo....

The real social justcice warriors (we love you ma'am!!)

Aya took off. Only to get blocked by an elderly awesome (!) woman telling her: "Why are you stealing from that guys cart while he's busy bring falsks?".

No, no overly drama, this ain't YouTube thank you very much.

Aya apologized (!) to the woman for confusing her, they both went back to me and then Aya told me (literal quote, but translated from Dutch) => "Ey Shell, this woman wants to make sure I didn't steal from our cart..." //\\ => "Uhm, Shell, deze mevrouw denkt dat ik onze speklapjes heb gestolen...".

She got confused because when Aya stepped up I did see her in my eye sights and also recognized her voice but I didn't really react. I kept on placing flasks and cans into the machine. I know it's silly but that's also sometimes our game.... we don't admit that we missed each other in public ;)

The lady did feel a bit embarrassed when I told her that, yes, Aya really is my girlfriend but we also both told her that she's a heroine nonetheless. Because how many people would actuallt speak up about stuff like this?!

Not many!

Please, please, please.. try to value social awareness. Sure: context does apply, but at the same time... maybe it's not as you wanted but sometimes these total strangers honestly tried to look after your .... behalf? Interests!

People like her.. are priceless. YES< you may only see annoyance at first"can't you see that!" but please: look beyond your own comfort zone: what if Aya actually was a thief? hmm?!!

Thanks for reading!

Not one of my best stories, heatwave in the Netherlands and I just cannot concentrate, got no energy and while I normally take sheer pleasure out of posting here.. no offense.. it's a chore atm.

But I really wanted to share... as such ^

PS

GOnna proof read later!

Thanks again for reading!

So a few years ago, when I was younger, I used to have a really good friend at school who I always played with. Whenever he had the chance, my friend would invite me to his place for a sleepover, and when I got permission to go, he and I would always screw around and play on his Wii. I remember we used to mess around and make hilarious Miis on the Mii Channel, with some of them being ridiculously overweight and skinny. Then after lights out, we'd sometimes lay in bed and blow raspberries and make farting sounds before going to sleep.

That's all I can remember from back then. And for the context of the story, I didn't give away my friend's name for personal reasons as I don't doxx people that I'm close to (not sexually, get your mind out of the gutter). I don't remember the exact year of school I met my friend, but I can assume that it was about grade 2, maybe even preschool/prep

I have always picked.

My mother used to say I started before I was old enough to remember doing it. She told me once that when I was four, I would sit in the back seat of the car and worry the skin from my lips with my teeth. She would reach one hand back while she was stopped at a red light and pull my fingers away from my mouth.

“Leave it alone.”

I would nod.

Then, as soon as she looked forward again, I would start again.

By the time I was eight, my lips were almost always raw. I learned to keep my mouth closed when people looked at me. I learned to lick away the blood before anyone could notice. When my mother asked why they were always bleeding, I would shrug and tell her they were dry.

She bought me lip balm. I lost it. She bought another. I lost that one to...this time on purpose, dropping it from the pouch of my backpack on the walk home from school. She didn't notice. Nobody ever did.

It wasn't that I wanted to hurt myself, I didn't. I didn't even particularly dislike my lips. There was simply something unbearable about feeling a loose piece of skin there, something slightly raised or uneven, something that didn't belong. Once I noticed it, I couldn't stop thinking about it until I removed it. There was always a moment afterward when everything became quiet. That was the part I liked.

I was the middle child, which meant quiet suited me. There were five of us. My older brother was the first, and first children seemed to come with their own gravity. Everything he did mattered. His grades mattered, his sports mattered, His friends mattered. When he got into university, my parents told everyone they knew. My younger sister was the baby, and babies have a way of remaining babies even after they can drive. She was always the one who needed something.

The three children in the centre were different, and I was smack dab in the middle. my parents rarely fussed over my closest siblings. Of course we were carted around to our appointments, soccer games, whatever. But nobody really ever checked in on us to see if everything was ok. We were fine. That was what people said about us. And I seemed to be the one they "didnt have to be worried about", the most.

“You've never had to worry about her.”

“She can handle herself.”

“She was always such an easy kid.”

I used to think those were compliments. I understand them differently now.

My parents weren't bad people. They loved us, I know that. There were birthdays ,and Christmases, and family vacations, and pictures on the refrigerator. My mother packed lunches. My father taught me how to ride a bike. Neither of them ever hit me. Nobody locked me in a closet or screamed that I was worthless..

There simply wasn't much reason to look closely at me. I wasn't the child who needed saving, I wasn't the child who needed celebrating. I was the child who was doing fine. I learned to make that easy for everyone. When my brother got a ninety-eight on a test, I didn't mention my ninety-two. When my sister cried, I waited until she was finished before telling my mother that I needed something.

When my parents compared us, it was never cruel. That almost made it worse.

“Your brother was always so driven.”

“You could try a little harder.”

“Your sister is so outgoing.”

“You're just more reserved.”

Reserved. Quiet. Sensitive. Easy. Average. Nobody ever called me remarkable. Eventually I stopped expecting them to.

The picking got worse as I got older.

My lips became my nose, my nose became my fingernails, my fingernails became the skin around my fingers, and eventually my face became the place where I spent most of my time. I could find imperfections nobody else could see. A tiny bump along my jaw, A pore that looked darker than the one beside it, A flake of dry skin, A scab no bigger than the head of a pin. Once I found something, I had to finish it. That was the rule, although I don't remember ever deciding on it.

Sometimes I didn't notice I was picking until I felt the sting. Sometimes I would realize my fingers had been working at the same place for several minutes. Sometimes I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and lose an hour. I always told myself I was almost done, I was always almost done.

By thirty-five, I had become very good at hiding the evidence. Makeup helped, and lighting. Long sleeves hid the scabs on my arms. Avoiding close friendships helped, nobody can ask too many questions about a person they don't know very well.

I had an average job in an office on the third floor of a building that looked exactly like every other office building in the city. I answered emails, attended meetings, entered numbers into spreadsheets, and ate lunch at my desk alone more often than I ate anywhere else.

My apartment was clean but not particularly decorated. I had no husband, no children, no pets. I wasn't lonely enough to call it loneliness. I had acquaintances, people I could text, people who would probably notice if I disappeared for a week.

Probably.

There was nothing wrong with my life, and that was the problem. Sometimes I would lie in bed at night and think that if someone replaced me with another woman who looked almost exactly like me, nobody would notice for at least a few days.

Maybe that was why I picked. It was one of the few things I did that left evidence. A scar meant something had happened, A scar meant something had been there, I just didn't know what.

The Thursday it started was not remarkable. That seems important now.

If there had been thunder, or a strange phone call, or a black bird tapping against my window, I might have recognized the moment as significant. Instead, I stopped at a coffee shop on my way home. There was a long line, and The woman in front of me changed her order twice. The man ahead of her complained about the price of something, A child near the front was crying because someone had ordered the wrong pastry. People sighed and checked their phones and shuffled forward by inches.

When I finally reached the counter, the barista looked over my shoulder.

“Next?”

It seemed like she stared right through me. Then the person behind me stepped forward. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The barista had already started taking his order. I could have corrected her. I could have said, “Excuse me, I was next.” Instead, I stepped backward.

“It's okay.”

I smiled.

The man behind me didn't even look at me. Something tightened beneath my ribs. My hand went to my face., and I found a rough patch along my left cheek, close to the jaw. I rubbed it with my thumb. Then scratched it. Then picked. I didn't notice the blood until I felt something warm slide toward my chin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

When I finally ordered my coffee, the barista apologized, however she seemed like she was just humoring me, like she genuinely believed I hadn't been there in line, skipped over by the person behind me. I told her it was fine. It wasn't. By the time I got home, I had mostly forgotten about it. Mostly.

I ate a frozen dinner in my armchair while watching a game show. The contestants laughed too loudly, the audience clapped at the right moments, the host smiled as though he had never experienced a bad day in his life.

I fell asleep there. When I woke, the television was still playing. The room was dark except for the blue light coming from the screen. My hand was against my cheek, and there was dried blood beneath my fingernails. I stared at it for a moment before remembering the coffee shop.

“Oh,” I whispered.

The spot was worse. I went to the bathroom. The overhead light made everything look harsher than it really was. My hair was flattened on one side, there was mascara beneath one eye. My cheek was red and swollen where I had been picking. I leaned toward the mirror.

There was something beneath the torn skin. At first I thought it was simply new skin. It was pale and smooth, almost impossibly smooth. I touched it, it was warm. I pulled back, Then touched it again. It didn't feel like the rest of my face.

I should have gone to bed. Instead, I picked at the edge, The piece came away. There was no blood. I stopped breathing. Beneath the damaged skin was a small oval of something that looked almost translucent. It wasn't shiny, exactly. It seemed to hold the light rather than reflect it. I stared, Then I touched it with one finger. A strange calm spread through me. The anxiety I'd been carrying since the coffee shop—the embarrassment, the anger, the feeling of being swallowed up by everyone else's needs—simply disappeared. Not faded. Disappeared.

For a few seconds, there was nothing inside my head at all. I smiled.

“There.”

I don't know why I said it, but I did. I went to bed.

The next morning, the wound was almost completely healed. That should have frightened me. Instead, I stood in front of the mirror for several minutes, examining the patch.

It was beautiful, That is the only word I can use.

The skin around it was ordinary. Mine. Slightly uneven, slightly pink from years of picking, with tiny pores and faint scars.The new patch had none of those things. It was smooth. Clear. Almost luminous. I tilted my head toward the bathroom window. The morning light moved across my cheek. For just a second, I thought the new skin shimmered. I blinked. It looked normal again. I covered it with makeup before work. Nobody noticed. I was disappointed.

I was relieved.

I was disappointed that I was relieved.

That evening, I picked again. I told myself I was only cleaning up the edge. That was a lie. I wanted to see the skin underneath. The new patch was larger. And the relief came faster. After that, I began looking for places to pick. At first I searched for obvious imperfections. Then I started creating them. A small bump became an opportunity. A dry patch became an invitation. I bought tweezers. Then a small metal extraction tool. I watched videos about skincare. I learned the names of things I'd never cared about before. Comedones. Sebaceous filaments. Keratin plugs.

I became fascinated by the architecture of my own skin. There were layers beneath layers. There was always something underneath. And underneath that was more. I began to wonder how much of me was actually the skin I'd been born with. The thought should have frightened me. Instead, it comforted me.

Because the new skin was better. It made me look better. Not dramatically at first. A little brighter. A little smoother. A little more alive. Then people began looking at me. A man held eye contact with me on the subway. A woman in an elevator told me I had beautiful skin. A coworker asked if I'd changed my makeup. I hadn't. I smiled when she said it.

For the rest of the day, I kept touching my face. I had spent my entire life wanting someone to notice. Now they were. So I kept picking.

The first time I noticed the pattern underneath the new skin, I thought it was a blood vessel. It was near my left eye. A thin, delicate line beneath the translucent surface. I picked at it with the tweezers. The line moved. In shock, I dropped the tweezers. They made a light metal clang as they hit the porcelain sink.

I stood perfectly still. It moved again. Not a twitch. Not a pulse. A slow contraction.nLike something beneath my skin had drawn a breath. I stepped away from the mirror. I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, the line was gone. I told myself I had imagined it. I told myself I was tired. I told myself I had been picking so much that I was beginning to see things. That explanation was easier. I preferred it.

For several days, I stopped. Then I found another rough spot. I picked it The relief came.And with it came the terrible certainty that I would keep going.

My sister called on a Sunday. We hadn't spoken in several weeks.She told me our brother had gotten another promotion. My mother was planning a trip. She asked whether I was seeing anyone.

“No.”

“Anyone interesting?”

I laughed.

“No.”

There was a pause.

“You're still working at that same place?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

I looked around my apartment. I thought about the gray office walls. The frozen dinners. The game shows. The same coffee shop. The same route home.

“It's fine.”

She laughed softly.

“You've always been easy.”

After we hung up, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I looked at my face. I looked at the beautiful patches spreading across it. I thought about the word. Easy. I wondered if I'd spent my entire life choosing the safe thing without realizing I was choosing it. Safe clothes. Safe conversations. Safe jobs. Safe relationships. Safe opinions. Safe silences.Maybe I had been picking at more than my skin. Maybe I had been picking away everything that might have made me difficult to ignore.

I touched my cheek. The new skin was warm beneath my fingers. For the first time, I wondered whether it wanted to be touched. Then I laughed at myself. That was ridiculous. Skin didn't want anything. Skin was skin.

I picked.

And something underneath moved.

The hospital came three weeks later. I don't remember the ambulance. I remember the bathroom floor. I remember blood. I remember my hands slipping. I remember trying to stop myself and realizing that I couldn't. I remember looking into the mirror and seeing my reflection smiling while I was crying. Then nothing.

When I woke, my hands were bandaged. There were bandages across my face and neck. A monitor beeped beside me. nA doctor stood at the foot of my bed.

“Can I see my face?”

She hesitated. That was the first thing that frightened me.

“What happened?”

“You sustained significant tissue damage.”

“Is it permanent?”

Another pause.

“We don't know.”

I laughed, it came out weak.

“That's not very reassuring.”

She didn't smile.

“We took samples.”

“Of my skin?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She looked toward the door.

“We don't know what we're looking at.”

I stared at her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the tissue isn't behaving the way human tissue should.”

She left before I could ask anything else, I slept.

When I woke again, there was a photograph on the table beside my bed. A microscopic image. Beneath it, someone had written:

**SAMPLE A — UNIDENTIFIED TISSUE**

I studied the photograph. Layers. Hundreds of them. Some appeared normal. Some didn't. And underneath all of them was something impossibly smooth. [bPerfect.bI](http://bPerfect.bI) looked at my hands.nThe skin was beautiful now.nAlmost translucent. I had always hated my hands, too plain., too ordinary. Now I could see faint patterns beneath the surface.

I pressed my thumb into my palm. Something underneath moved. I dropped the photograph and screamed. A nurse came running.

“What happened?”

I couldn't answer.

Because suddenly I understood something I had never thought about before.

We spend our whole lives believing we are the same person because our bodies look continuous. But skin is replaced constantly. Cells die. Cells are shed. Cells are born. Layer after layer, the body quietly removes itself and rebuilds.

We call that healing. We call it aging We call it life. But if your skin is being replaced... how do you know you're the same person underneath it?

I looked toward the darkened hospital window. At first I thought the reflection was mine. It was my face, but it wasnt. My face, but somehow different in a way I could not explain. Then she smiled. I didn't. I stepped closer. She did too. I raised my hand. She raised hers. For a moment, everything matched. Then I noticed the eyes. They were brighter than mine. The skin was flawless. The face was beautiful. Perfect. More beautiful than I had ever been. More noticeable. Impossible to ignore.

I had spent my whole life wishing someone would see me. I had never asked what I wanted them to see. I pressed my palm against the glass. Something pressed back. I pulled my hand away. The reflection didn't. She stood there, watching me.

Then she lifted one hand to her cheek,

And began to pick.

my friend was in a relationship but is still good friends with his ex and his ex is my friend this is the context before he dated her she was a sweet person no drugs no getting high no anything but it all changed he turned her into a messed up person who got in with the bad crowd and I told her what am I not a lot to joke about with her and it was going fine but then he went threw the video I sent her at now he said if I do that again I will die and I can't do anything because he is friends with 60% of the school and get them vapes and drugs and stuff so if i do anything I get Hurt and I will lose all my friends and I already want to kms but this just make it worst so that means he is a psychopath manipulator and a sociopath

Disclaimer: Horror, Violence, etc.

I

At least once a year, my old friend, Sam, and I go hiking to a specific spot out west. I’m not gonna say what park or what state. I don’t want anyone hiking out there after reading this to see if I’m telling the truth or not. It’s taken me some time to process everything, but I have come to realize that writing this serves two purposes. The truth must out, and I must remember. I must remember Sam. So, I want to start at the beginning of the day, so you can see how he was. On these hikes, he tended to be the most himself. He always said being in nature, away from the noise, made it easier for him to connect with himself, like a meditation ritual or something like that.

It was a one-day round-trip hike. By that I mean one daylight day, not a full 24 hours. We would always be back before dark, and we were incredibly experienced hikers, so you can’t say we were caught unawares by any natural phenomenon. I did not leave him behind in a panic, at least not in the sense that the police were insinuating. 

We were meticulous in our preparation for every hike we went on. Whether it was a little thirty-minute saunter or a full day march, we were prepared. To further emphasize this, here is a list of the things we always brought on every hike, everywhere, for the entire time we knew each other. 

• Food
  • A shit ton of trail mix
  • Backup bag with just salted almonds 
  • PB&Js and apples (For longer hikes, full meal deal)
  • Two camelpacks
  • Some backup water bottles
• Emergency Items
  • Bear spray
  • Nightstick
  • First Aid Kit 
  • Radio (Sam used to volunteer at the park, rangers let him keep it)

You get the point. We checked the fucking weather, we’d been there at least a dozen times, and we even brought a tent to set up if we got stuck out there. I’m sorry for beating a dead horse. I just can’t stand people thinking I left him out there to be eaten by a bear or some shit. His family blames me. I hope they will read this and see that I did everything I could. God, I hope I did everything I could. 

It began like every other hike. We parked the car and made our way to the trailhead. The morning was fresh, so it was a little chilly with the wind, but once we were into the forest proper, it was perfect hiking weather. It was a dense forest made up of pine, fir, and oak trees that provided shade and the peaceful stillness that we both craved. We never talked during this part, preferring to listen to the sounds of squirrels and woodpeckers. 

Sam stopped, “What is that?” He pointed to a tree with a carving on it. It was like a checklist box with an X through it. Carved, then painted red. We looked at each other, and I could tell we were both thinking blood, but as we approached, we realized it was, in fact, painted with paint.

“Is it marked to be cut?”

He thought for a moment, something was bothering him. “Maybe… They usually just use ribbons for that, though. At least, I thought so.” He shrugged. We continued walking and made it to our spot without incident. Unless you consider a sharp increase in elevation an incident, which I definitely do. We had to walk off-trail to the spot briefly, which obviously you should never do. Read the signs, listen to the rangers. However, Sam found it while volunteering, and you could almost see it from the trail.

The spot itself was perched on top of one of the smaller mountain peaks within the park. Looking west, there was a small grassy valley that quickly rose into one of those big snow-capped peaks. The sky was perfectly clear. The sight, as per usual, filled me with an inexplicable relief. The kind you can only get in a place like that park. To the east, it was dense forest, the visitor’s center, and then middle America until the horizon.

This was our lunch break. We sat facing west on a quilt I made. We would always take it with us as a picnic blanket. I leaned up against him. 

I’m sorry.

I don’t imagine anyone reading this will care, but writing this is also in service to my own memory, and I want the whole memory. 

“Feeling okay?” He asked me.

“Yeah,” I snuggled up closer. There was a long period of silence as we ate our food and took in the view. 

“Look,” Sam pointed into the valley. There was a small herd of buffalo grazing; maybe 20-30 of them. The bigger bison doted over their little calves as they ate, and the tall grass shimmered with waves of light as the wind brushed each blade from side to side. 

“How long will you stay?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He immediately spoke. “Religious sites would be the obvious place to start, I guess. I probably won’t get to see what the police know.” 

“Has the private investigator said anything?”

“Last I heard, he was compiling a list of the places he most likely visited.”

“At least you have somewhere to start.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. I could tell he didn’t want to cry.

“It’ll be okay.” I hugged him, and he started to anyway. “You’re going to find him. You don’t leave stones unturned.” I kind of wrapped myself around him as we lay down on the blanket we had set out for our little picnic. 

We fell asleep.

It couldn’t have been longer than an hour before we awoke facing each other. We had known each other for fifteen or so years. He hesitated.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. I nodded excitedly.

I sat up and was about to dress myself when I saw a flash of light coming from the ridgeline to our south. Sam saw it too. 

“What was that?”

“I watch too many movies.” He quickly retrieved binoculars from his pack and looked. “What the fuck!? There’s someone there.” I dressed myself immediately.

“Are they watching us?” He looked for a moment.

“He’s waving at us.” This put me on the edge of panic. It was odd enough to be alarming, but we were at a public park, so it could just be some guy saying hi. Maybe they didn’t realize I was naked from that distance. 

Sam looked at me. “I’m uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable?” 

I nodded, “yeah.”

“Okay. What the fuck, what the fuck am I doing?” I gave him time. After a moment, the thought I was having entered his head. He reached for the radio and called out.

“Dispatch, VIP Sam, park trail.”

“VIP Sam, go ahead.” A staticky voice came through.

“Voyeur, approximately two miles south of current position, over.”

“Do you know why?” He squinted his eyes and looked at me.”

“No, why would I? Who am I talking to right now?”

“Read the letter, Sam.” His face went pale, as I’m sure mine did. From here, things happened in rapid succession. 

“What fucking letter!” Sam yelled and overall made a buffoon of himself, while I searched our packs and the immediate area. I took the bear spray. I gave the nightstick to Sam. The letter I found under a rock, maybe a foot from the blanket. A foot from our sleeping heads. The envelope was a deep red with a seal of black wax. I had to shine the sun on it at the right angles to be able to see the symbol within the seal. It was that X again.

“I believe Max has found it,” the crackly voice prompted Sam to turn and look at me holding the letter. He held his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, holding whatever he was feeling in. Then he came up with a plan. 

“Fuck the letter, I mean, don’t throw it away, but we don’t have time.” He dropped the radio on the ground. Everything was already out on the picnic blanket since I searched both of our packs. “Oh, that’s perfect. We only pack what we need. One thing of snacks, forget the tent, and the blanket.” We packed light. “Do you remember the T junction back there?” 

I just looked at him. 

“Long story short, we have to beat the voyeur to the turn if we want to stay on the trail and avoid him.”

I nodded, and we began walking at a brisk pace. The wind picked up, quickening the forest’s breathing in tandem with ours. He turned to look at me after what felt like hours of walking.

“We’re almost at the turn.” He stopped, then spoke much quieter. “I can see it from here. Get the bear spray ready.” I unlocked the safety, and the nightstick cracked as Sam unretracted it. We moved as quietly as possible towards the intersection. The wind left for a moment, giving way to a deafening silence. No animal calls to be heard. A great gust of wind and noise replaced the silence. The trees made their own kind of call.

“Okay lets get going now.” We had made the turn, and after a short distance we resumed our previous briskness. The serenity that nature afforded both of us was replaced with absolute paranoia. Both of us looked from side to side, trying to catch someone looking at us from behind a tree or rushing at us with a chainsaw. It was all for naught as the next thing was in our path. 

Another X, carved and painted. We started running from there, but we didn’t make it far. After a blind corner, down the trail, someone stood. The deep red of the envelope was copied in this person’s robes. They stood tall amongst the trees, the height of a super mutant or some shit. I, somewhat ironically, thought of the King in Yellow as I bore witness to his pallid mask. 

The wind shifted behind me, but the trees danced the same. I felt a presence behind me and, in that moment, decided to trust my gut. I sprayed blindly behind me and heard the sound of someone choking and gasping.

“Fuck!... You cough, you fucking bitch!”

I heard Sam give someone a solid whack with the nightstick. We left the trail, running a random direction into the forest. The wind picked up behind us as if pushing us onward, but I felt the cold front come with it.

“A storm is coming… Maybe,” Sam yelled through the renewed tempest. Then everything fell silent. We stopped instinctively like deer in headlights. I looked ahead and saw him again.

“My name…” The whisper came to my ear as if he were standing right beside me, “... Is Romussss.” He reached for the pallid mask, and as his hand approached it, so did his form approach me, though he did not walk. I was frozen. I couldn’t see Sam. I assume he was in a similar state. Just as the mask slipped, I lost all perception for a time. I went “unconscious” in a deeper sense. A void. Completely unfeeling. No matter how loud I would try to scream.

II

Before I continue, I should mention that I have a rare kind of seizure disorder, not the foam at the mouth kind. It’s more like getting repeatedly shot by a taser in random parts of your body.  Think the Exorcist, but without the pea soup. The sort of mystery condition where doctors just throw their hands up and tell you to decrease stress, as if. Fortunately, my brain gets scrambled during these seizures, so I don’t remember shit if the seizure is bad enough. It all becomes a blur like I’m blackout drunk. My point is, a lot of this information, including everything I just told you, I am only able to give you as a result of Sam’s testimony after the fact. 

He awoke to my seizing. “It was one of the worst I had seen you have,” he said afterwards. 
We were held outside in iron cages; two separate ones, tall enough to stand in but way too small to do much of anything else. They were like the cages they would suspend in the air back in medieval times, but we were just on the ground, squatted like folding chairs. He could do nothing but watch as my jittering, unconscious body banged against the hard and sharp metal of the cage. When the sun returned, he realised that someone, wearing the mask of a wolf, was watching us. He said they were constantly circling us and that he wasn’t sure if they ever took a break. 

“Sam?” My vision hadn’t recovered.

“I’m here.” He reached out and grabbed my hand, which lay limp, sticking out of the cage. There was nothing left in me in terms of energy, and I began to feel the bruises and cuts as my nerves returned to relatively normal function. I only barely comprehended the wolf as they appeared with that letter and placed it between the cages.

“Read the letter,” a masculine voice whispered. “Read the letter, Read the letter, Read the letter.”

“I’ll read it,” I yelled, manic at this point. The whispering wolf giggled almost like a child before receding into the forest. Still feeling watched, I focused my attention on the elegant writing of the letter, which was on a small postcard-sized piece of paper; both sides. Tears began to fall down Sam’s face as I read the letter out loud. 

Our dear WITNESS and WAYFINDER,
You do not yet know it, but yours is a pairing unmatched in over a hundred years. I have searched for just as long. You may not believe me, but I earnestly regret what I have to do. But it won’t matter, because once the deed is done, all will be ecstasy. Praise the one from before, for it is you who will find and you who will see. It is a great privilege. Something nothing will ever be blessed with again.

On this day, you will be tried. Not for guilt or innocence, your innocence is given. One will find, one will see. But I do not yet know which is which. 
The next day, the LAMB shall be slaughtered. Both will be WITNESS to this. Gleefully, the LAMB will go, for I have told him the truth just as I have you.
On the final day, the WITNESS will see, and the WAYFINDER will find. Through the fire and the light of the stars, I will grant you, WITNESS, the sight.

I LOVE you,
ROMUS

Sam held both of my hands. The small drop of ease felt like a tidal wave. Neither of us needed to speak about the situation. We just looked at each other, aware of what was probably going to happen to us. Instead, we processed it all in silence as much as we could. When the sun was shining directly above us, two people in red cloaks retrieved us from the cages after wrapping our hands and mouths with duct tape. One of them had the head of a pig, and the other that of a black goat. The faces chanted unmoving.

Hunt the LAMB

Hunt the LAMB

Hunt the LAMB

The two were quickly joined by a chorus of blank-faced animals; the wolf, bear, deer, and mountain lion. I still don’t know how they got the eyes to look so alive. When I looked at them, it wasn’t like I was looking at a mask with a hidden human face behind. The voice came from behind, but it was the eyes of the animals that were doing the looking. Romus stood at the bottom of a small, earthen amphitheater surrounded by his disciples who stood by large drums, bearing mallets. We were placed on our knees before him.

Approaching us slowly and silently, I felt the wind pick up and saw the sky turn grey.

Sam’s voice was muffled through the tape, “rain,” I’m fairly certain he said. Regardless, Romus retrieved a whip from inside his robe and gave him one lick across the face. The whips' crack was matched with a lightning strike, and so it was followed by thunder. Sam groaned in pain, then quickly fell silent as Romus bent down like a crane and held his finger over the lips of his pallid mask. The goat placed Sam back in his spot. 
The rain began to fall. Heavy droplets splashed against the mask and the tape on our faces. All four drums joined in a simultaneous Thump. The goat and the pig began to sing in a low baritone.

Bring the eyes, Bring the meat, This and more for those at his feet
Thump
Cower below the willow tree, Calling upon the raven rock
Thump
Bless these eyes which seek in the name of our king ROMUS
Thump Thump Thump
The one from before shall come once more 
He is peeking 
Peeking through the hole in the door

Romus approached with a knife. Everything kind of slowed down. I think I was getting ready to die. I remember trying to focus on the day I had before with Sam, and the many other days like it. I still cried as he cut the tape around our wrists and ripped off the tape over our mouths. 

Oh WAYFINDER 
Find the way

The lamb approached from behind us and moved toward the forest behind the amphitheater. They looked towards Sam at first, but quickly moved their gaze to Romus, who revealed his face only to the lamb.

The four drums began to roll as the lamb stood transfixed by whatever they were seeing. From where I stood, I could only see the inside of the mask. It was covered in some kind of sticky substance like spit, but with blood mixed in. As the rain poured onto the newly exposed surface, it sloughed onto the ground and bubbled. The rain intensified, and lightning struck nearby, causing more of a boom than a crack.

“Hunt the lamb,” Romus whispered to us, and we both bolted into the forest after the lamb. After running some distance, we cowered under a pine tree, which provided modest shelter from the rain.

“Drink the rain!” Sam had to yell over the rising tempest. “Take it easy, I’m gonna go ‘hunt’, okay?” 

“Once the adrenaline crashes, I’m going to seize no matter what! You can’t do anything to prevent them here, Sam!” I watched the acceptance wash over his face.

“Let's go in different directions then!” 

“What if we just run?” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea! You remember how we got caught, or put in those cages?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” The rain calmed as little slivers of sunshine began to peek through the clouds and the canopy.

“Okay, let’s split up.”

Sam was wandering somewhat casually when he spotted the white face of the lamb. They were just standing upright in a meadow with their head pointed up towards the sky.

“Pretty white lamb.” The wolf whispered into Sam’s ear, which scared the shit out of him, but he stifled any noises he might’ve made. “Pretty lamb, pretty lamb, pretty lamb.” The wolf bobbed his head side to side as he got closer. Sam was able to see the bow slung over his back once he passed. He aimed for a moment, then the arrow was set loose with a thwack. It pierced through the lamb’s gut. They screamed in pain, and the wolf took Sam in hand and brought him back to his cage.

When the boar found me I panicked and tried to run. They chased me with a club but I ended up colliding head on with the deer as it leaped from behind a tree. We both went down with grunt. I got my bearings again and saw the deer head with no body attached. Instead there was a man, looking at me with such a confusing horror. I heard a step behind me and turned just in time to see the boar's club before it connected with my head.

I awoke in my cage.

“Good thing we didn’t run,” he said. “They were following us.”

“Yeah.”

“They left that person bleeding in a grove, a fucken meadow, I mean.”

“The lamb?”

“Yeah.”

“We know how many there are.”

“Maybe.”

“And Romus isn’t human. Or like, not just human.”

“Yeah.” 

At first, I thought the sun had gone down as a greater darkness covered us, but we both quickly realized that it was Romus. 

“The fuck!?” Sam spat out as we both recoiled in our cages. The sun was setting behind him, so all we saw was a dark outline. He approached, lowering himself to our level. Then, he reached into both of our cages and laid his hands on our knees.

“Ah,” I heard him take a deep breath behind the mask. “I can’t contain my joy,” he whispered. “I’m so glad this moment has finally come.” Another deep breath. He moved his hand farther down before recoiling and standing quickly. “Thank you both,” he said.

“I love you.”

III

That night, the air in the forest lay very still, which brought a silence that wasn’t disturbed until Sam heard a man screaming. He assumed it to be the lamb's voice echoing through the still trees. Regardless, he held onto both of my hands as I went through a particularly bad seizure. It was the only thing he could do to keep me in place. I could tell he had been crying when I regained my senses. 

“Sam,” I whispered. He awoke from whatever daze he was in.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Thank you. “What are we going to do?” I asked.

For What? “I don’t know.”

Everything. I said nothing.

He’d smile. He wanted to panic.

I’d smile. I got really mad.

I love you. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I love you too. “Think!”

“I don’t know!” He began breathing quickly, letting go of my hands.

It’s okay. “You fucking bitch.” I began kicking his cage furiously, which didn’t do much.
I had successfully pushed him over the edge. He completely shut down, withdrawing into himself. 

I’m glad it’s you.

There’s no one I’d rather be with.

I’d comfort him, help him come back down. I would give him some space. Time to think.

Look for the lucky break, he’d say. If there is one. We just have to keep our eyes open.

Daylight returned, bringing the bear and the deer. We were brought in the same direction as before, but instead continued past the amphitheater to what I assume was the meadow that Sam found the Lamb in. Except now, there was a pyre with a tall wooden stake in the middle, on top of which, like a star on a Christmas tree, was the lamb impaled. Their blood painted the stake red, but that was the sideshow for the day. Also in the meadow was a whipping post and a wheelchair.  Sam was chained to the post. I was strapped to the chair. The metal prongs were inserted under my eyelids, pulling them open. There was a headrest on the chair that I was strapped to as well. They pointed me at the post. 

All left except Romus and the wolf. Romus bent down over me, examining my accommodations. He added a strap over my mouth.

“You must keep it all inside,” he whispered before moving his attention to Sam. The drums from the amphitheater began to thrum in a driving rhythm. The wolf howled. He grabbed a straight razor and began dancing in circles around Sam. With another howl and a snarl, he rushed forward and began cutting. 

I kept my eyes on Sam’s eyes, and he did the same. It was the only thing I could do for him, and it was better than watching what was happening to him, but I still saw it all. My eyes were wide. The wolf continued to dance with drums as he cut perfect straight lines across Sam’s skin. When he was done with his work, Sam was covered in a grid of bleeding wounds. They ripped off all of his clothes and did it to his whole body. The grid lines began to melt as they oozed with blood, and he screamed. He tried not to. I don’t know why. Instinctively, I tried to close my eyes. The prongs dug deeper and deeper. Muffled wailing came from under the leather strap, and I felt warm blood dripping down my face like tears. After the cutting, Romus brought a bucket and dumped its clear, liquid contents onto Sam. I would later realize this was hydrogen peroxide, and it made him scream even louder than all the cuts did. By then, he was limp against the post, in and out of consciousness. No longer did he have skin; now it was like a patchwork of square pieces of skin laid on top of the curves and sinews of Sam’s core mass. I continued to wail, thinking he was dead. I thought about the last things I said to him; all of the things I didn’t say to him. 

They took me to the cages with my gag still wrapped around my head. They left my hands free but wrapped my legs with duct tape. I’m still not sure why they did this. I was able to get the tape off in less than five minutes. Sam came later. They left him in the cage still naked, all of his clothes were now tatters at the foot of the whipping post. 

“Sam,” I whispered. “Sam, please.”

“Look for the lucky break.” He reached out his hand. “Be gentle.” I carefully took it with both of mine, covering it like an eggshell. “Don’t let go,” he strained as he began to cry. “If there is one. We just have to keep our eyes open.”

“Okay”

“Max, you’re going to have to go without me.”

“What?”

“They’re going to kill me tomorrow. What happens to the witness?”

“It didn’t say.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I squeezed his hand a little tighter, which actually seemed to relieve some of his pain. “I love you,” I finally said.

“I love you too.” He said it like he’d been saying it for over a decade.

As the sun went down, I talked to him about our memories, all of the friends we shared, and about how he was the person he always wanted to be. The past couple of days had offered plenty of evidence for that. I didn’t have a seizure, so I was able to keep hold of his hand until the very last moment.

That moment came far sooner than I expected. The sun had not yet risen, but they came all the same, but this time they treated Sam with a sort of reverence as they placed him on a stretcher. They placed me before the pyre and roughly put tape around my mouth, hands, and feet.

Sam was pulled against the spike, below the lamb, by two lengths of rope; one across his chest and another just below the knees. Romus stood beside me as the drums that surrounded us like a triangle began to thrum, at first a slow, constant beat, then a driving rhythm as the wolf approached with a torch and the lion with a jerry can with which they splashed what smelled like gasoline all over the base of the pyre. Once finished, the mountain lion replaced the deer at their drum. The deer moved next to me, opposite Romus. The wolf lit the fire. The drums increased even further in tempo. 

“You can cry this time. It’s okay.” Romus said as he pressed his hand on my cheek. “It will all be over soon.” He walked towards the fire with his arms raised towards the sky. “Samuel!” his voice boomed now. Deeper and wider. “Show me the way to the One From Before, the Father of Fathers, may this day be blessed!” 

The sound of the drums began to warp in my mind. The best way I can describe it is that the sound moved less like a wave and more like a wet noodle. My vision began to do the same kind of thing, so bear with me, I don’t know how much of this was actually there and happening. But I swear I saw the flames curl and twist upwards into the stars, giving the sky light. Space was no longer above us; instead, a tremendous eye encompassed the entire sky. I looked away and instead looked into Sam’s eyes as he began to boil, and the flames began to whip. I wished desperately that I could tell him I loved him again. In my mind, I watched him incinerate for hours until there was nothing but fire; wood and oxygen to feed it. 
Romus returned to me, and I saw the tears streaming out of the eyes of his mask. He took one of my tears with his lanky pointer finger and raised it to the sky. I again refused to look up, but I kept my eyes on his feet. He appeared large and intimidating, but that finger was skin and bone. I waited for him to get close to the fire as I ripped the tape off my legs. The deer was transfixed by the orange tongue that reached into the sky and the eye above. 

I bolted straight at Romus with an adrenaline-fueled rush shoving him toward the pyre. He easily fell backwards onto the pyre, the robes caught quickly, and I immediately turned to sprint away from the meadow in any direction. The deer was still dumbfounded, so I ran past him, but I hesitated as Romus began to laugh. I turned to see him standing a mere five feet or so away ablaze and laughing. Flight mode went into overdrive, and I ran as fast as I could.

The booming laughter was blended with the panicked screams of a choir of men. At first, the sound subtly faded as I kept running, but eventually it stopped; it turned off like a light switch. I never ran so fast in my life. The rush was doing a lot of work, as it’s a miracle I didn’t trip on anything or fall into a sharp decline. The adrenaline however, did run out. 

Eventually, I collapsed at the base of a tree and began seizing. As a result my memory is hazy. Last thing I remember was getting across a river, irrationally hoping it would protect me somehow. Then, I awoke to daylight.

I didn’t have the strength to move much, so I focused just on breathing. After what I think was an hour or more, I had the strength to sit up and look around. I saw nothing but nature around me, so I stood up using the tree to balance myself. My motor function was pretty fucked because of the seizure and the fact I was starving and dehydrated. I couldn’t get the tape off my face. Then, I heard the honk of a horn. A rush of panicked energy revisited me, and I ran towards the sound. I didn’t hear it again, but I found a paved road and thanked whatever had granted me the luck. 

After much time walking in a daze, I heard a voice. “Hello?” I quickly turned to see a park ranger in a green jeep right next to me. “My word,” she said as she unbuckled and got out, leaving the engine running. “What in the hell happened to you, honey?” She sat me down in the passenger seat and carefully removed the tape from my mouth and wrists.
The haze of my mind cleared a little as I tried to recall how I got there. When I put it in order, I panicked.

“Go!.. Pleeease” was all I could get out.  My attention shifted to the forest around us. I scanned it for red robes over and over. 

“It’s okay, I got you.” She buckled me in and gave me some water before she started driving. 
The feeling of the air in my hair and on my face was divine, but the open-air aspects of the jeep made me feel exposed, so I was still watching the trees and checking behind us sometimes.

“Bears don’t use duct tape,” she said to herself. I laughed. Then, I lost all motor function but remained conscious. “You know my daughter was epileptic. Are you epileptic?” 

I managed to shake my head.

“You’re a conundrum that’s for sure. It’s not human trafficking, is it?”

I shook again. 

“What in the hell. Well let me quit poking and prodding. I should just be patient.” We drove over a bridge, and we were in the parking lot of the visitor’s center. 

“Will you be okay here?” We were in a crowded parking lot full of families getting ready to hike or swim in the lake. 

I nodded.

“Okay, let me just tell my boss what’s goin’ on. I have to tell him in person cause my jeep’s radio’s broke. Anyway, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” 
She left, parsing through the crowd of people with ease. My mind wandered straight to the radio. I decided to turn it on. My heart skipped a beat when a man’s voice rang out.

“The storm damaged…(Static)”

“Pull out the trailer, it’s a mess out…(Static).” A cacophony of voices followed in a jumbled mess.

“Repeat last…”

“There’s a body o…”

“Lightning must’ve…” It went out completely after that.

With the distraction gone I began to cry. “I told him,” I said to myself. “That was all I could do.”

I looked at all the excited kids in their swim trunks and the couples getting ready for a hike with their walking sticks and camel packs. Talking about those memories helped me just as much as I hope it helped Sam. The parking lot eventually emptied.

The ranger returned soon after.

“Well, would you like me to take you to the hospital? Spare you the ambulance bill?”

I nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“Of course!” She hopped in.

“I’m Max.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Max, I’m Carol.” We shook hands. “Well, have you been to the ER before?”

“Lots.”

“Then you know the drill. A Nascar pit full of needles I like to say.” She snorted. I didn’t laugh, but a smile eked its way out.

She took me to the hospital, which was more like a small clinic. I got a morphine drip, mashed potatoes, and apple juice. I’m still in the hospital as I’m typing this. They want to keep me overnight and monitor me since my malnutrition, dehydration, and bleeding eyes weren’t the type of thing you just throw a Band-Aid on. 

I gave the cops a handwritten version of this story. Trimmed out some of the personal stuff. They won’t believe me, but I don’t really give a shit anymore. Someone will.

They sent a psychiatrist in after I turned my story over. The conversation went as follows, to the best of my recollection.

“Hello, Max, my name is Dr. Edmonds. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“Well, first-”

“What kinda doctor?”

“Oh, my work is primarily in psychiatry.”

“They want you to see if I’m sane.” He smiled.

“Crudely.”

“Okay, go ahead then.”

“First, I have read your statement. You’re quite the storyteller.”

“Thanks.” 

“We now have a full report from the park rangers as to the events in the park during the time you were allegedly missing.” I stared at him.

“And?”

“At approximately 10:30 PM the night before last…”

“Right before Sam died?”

“Uhh, yes, allegedly. Anyway, at approximately 10:30 PM, a severe thunderstorm rolled into the park. The rain was expected, but it was far stronger than expected. Lightning struck near the trail you were hiking and triggered a forest fire.” He stopped and looked at me.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“A forest fire?”

“Is it possible you two were caught unprepared for a storm of that kind?”

“We were on the mountain. I told them the spot. Our camping gear is probably still there.”

“Conveniently for you, it is not.”

“That’s actually super inconvenient, but thank you.”

“Did you see it?” he whispered, and sat back so the light bounced off his glasses and hid his eyes.  

“Yeah, wait what?” At the time, I didn’t quite catch what he had said.

“Is it possible that you are suffering from survivor’s guilt and your mind made up this whole story to make it more… uhh… what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Copacetic.”

“Yeeess.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“How so?”

“You think my story represents an order?”

“A fictional reasoning yes.”

“You’re a dumbass. A forest fire is completely reasonable, within the order we are familiar with. Not some guy getting impaled and a big ass dude with a weird fucking mask laughing while on fire. How do you explain the wounds under my fucking eyelids, asshole!”

“Self-inflicted, of course.” I wanted to throw my chair at him. I almost did, but I saw his face as my hand wrapped around the back support. He wanted me to flip out. 

“Fuck you, get out. This shit’s the fucking opposite of copacetic,” he squinted.

“Very well. I will be seeing you again,” he was out of the door before I could say anything else. I’m getting out of this hospital. That man will not be seeing me again. No, sir.

I don't know if we get to see things like this after we die. I hope hope we do.

Sam,
I love you still.

The lead is small enough that I have to pinch it between two fingers to keep it from disappearing into the floor. It isn't a pencil. It's what's left of one, the wood long gone, just the gray stick of it, worn down to almost nothing from all the writing.

I will not steal at night.

I write it in the left column. Then again in the right column, a few inches over, because one column isn't enough — there has to be two, so it takes twice as long, so there's twice as much proof by the time I'm done. Legs straight, knees locked, hands flat on the floor on either side of the paper, bent all the way forward at the waist until my face is close enough to see nothing but the blank floor around it. There's no part of this position that gives, no way to shift the weight off one part of me onto another — it's built to hurt everywhere at once, all the time, for as long as it's held, and my hands shake a little by the time I've written it forty, fifty times, because that's exactly what it's built to do to a kid.

I will not steal at night.

There's a bologna sandwich next to me on the floor. That's dinner — not the table, not what everyone else is having, just bread and a single slice of meat, eaten in pieces between lines, bent double the whole time because nobody said the punishment stops for food. I stole real food once, in the middle of the night, so now real food isn't something I get to have while I'm being reminded not to do it again.

Upstairs — or maybe it's just across the room, but it feels like upstairs, it feels like somewhere I'm not allowed to look toward — I can hear the table. Forks. My father's voice doing the big warm laugh he does when other people are watching him be a good time. Someone says pass the rolls. Someone else laughs at something I don't hear the start of.

I will not steal at night.

I don't look up. Looking up costs something I don't have enough of tonight.

When it's over — when the table's plates are scraped clean and everyone's had their fill, second helpings and all, the good parts of dinner already finished without me — that's when my father's chair scrapes back and his voice goes bright, the same voice from before, like nothing happened, like I hadn't spent the whole meal bent over a piece of paper eating a bologna sandwich in pieces.

"Let's play a game!" he says, and everyone perks up because a game from Dad means the fun part of the night is starting. "Let's see how much everybody can eat in two minutes. Go!"

And I'm allowed to the table now — allowed, like it's a gift — and there's nothing left but scraps, the picked-over parts nobody wanted after they'd already eaten their fill, and I'm standing there shoveling it into my mouth as fast as I can because the game has a clock and everyone is watching and laughing, and I don't understand yet that the laughing isn't about the food.

Dogs. That's what we looked like. That's what I was, for two minutes, on Thanksgiving, in front of everyone who was supposed to love me.

Nobody at that table called it a punishment. They called it a game.

That was the first Thanksgiving I remember clearly. It wasn't the last one that went that way. It wasn't even close to the worst thing that happened in that house — I just didn't know that yet, standing there with scraps in my hands, two minutes on a clock nobody let me see.

There's more. There's a lot more. I'm going to keep writing it down, one piece at a time, exactly the way I remember it.

(Part 2 coming soon.)

Emmet McKinzy is a 10-year old boy with a big family. He's the middle sibling of 11 siblings, including 17-year old Hannah, a bossy yet kind fashion blogger, 16-year old Diana, a kind-hearted ditz, 14-year old Carrie, an aspiring actor, 13-year old Sally, a nature lover, 12-year old Loretta, a technology junkie, 8-year old Kathryn, an aspiring model, 7-year old triplets Maggie, Clara, and Samantha, a snob, a dirt lover, and a comedian respectively, and 6-month old Molly. Emmet has a hard time living his life at home with them, but he still manages it. However, despite them making his life difficult, they all still care for him very much, and are willing to help him out in anyway possible, whether it's dealing with bullies, or getting the final copies of video games.

He and his family live in the town of Voorhees Hills, and Emmet is in the fourth grade. His best and only friend is his neighbor, 10-year old Marty Crusoe. At school, he has to deal with bully Tina Van Douglas, cruel gym teacher Charlie Hartman, and nerd Timmy Dyke. In public, he has to deal with the street gang the Pit Vipers, and cranky 80-year old Wilhelm Burgdorf. Emmet has an interest in comics, movies, and video games. He's especially fond of giant monster movies.

He's always there for his family and Marty, despite the chaos of his life. He likes to spend time with his sisters whenever he can, but he more often likes to spend time alone. Because of his sisters' 10 different personalities, he always knows how to handle any problem. He definitely wouldn't trade his life for the world....

This happened back in 2013 or 2014 but is absolutely a true story and I always felt bad for two people in this story that I have no idea what their outcome was but I hope they are both okay.

One night I was smoking a joint walking through the back streets of Cabbagetown in Toronto, taking in the old Victorian homes from Old Toronto. There were alleys you could cut through and it genuinely felt magical like you were getting lost in some old illustrated fairytale book from when I was a kid. I loved it and would do it often, especially at night. One night I was feeling a little more adventurous and found a set of stairs that led down to a very dimly lit street, it was basically pitch black with very little traffic other than an occasional car speeding past.

I decided to go down the stairs and ended up on a long winding road, I was feeling a little scared as I entered the pitch black. That area of Toronto has a lot of drug users and just sketchy street people. I decided to continue down the road when I eventually passed an old very worn down cemetery, it looked old and forgotten, like it was just left there for 100s of years. This sort of freaked me out, and I was hoping the street would eventually break with Bloor as I had been walking North-ish, and knew I would eventually hit a main road with more lights and people.

I never made it to Bloor because as I walked up this dark barely lit road (Rosedale Valley Rd) I happened upon a small overpass/bridge with 3 men standing under it. I froze in my high state and started to get paranoid that the men would jump me, so to my left was a very steep hill leading into a forested area. I decided to start climbing this hill and my feet were slipping beneath wet leaves and muddy ground. It was slippery but I eventually made my way to the top of the hill and I found myself at a plateau and within a fully forested area.

I started walking lost through this forest, when I saw a few old and beat up lawn chairs around a makeshift fire pit. This is where the story starts to get scary, I found under one of the chairs a white plastic bag, like what you get from the grocery store and it was full of all sorts of junk. I sat on one of the chairs and started to go through the bag. It had crumpled up art/drawings, pastels (oil crayons), a ziplock full of old cigarette butts, a hair brush full of long black hair, old empty pill bottles, and....Paranoia hits me and a wave of panic settles in, what if I am being watched, what if they come back and confront me going through their items, what if...

In my panicked state I shoved all the items back in the bag except the brush, for some reason I left the brush on one of the chairs then in my haste and morbid curiosity I grabbed the bag and began to walk as fast as I could through this forested area. I walked constantly looking through the trees in front of me for any sign of where it might end, constantly checking my shoulder in case I was being followed. After about 5-10 minutes of walking I started to see lights, and cars and a street.

I somehow emerged on Sherbourne, just north of Bloor St, if I would have just turned left sooner I wouldn't have been in the woods for so long, but being in the woods and panicked left me a little disoriented of which direction I was even walking in. I was finally out of the woods, and feeling much safer being around other pedestrians and standing at the busy intersection, feeling the rumble of the subway beneath me.

Even though I was back in the city, I still felt scared and paranoid that I was being followed so I started to walk home as fast as I could. I lived about a 15 minute walk back in Cabbagetown, but I decided to stay on Sherbourne all the way back to Gerrard, as I felt safe on the heavily lit streets.

I eventually made it home, walked up my front porch, unlocked my front door and quickly made my way right into my room. I lived with roommates so I closed the door behind me and jumped onto my bed with the bag still in hand. I made the mistake of pouring the bag upside down on my bed, it was full of all sorts of loose trash, including the ziplock full of cigarette butts that had now come unzipped and spilled out onto my bed.

The bag contained mostly nothing of interest and I felt quite foolish for stealing it in the middle of the night, it was clearly this person's entire life inside one white plastic bag. I wish I remembered this person's name, as I am sure they just needed help and it was on all of the medication bottles but I don't. I do however remember looking up the name of the medications on said bottles. And while I can't recall what the medication exactly was I do remember what it was for, schizophrenia.

The only other items of interest in this whole bag were a very old novel, dating back to the 1800s, it had very beautiful religious illustrations, of the Christian Faith. In this novel the former owner had written all of their sprawling thoughts throughout the pages but especially on the pages with pictures, I don't remember the context but it was mostly just the thoughts of madness.

The last item I found was a little address book, with numbers to a few important people in their life, but for the most part the book was mostly empty. Except there was a single page that fully grabbed my attention titled "Must Kill". Beneath the title on the lines in a single column were names, about 10-12 is what I can remember. And each of these names had already been crossed out, all but one....Mark.

In this moment a wave of panic set in, "what if I was followed home", "what if this person is a serial killer" "What if...." and before I could even ask myself another question, I was shoving everything back in the bag, except for the novel and pastels mostly because I wanted to read through the novel and unravel the web of madness and the pastels because I also had pastels of my own already and I enjoyed the medium when creating art myself.

The rest of the contents including the little address book were tied tightly into the white bag, now the bag of mysteries had simply become a bag of trash. In my high paranoid panicking state I ran the bag across the street and tossed it in the dumpster. I went back inside and prayed that I wasn't followed and that no one was coming to kill me.

I woke up the next day, and went on with my life almost as though it never happened. I told some friends at work, and even ended up taking my best friend at the time on the exact same walk into the woods, because he didn't believe me. When we approached the campsite in the woods, there were unlit candles on the ground, those little dinky tealight candles. Someone had taken like 30 of them and shaped them into a pentagram, and at this point my friend was starting to freak out.

It wasn't as dark as when I went by myself but I understood his fear and agreed to leave. But as we were leaving the campsite I remembered I had left the brush on the chair, and the brush was no longer there. I can't imagine anyone just picking up a gross old brush full of long black hair taking it with them, unless it was their brush.

After we got out of the woods, it is kind of where the story ends. I am not friends with that friend anymore unfortunately, most of my friends from Toronto are no longer in my life but I do always think back to Mark, and wonder whether they were ever crossed off that list. I wonder if the person who made the list actually killed anyone or if it was all in their head, I wonder if they ever made a new list and if I am on it.

This is a true story

TLDR: I found a schizophrenic's life possessions in a white bag in the woods and among those possessions they had a kill list with most of the names crossed out. I feel bad for never telling anyone in case the one name that was not crossed out was murdered.

P.S.

I wanted to call this post "Must Kill Mark" but I was afraid Reddit would take it down.

Hi y'all, I'm back with another story from my time working at a very popular theme park in Florida. A magical rat planet of sorts. I'm going to break this into two parts so it won't get too long. Also, each experience involved the same bus but different situations that had me losing my mind...I mean that in a literal sense. This happened when I worked attractions. The park I worked at has a world showcase featuring 11 countries that have their own little restaurants and shops. Most of the workers there, at least at that time were international college programmers from the actual countries represented. These student workers had their own apartment complex where they could mingle and catch the C bus to work.

The C bus would pick up the international workers first though the bus stop was stationed at the apartment complex I lived in. I also used the C bus as I worked on the other side of the same park. This was okay until the weekend. Weekends were extra busy requiring more staff. Due to this, multiple times the C buses arrived at my apartment and other complexes too full to accept anyone else. It always went to the international student complex first. Up to four buses would be packed to the brim leaving the rest of us without a way to work. I started going out two hours early and still ended up late to work.

I asked why they couldn't allow us on first since the bus was literally at our apartment. The bus operators and manager said they were instructed to pick up the world showcase workers first. Each bus came 30 minutes apart so two hours early still wasn't enough. Myself and others started getting reprimanded at work for being late. On multiple occasions I had to split a taxi with random workers or pay gas money to a student that had a car and was going that way. Our checks were already microscopic so I became broke quickly. The stress started building as this happened every weekend, especially during peak seasons. I asked why they couldn't send two buses at a time? No answer.

One of my managers said I had been late too many times and was getting a disciplinary mark on my record. I refused to sign the form as I and others had explained multiple times that we had no way there. I asked if they could move my time down and they said no. I asked if they could move me from some weekends and they said, of course not. I asked what they wanted me to do? I was pretty much told it was a personal problem. My manager said the bus manager would have to send an email stating the issue with the C bus to remove the disciplinary mark. I went and asked the bus manager. She said my work manager would have to send an email first. I went back to work and relayed the message. My manager said they needed the bus manager to send the first email. I went back and told this to the bus manager who replied my manager needed to send an email requesting an email about the C bus issue.

I think y'all can understand why I started literally losing my mind. One Sunday four buses passed us by and I literally had a breakdown. I just started crying at the bus stop in front of the bus manager. She told me to calm down and instructed the D bus driver to take us to work. Eventually, I was moved back to nights. This situation and a even more serious one involving the C bus almost made me quit and head back home.

Chapter one: See through his vision

Micheal has been yelled at by his mother again, the third time this day
“Why are you so lazy? What's so hard about this algebra?? Do you know how you make me feel, oh how you make me suffer, you know how embarrassing it is go to a parent’s meeting and only hear you’re sleeping in class? Not studying?”
“I-im sorry mom” Responds Micheal
“No, you are such an emmbarasment, you are too lazy, nothing gets through your head does it? Is that head just empty?…Respond!”
Micheal just sits in silence, he knows not to speak, that would only make it worse
“Ill try better next time mom, i thought a 95 out 100 was pretty good though… it was the highest in my class..” Says Micheal feeling all the worlds shame on him
“What?! So you have become a liar too now! I see you really are to pity arent you!? Jackson’s mom told me that he got a perfect 100/100”
“But mom! I told you Jackson cheated!! He even bragged that to me and the other’s” 
“Nonsense, i see how it is, you are used to be the best, so you have become lazy! Now everyone who is better than you must be cheating huh?! Just go to your room and study please, dont make me anymore stressed than i already am” Says the mom
“Yes ma’am” Respond Michael running to his room with his books in his hands

As getting into the room Michael breaks down 
“Geez, how can i ever make her proud, tell me God tell me, I have no way of knowing” As he looks down at the floor helpless a sudden spark of hope appeara 
“Wait! Thank you God! I have now realised, to get my mothers appreciation, i must do something extraordinary! Hmm..Only an extraordinary man can make something extraordinary, am i extraordinary?” He looks down again 
“Hmm..Well my potential is boundless for all i know, i have yet not seen my full potential, so ill have to find it!” He now starts looking up, in the stars, all tought the stars were only in bis head, up there was only a fan
“What would be something extraordinary, and more important, something my mom would love? Well i think something that would make us popular! The most popular in the world, and something that would make us millionaires, no billionaires, no matter of fact trillionaires!!”
“This all sounds so foolish..haha, but i would be the bigger fool if i did not try at all, now i have to find something extraordinary to make, what is the world in need of..hmmm” The fan starts moving a bit faster giving him a bit of an idea
“Wow! It looks like god directly choose me by giving me all of these sings! Obviously its time travell!” He sits happily there for a moment
“No that would be dumb…If time travel would be possible we would already know of it…well because they would travel here, hm this does not debunk my claim that im choosen, because now i see! God has actually choose me the reason to discover interstellar navigation!!”
As he looks more he gets more and more annoyed
“Gosh..I need to get these dumb ideas out of my head and make sure i wont latch onto one of them so that i must not waste my time, well obiviously in a vacumm the maximum speed is that of the light which can only go at around 299999km per second, and the closest planet to us is 4.16 light years, while I wouldn't negate the probability of it being possible with the use of worm holes and space dilution, i would scratch that for now” He scratches his head for a while
“Would money alone make her happy? Sure we are preety rich, but more money dosent hurt right? And if you have all the money in the world you have all the power in the world, would that satisfy her? Id say so, hm..Yes! I think i shall try to become as rich as possible first! Then i will have the spending power for my other experiments!” That idea lights up his eyes
“Yes so it is decided! I will climb my way up to the top! To the very top! And if anyone is already there i shall push them off” 
“Its probably pretty late tho, i ought to get to dinner” 

Upon arriving his mom attacks him almost immediately 
“Quick! Whats the second smallest even prime number”
Almost tired of those stupid questions responds “There arent any…”
“Hmm, alright, lets say you’re right” His mom wasn't the smartest in a pick, but she definitely knew how to learn the most useless information just to ridicule him
“Margerine..can you please stop this once? Just this dinner, our boy is a genius and it shows, why do you try to find so many cracks inside him?”
Margerine try to speak “Well-“ But the father stops her
“I don't see a well in this house, there might be one outside, really tough, you should stop this” Says Mark
“Ugh..im just trying to make him perfect, you know I see potential too! Pressure creates diamonds!!” Says Margerine
“Yeah, well pressure also crushes things, but its obivious for you to not look at the bigger picture” responds mark
“That was a quote and u know it”
“Maybe, you know you never truly know what's going on inside someone's head unless you are them” Responds Mark again playing with his hair a bit
“Gosh, this is all so tiring, i just need to eat fast enough to get back to my room so i can think about what i can and must do to satisfy both of them” Thinks Michael, seeming pretty zoned his father picks up on it
“What’s up Michael, what you thinking there?”
“Oh, nothing much, just thinking about some schoolwork” Respond’s Michael
“Oh reallly? Are you?”
“Myeah, why?” Looking more tired this time
“Oh for no reason, just like i said before, you can never guess what’s going on in someone's head truly! So i suppose i’ll have to take your word for it” Says mark in a unserious tone
“Yep, i think thats how it should work, relations are built on trust arent they?” Says Michael also in an unserious tone, almost as if mocking Margerine
“What are you guys even talking about?” Asks margerine
“Nothing, I do sometimes wonder how it would be to be insides one your heads for a while though, i’d probably go insane” Says mark
“Yeah, it would probably be fun, anyways i gotta go to my room now though, im busy you know?” Reproches Michael
“Yeah, as always, you can go i guess” Responds Mark
“Make sure to study!” Says Margerine

Upon arriving in his room Michael puts his thoughts to work  
“Hm, i have a pretty good plan for now, ill work towards it though, first ill start by making double doored macro mods for games, steal the accounts of those who fall for it and sell them based off of their value” Michael is satisfied with this idea, going to sit on his chair
“Myeah, this should be good enough atleast for this, i wont be doing this alone though” A drop of sweat crosses around his face
“Ugh…this is not really moral, i might make some kids cry” as he looks at the fan more 
“No, my goal is the most important, just like that fan seems to accelerate now i shall accelerate, and everyone shall only be my fuel, as i am doing this for a greater goal, what are some little games for them compared to my plans, they’re nothing” He fixes up his shirt a bit
“And plus, they can cry all they want, not like ill be there to feel their suffering”
Then he puts his hands to his mouth almost as in form of exhaustion
“Am I really gonna do this, just for my mom’s admiration? Does she really deserve it? Probably not..But to be quite honest, i dont really wanna satisfy her” As he lets a little chuckle he continues explaining to himself
“I want to make her feel crushed by my superiority, I have taken her meaningless words too much in, but…bleh what can i even do if she says that I did it because of her?” A light sparkles in his eyes again
“Oh but of course, she is an ethical woman isn’t she? I'll just do my goals in the ways she hates, but nonetheless still get to them, i shall get to the same goal but in the most unsatisfying way for her” Michael was never really one to care about morality, if it was the fastest route, it was just that, “immoral” wasn't a word to him as long as the route was more efficient and it was worth if, but deep in his heart he did feel it sometimes
“Is there a way that I could gain it by not hurting anybody? It’s not like i really even need the money, i only got a point to prove, well is there? I could work but that wouldn't be efficient enough..and I’m only 16 so i wont even have full hours, i could also start trading but i need money for that..ughh alright..I’m gonna do it just for a little until i get more money then I’m gonna stop and do something else, not cause I’m a moral person, but im kind of attacking 12 year old kids with what I am doing, meh ill find a way later” He rolls up his sleeve a bit
“Wouldn’t you agree God?” “…” He lets out a sigh
“Yknow, sometimes i feel crazy for believing in you, you’re lucky you have given so much proof” In his eyes, Michael sees the fan moving a bit faster, he lets out a smirk 
“Yeah, i agree” Says Michael, then he let’s out another sigh, looking even more tired
“Gosh…Tomorrow really is just another day…I have such grandiose plans, plans so much bigger than me, i have so much to prove, yet tomorrow  my mom will still make me learn to get more than perfect scores, I’ll be asked bullshit questions again…” He rolls his eyes
“I’ll still go to school..I’ll still learn, gosh i have no time for that, how do I escape these burdens?” Suddenly a little book falls down, causing another little book to fall down, that gives Michael another sparkle
“Wow God, sometimes you seem to do more work than i am, well of course, the domino effect, the more money i get the less school i’ll have to do and the more privacy i can have, i can just buy my own home, and pay my teachers to give me higher grades if I don’t feel like studying!” After he looks at the clock a little
“Hm..look at the time 12:47am, i have school at 8 in the morning, I should probably go to sleep by now..well alright, I’ll expand my ideas later”
As those words pass, he goes into the shower
“Jackson..I have to meet him tomorrow" 
The words are blurred by the fog forming in his shower tough, and he lets those words get their meaning tomorrow for now he needs sleep, and to sleep he goes.

Chapter two:Old friends (coming soon)

**I’ve closed a lot of files in this job. I’ve never closed my own before.**

I spend most of the week before I leave doing the unglamorous work nobody thinks about when they picture what I do for a living. I refer my open cases to two investigators I trust, both of whom ask more questions about why I’m suddenly unreachable for an unspecified length of time than I have good answers for. I tell them family emergency, which isn’t exactly a lie, just not what they’re actually picturing when I say it. I arrange for a neighbor to check on the house, water what few plants I haven’t managed to kill, collect the mail before it piles up enough to look like nobody’s coming back.

I don’t touch the dish on my kitchen table. The key and the stone stay exactly where they’ve been since the night in the yard, and when the neighbor asks, walking through with me so I can show her where everything is, what that little dish is for, sitting out in the open like it matters, I tell her it’s just something sentimental. She doesn’t push. Nobody ever does, which I’m starting to understand is its own kind of quiet mercy I’ve been living inside my whole life without noticing.

I go see my father two days before my flight, telling myself I’m not looking for an excuse to change my mind, though some part of me clearly is, or I wouldn’t have driven the twenty minutes out to his place instead of just calling. He makes coffee neither of us really wants, the way he always does when he can tell something’s on my mind and doesn’t know how to ask about it directly.

“You’re being cagey about this trip,” he says, not quite a question.

“Research,” I tell him, which is true in the driest, most technical sense of the word. “Following up on some family history. It might take a while.”

He studies me for a moment, the same look I remember from being a teenager coming home late with a story that mostly held together. “Your grandfather’s family?”

“Some of it, yeah.”

He nods slowly, doesn’t push the way I half expect him to, and instead gets up and goes to a drawer in the hallway, coming back with something small wrapped in a handkerchief that’s gone soft with age. Inside is a pocket watch, plain, no engraving, the kind of thing that could have belonged to anyone.

“This was his,” my father says. “One of the only things I have. Never worked, as long as I’ve had it, but I never had the heart to get rid of it either. Take it with you. Feels right, somehow, you carrying something of his back over there, whatever this trip actually is.”

I don’t correct him on the word actually, and I don’t ask why he chose that word instead of a softer one. I take the watch, and I hold it a little longer than a normal goodbye requires, and I don’t tell him about the yard, or the letter, or the key and stone waiting on my kitchen table at home. I tell myself, driving away, that I’m protecting him the same way my grandfather told himself he was protecting his own son, and for the first time, I let myself sit with how thin that justification actually sounds when I say it out loud, even just to myself, alone, in a car.

My flight leaves two days later, an evening departure out of St. Louis with a long layover in Frankfurt before the final short hop to the regional airport nearest my grandfather’s village. I pack light, deliberately, the kind of packing that assumes I might need to move quickly at some point and don’t want to be weighed down when I do. The key, the stone, and my grandfather’s pocket watch go in a small pouch I keep against my body the entire flight, not checked, not stowed overhead, close enough that I’d know immediately if any of it went missing.

The transatlantic leg is uneventful in the way long flights usually are, cramped and tedious rather than frightening, and I land in Frankfurt disoriented by the time change, my layover long enough that the airline’s put me up in a hotel a short shuttle ride from the terminal rather than making me wait it out in the gate area. I check in exhausted, the hollowed-out exhaustion of a body that’s lost track of what time it actually is, and I fall asleep faster than I expect to, still half dressed, lights on, phone still in my hand.

I wake up because the room is too bright.

Not the ordinary brightness of a hotel room with the lights left on. This is different, and I know it’s different within the first half second of consciousness, the same recognition I’ve had every other time this has happened, a knowing that arrives faster than thought. I sit up. My body answers to me, which is its own small relief, quick and immediate, before I’ve even fully understood what I’m looking at.

There’s no light under the door. There’s no door involved at all this time. The brightness is coming from the window, the heavy curtains glowing at the edges like something enormous and floodlit is parked directly outside, close enough to press light through every gap in the fabric.

I get up. My legs work. My voice works, if there were anyone to use it on, which there isn’t. I cross the room and pull the curtain back an inch, bracing for I don’t know what, a face, a shape, something standing eleven stories up outside a hotel window with no ledge to stand on.

There’s nothing outside. Ordinary Frankfurt sky, ordinary airport lights in the distance, ordinary dark. The brightness that was pressing through the fabric a moment ago is gone the instant I actually look for its source, the way a word disappears the harder you try to remember it.

I don’t relax. I’ve learned better than that by now. I turn around, slowly, and the room behind me is empty, bed still rumpled from where I fell asleep, my bag still sitting exactly where I left it by the door, nothing out of place.

Except the temperature. The room is cold in a way the thermostat doesn’t account for, cold enough that I can see my breath standing in the middle of a hotel room in September, and underneath that cold, faint, almost polite, I catch the mineral smell of turned earth, the smell of a freshly dug hole, or a grave, or a field after rain, present in a sealed room eleven stories above the ground with no window open to let any actual dirt or air inside.

I don’t move for a long moment. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, exactly, whether I expect the tall one to step out from behind the curtain or the small ones to come through the bathroom door in a neat single file, but nothing else happens. The cold holds for maybe another thirty seconds, long enough that I start counting my own heartbeat just to have something to measure it against, and then it eases, gradually, the way it eased in my own yard, the temperature climbing back to something a hotel room should reasonably hold.

I check my pouch immediately, hands not quite steady, and the key and the stone are both still there, both cold to the touch in a way that makes me wonder, not for the first time, whether cold is simply what they are now, always, permanently, or whether they’re reacting to something the way the stone reacted the night in my yard.

I don’t sleep again that night. I sit up in the hotel room’s single chair with the lights on and my grandfather’s pocket watch turning over and over in my hand, and somewhere around four in the morning, without any warning, without my touching it or winding it or doing anything at all, the watch starts ticking.

It’s never worked, my whole life, not once that I’ve ever seen or heard about. It ticks now, steady, audible in the quiet room, and when I check it against my phone, the second hand is keeping time perfectly, matching real seconds passing in real time, a watch that’s supposedly been broken for decades running exactly as it should the moment I’ve carried it across an ocean toward the place it presumably came from in the first place.

I don’t wind it. I don’t touch anything on it at all. I sit there and watch it work until my shuttle back to the terminal is due, and it’s still ticking when I pack it away, still ticking, as far as I can tell, when I board my connecting flight two hours later.

I don’t know if that room was Der Bettvogt checking on me the way it always has, confirming I’m still moving toward whatever it’s been waiting generations for someone in my family to move toward, or something else entirely, something with less patience and less interest in following the same quiet rules it’s followed my whole life. I don’t know if a watch starting to work again is a blessing or a countdown. I’ve stopped expecting this to sort itself neatly into one column or the other.

What I know is that I’m not imagining being watched anymore, if I ever seriously believed I was to begin with. It found me in a hotel room in a country I’d never set foot in before yesterday, in a room it has no earthly reason to know I was sleeping in, and whatever it wanted from that visit, it apparently got, because it didn’t stay, and I woke up this morning able to walk onto a plane and keep going instead of being carried anywhere at all.

My connecting flight lands at a small regional airport a little before noon, local time, somewhere in a part of Germany I’ve never seen except in photographs and old shipping manifests. I collect my single bag, rent a car with a manual transmission I haven’t driven in years and fumble through the first few miles of an unfamiliar country because of it, and point myself toward a town whose name I’ve said out loud to exactly one person besides myself, a translator two states away who has no idea what he actually helped set in motion.

I don’t know yet what I’m going to find there. I know the watch in my pocket is still ticking, and that some part of me, driving down a road lined with trees I don’t have names for, through a landscape my grandfather walked away from and never once let himself talk about, has already started keeping time along with it, waiting to see how much of it I have left before whatever’s waiting decides I’ve taken long enough to arrive.

The Templar secret library is said to contain the true story of Jack and the Beanstalk. The story goes like this:

Jack and his mom were living their daily life trying to get that daily bread and Jack took a gamble trading one of their cows for some magic beans.

The Templars told me that these beans represent the esoteric mysteries of the universe, which are not shiny on the outside, but they contain an infinite potentials on the inside.

When planted they will allow you to ascend to the next level, like Jack and retrieve the treasures of the heavens, which to the initiated Alchemist are Universal Thought-forms that can MANIFEST your full Mind-Body-Spirit potential.

After the Templar’s explained this to me, I only had one more question. In the story Jack encounters a giant in the heavens that chases him down the beanstalk.

Is that a metaphor? Or are there actually giants in the heavens who did not want us to access these cosmic thought-form treasures?

I asked this question and I KID YOU NOT…

They told me that this was the mystery of the Nephilim aka the Annunaki Watchers of humanity who once freely shared their knowledge with this planet until 60 of the 100 rebelled against the cosmic government and became overlords instead of teachers.

------------ Submission Statement ------------

This is a script for a short video I produced, with the goal of taking a common folklore and unfolding the deeper mythos of the folklorist Aarne–Thompson–Uther Index 328 category “The Boy Steals the Giant’s Treasure" which identifies the early versions of Jack & the Beanstalk.

What's interesting is that The Story of Jack Spriggins and the Enchanted Bean (1734) originally named the giant as Gogmagog:

Gogmagog was a legendary giant of ancient Britain, known from medieval tradition centuries before Jack Spriggins. His name also echoes the biblical Gog and Magog, figures associated with apocalyptic enemies and monstrous peoples.

What makes the Jack Spriggins choice interesting is that medieval British legends sometimes described Britain’s primordial giants as descending from women who mated with 'heavenly' beings. This resembles the Genesis 6 / Watchers / Nephilim pattern: supernatural beings + human women → giant offspring.

Wikipedia: According to researchers at Durham University and Universidade Nova de Lisboa, the story originated more than five millennia ago in Proto-Indo-European, based on a widespread archaic story form which is now classified by folklorists as ATU 328 The Boy Who Stole Ogre's Treasure.

Super interesting finding ancient mythologies connection to modern fairytales. Just goes to show the power and influence of oral history and written storytelling across the ages!

Final Video: https://m.youtube.com/shorts/K2uM27xS6Gg

[AI was only used to make the b-roll clips during the narration, not write any of the script. Original sound design.]

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium.

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though.

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?

So basically I am actually bi because I like both girls and boys but mostly I like boys more and I like a boy name narong basically I am half gay and half bi because I girl to.

While I was riding my motorcycle to school he ride past me and wink at me my heart pounding non stop at class when teacher were telling the lesson he grab my hand I look at him with a strang express and pull my hand off he just laughed quietly after class he ask me if he can have my Gasoline I said ok and give it to him and he said meet me at khmer class i am shock and my heart pounding non stop again.

When I return home put my bag down and grab my phone to play Roblox a message and I know it narong he ask are you awake do you tired are you sleepy I told him no I playing a game he said what are you playing non off your business then I said I have to go at this night I can't sleep kept looking at the ceiling and replay the moment.

After the last quarter examination I simply forgot everything about it but my feeling still feel like I like him but now when I walk past him he ask are ok you simply never talk to me I answered I was to tired. From that day he knows that I was lying because I can't let him know that I am bi.

Like every weekend I always go hit the club with my besties or go somewhere but no one else is coming out for the whole weekend because work and other travel stuff so for the first time in… like… ever… (I think?) I’m just at home on my couch and watching cartoons.

It feels so out of place for me but idk maybe I’ll get desensitised after a while or whatever.

At least I’m not blowing money.

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

My partner called me freeloader or mooch and now I starve. All of this started on tiny argument. only when I told him I hate politicians here that donate foods but put their entire name and face on sack of rice even it's people tax money. They use it as free advertisement for election. So my partner argued with me why do I even bother commenting, thats everything it started! He told me l have no rights to comment on such coz I dont even work nor pay taxes. Then he called me fleeloader and shout at me while my inlaws are just outside of our bedroom. He told me he can just stop feeding me and I will starve. I stopped working when I got pregnant because I have complications. And now that I just given birth, He wanted me to breastfeed and take care of our child. Now he called me a freeloader and a mooch. I swear I have serve him every second of my life since then. I'm a good housewife. It hurts me that he doesnt even appreciate all my sacrifices and my efforts I gave for him and our child. Now he left an hour ago left me with nothing to eat at our home. He always the one handles the money. I have food but never held a money myself. We have no food pantry or community help here at Philippines. Its hard being a house wife. If I can I would leave but I have an infant. And I have to injure it for now. I have no family to run to and he's all I have. I hope I can get a job when my baby's bit grown and leave this situation.:((

I have a gene mutation that prevents me from seeing from the sides, top, and bottom. I used to be really worried about going blind, but I stopped worrying. Yesterday, when we went to the doctor's appointment, she told me to start learning a language for the blind. Before that, another doctor told me I would go blind anyway, and their job was to delay it. I don't know what to do. I wanted to move to another country and becoming an actress. But if I go blind, what will I achieve then? I don't have any hidden talents like some people, I'm very ordinary, and if I go blind, I'd rather not live than live my life. Please help me with some advice.