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Tainted Ambitions
2023.06.01 05:08 CougerHuntar Tainted Ambitions
CHP1: Robyn Charlemagne, a vivacious 18-year-old with cascading chestnut curls, slipped through the smoky haze of the private back room in a popular southern California nightclub. The room was cloaked in an air of mystery, its walls adorned with crimson velvet curtains and dimly lit by chandeliers dripping with crystal teardrops. The soft strains of jazz music floated through the air, mingling with the raucous laughter and clinking glasses from the main club area. Tonight, the clientele was a sea of fancy dress and inebriated youth, their inhibitions drowned in the intoxicating mix of alcohol and euphoria.
Robyn, dressed in a figure-hugging black cocktail dress, had dreams of becoming a successful actress. However, her current reality consisted of serving patrons in the upscale restaurant known as "The Golden Elysium," where the elite of Hollywood often dined. It was a place where whispers of fame and fortune danced in the air, mingling with the scent of truffle-infused delicacies.
Meanwhile, Caspian Mortcombe, a dashing and enigmatic film producer in his early thirties, cut a striking figure amidst the crowd. With his commanding presence and sharp jawline, he exuded an air of regal authority. Caspian had recently acquired a reputation for his underground noir films, casting a shadow on the mainstream industry. In search of fresh talent for his next project, he found himself drawn to the allure of this bustling nightclub.
Robyn's naive charm and captivating beauty caught Caspian's discerning eye, and he saw potential in her untapped talent. As he approached her, his dark eyes pierced through her, conveying both power and dominance. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, an extension of his personality, that spoke volumes about his wealth and influence.
The room was guarded by a bouncer, known simply as "Big John." A towering figure with a shaved head and a muscular build, he was a black mountain of strength. Caspian had made sure to slip him some extra cash to ensure their privacy in this secluded space. Big John maintained a watchful eye, ensuring no interruptions disturbed the affairs unfolding within these velvet-draped walls.
As Caspian engaged Robyn in conversation, his magnetic presence captivated her impressionable heart. The allure of the silver screen beckoned, and Robyn found herself drawn into Caspian's web. He regaled her with tales of his past successes, painting a vivid picture of a world far beyond the glimmering lights of the nightclub. Robyn's airheadedness and dreams of stardom made her susceptible to Caspian's charm, her aspirations blinding her to the underlying motives driving his interest.
Their encounter unfolded against the backdrop of a time when grunge music and flannel shirts defined the alternative culture of Southern California. It was a world where wild house parties and underground clubs whispered secrets of rebellion and freedom, carving out a space for artistic expression in the heart of an industry dominated by conformity.
In this dimly lit room, where dreams clashed with reality, Robyn and Caspian's lives collided. The stage was set for a seductive dance of power, ambition, and manipulation, the boundaries between desire and exploitation blurred. Little did Robyn know that this encounter would mark the beginning of a twisted journey, a tale woven with passion, deceit, and shattered dreams.
As the night wore on, and the echoes of jazz music faded into the early morning hours, Robyn and Caspian found themselves tangled in a dangerous game, oblivious to the consequences lurking in the shadows. And behind the velvet curtains, the secrets of the night whispered their unholy promise, sealing their fates in a world where passion and ambition intermingled, where nothing was as it seemed.
The private back room had become a secret haven for Robyn and Caspian. Their clandestine meetings unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance, fueled by their shared desires and ambitions. Robyn's infatuation with Caspian grew with each passing day, as he expertly played the role of mentor and seducer.
Caspian, aware of Robyn's impressionable nature, used his position of power to mold her into his ideal actress. Under his tutelage, she blossomed, her raw talent and beauty refined through his guidance. He pushed her limits, pushing her to explore the darkest corners of her emotions, blurring the line between fiction and reality.
As Robyn's days at "The Golden Elysium" turned into a blur of serving plates and nodding at patrons, her nights became an intoxicating whirlwind of auditions, rehearsals, and stolen moments with Caspian. The boundaries of their relationship were hazy, a web of desire, control, and artistic collaboration.
Meanwhile, the enigmatic Big John kept a watchful eye, guarding their secrets as if they were his own. His imposing presence served as a constant reminder of the shadows lurking behind their glamorous facade. Caspian had ensured their privacy with a hefty sum, and Big John remained steadfast in his loyalty.
CHP2: One fateful evening, as the neon lights of the nightclub flickered outside, Robyn found herself alone in the back room. Caspian had promised her an important announcement, one that would change the course of her life forever. The anticipation hung heavy in the air as she waited, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
The door swung open, revealing Caspian's commanding figure. His eyes, usually filled with intensity, now held a hint of vulnerability. Robyn sensed a shift in their dynamic, a subtle change that made her pulse quicken.
"Robyn," Caspian began, his voice tinged with emotion, "I've secured a role for you in my next film. It's a daring, provocative project that will challenge your limits as an actress."
Robyn's eyes widened with delight and apprehension. She had longed for this moment, to step into the spotlight and leave her mark on the silver screen. But as Caspian detailed the role, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss. The character was complex, enigmatic, and dangerously close to mirroring her own life.
As rehearsals commenced, Robyn found herself diving headfirst into the depths of her character's psyche. The lines blurred further, reality intertwining with fiction in a dizzying dance of passion and manipulation. Caspian's influence over her grew stronger, his control tightening like a vice around her fragile dreams.
But as Robyn delved deeper into her role, the shadows surrounding Caspian began to unravel. Whispers of his questionable tactics and dubious alliances reached her ears, casting doubt upon their once-promising collaboration. The world of underground noir cinema revealed itself to be a treacherous labyrinth of deceit and power plays.
And so, Robyn stood at a crossroads, torn between her burning desire for fame and the nagging doubts that gnawed at her conscience. The allure of the silver screen had drawn her into a dangerous game, one where the line between passion and exploitation was blurred beyond recognition.
CHP3: Robyn stood before the ornate vanity mirror, her reflection fragmented in a sea of gleaming glass. The weight of uncertainty pressed upon her shoulders as she prepared for another day of shooting Caspian's provocative film. The character she portrayed consumed her, merging with her own identity until she could no longer distinguish where the role ended and she began.
On set, the atmosphere crackled with tension. Caspian's domineering presence loomed, his eyes scrutinizing every movement, every line delivered by the actors. The crew whispered in hushed tones about the mysterious underbelly of Caspian's productions, tales of compromising compromises and blurred ethical lines.
As the cameras rolled, Robyn surrendered herself to the role, surrendering her soul to the art of deception. The character demanded sacrifice, extracting fragments of her true self with each take. The passionate scenes with her co-star ignited a tempestuous fire within her, further blurring the boundaries of reality.
Yet, amidst the chaos, Robyn's intuition screamed for her to break free from Caspian's grasp. Doubts gnawed at her spirit, reminding her of the stories she had heard, the warnings whispered by those who had fallen victim to Caspian's manipulations. But her dreams of stardom held her captive, the allure of fame weaving a seductive spell around her vulnerable heart.
One evening, after a particularly intense scene, Robyn found herself alone in the dimly lit corridor outside her dressing room. She gazed at her reflection in a nearby mirror, searching for traces of the girl she used to be. Her eyes, once bright with innocence, now reflected a flicker of uncertainty and defiance.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the door to her dressing room creaked open, revealing Caspian's imposing figure. His face, once a mask of control, betrayed a glimpse of vulnerability. He took a hesitant step toward her, his voice tinged with a mixture of regret and desperation.
"Robyn, I never meant for it to be like this," Caspian began, his voice laced with a fragile sincerity. "I have made mistakes, pushed boundaries, but it was all in pursuit of creating something truly extraordinary."
Robyn's heart wavered, torn between the remnants of affection she held for Caspian and the growing realization of the toxic dynamic that had ensnared her. She mustered the strength to meet his gaze, her voice filled with a newfound determination.
"Caspian, I can no longer ignore the whispers that surround you," she declared, her words resonating with newfound courage. "I refuse to be a pawn in your game, sacrificing my sanity and self-worth for the sake of art."
Caspian's face contorted with a mix of anger and desperation, his grip on control slipping like sand through his fingers. He pleaded, his voice desperate and raw.
"Robyn, you don't understand," he whispered, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I can make you a star. I can give you everything you've ever dreamed of."
But Robyn's resolve remained unshaken. She stepped back, reclaiming her autonomy, her voice steady and unwavering.
"I'd rather carve my own path, even if it means sacrificing the fame you promise," she asserted, her spirit ignited with a newfound sense of liberation.
As Robyn walked away from the suffocating grip of Caspian's influence, a weight lifted from her shoulders. She embraced the uncertainty of the future, determined to forge her own destiny in a world where art and integrity could coexist.
CHP4: Robyn's decision to break free from Caspian's grip marked a turning point in her life, but the aftermath was far from the fairy tale she had envisioned. The offers that flooded in were not the golden opportunities she had dreamed of but instead invitations to auditions for seedy productions that prized her physical attributes over her talent.
Determined to make a name for herself on her own terms, Robyn reluctantly stepped into the world of auditions, finding herself in dimly lit rooms with questionable characters. One such audition led her to the doorstep of "The Velvet Rose," a small production company that specialized in adult films masquerading as art.
The setting was a dilapidated warehouse, transformed into a makeshift studio adorned with flickering neon lights and tattered velvet curtains. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. Robyn, dressed in a simple black dress that contrasted with the flamboyant costumes around her, entered the room with a mix of trepidation and determination.
The director, a sleazy middle-aged man named Marcus, oozed an air of false charm as he beckoned Robyn forward. His leering gaze made her skin crawl, but she swallowed her discomfort, determined to prove her talent transcended the grim circumstances.
The audition scene called for Robyn to showcase vulnerability, to bare her soul under the guise of artistry. As she performed, her words filled the room, carrying a poignant truth that momentarily silenced Marcus's predatory gaze. But the spell was broken as Marcus cut her off, his expression morphing into a lewd smirk.
"Not bad, sweetheart," he sneered. "But let's see if you're as good in other... aspects."
Robyn's heart sank as she realized the true nature of this production. She had unwittingly stumbled into a den of exploitation, where talent and integrity took a backseat to the basest desires. With a sense of resignation and a flicker of defiance, she mustered the strength to walk away, leaving behind the suffocating atmosphere of "The Velvet Rose."
Undeterred, Robyn sought auditions in different corners of the industry, hoping to find a glimpse of genuine artistic expression. But time and again, she encountered the same bleak reality—a world where her talent was overshadowed by the allure of her physicality.
In a seedy underground theater called "The Midnight Masquerade," Robyn found herself surrounded by performers who had long lost their dreams to a cycle of vice and indulgence. The stage was set for a twisted cabaret, where darkness and desire entwined in a grotesque ballet of desperation.
The director, a jaded man named Vincent, exuded an air of faded glamour as he navigated the tangled web of his performers' lives. Each audition felt like a performance within a performance, as Robyn tried to impress Vincent while disguising her own crumbling spirit. But the allure of the Midnight Masquerade was tainted, a haunting reminder that her journey had taken a detour into a world she never anticipated.
Robyn's encounters with these seedy production groups became a mirror of her own unraveling dreams. With each rejection, she felt the weight of compromise pressing upon her, threatening to extinguish the spark that had once ignited her passion for acting.
As Robyn navigated the grim underbelly of the industry, she found solace in the fragments of genuine connections she forged with fellow actors. In the midst of this dark landscape, she discovered kindred spirits who yearned for artistic integrity as fervently as she did. Together, they formed a small collective, vowing to support one another and create their own path forward, away from the shadows that had swallowed their dreams.
CHP5: The collective formed by Robyn and her fellow actors had become a lifeline in the tumultuous world of seedy auditions and compromised dreams. Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, their shared experiences forging an unbreakable connection. They sought solace in late-night conversations, their voices echoing through dimly lit cafes and hidden speakeasies.
Amidst their collective struggle, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon—an opportunity to perform at "The Twilight Theater," a renowned establishment known for its commitment to artistic excellence. The theater's marquee, adorned with sparkling lights, beckoned to those who craved authenticity in a world of smoke and mirrors.
Excitement filled the air as Robyn and her companions prepared for their debut on the Twilight stage. The backstage area buzzed with energy, costumes strewn about, makeup artists applying final touches to anxious faces. The scent of anticipation mingled with the hum of the crowd beyond the velvet curtains.
But fate, with its capricious nature, had other plans in store. A sudden tragedy struck, shattering the camaraderie that had blossomed within the collective. A devastating fire ravaged the Twilight Theater, reducing it to ashes and tears. Dreams were shattered in the inferno, leaving Robyn and her companions adrift, the ties that bound them abruptly severed.
Heartbroken and alone, Robyn found herself forced back into the seedy underbelly of the industry. Necessity became her cruel mistress, driving her to take a job on a film so deplorable that even the darkest corners of her imagination could not have conjured its horrors.
The production was called "Crimson Temptation," a vile amalgamation of exploitation and degradation. The set resembled a dilapidated warehouse, its once grandeur now decayed and repurposed for the darkest desires. The stench of desperation clung to the air, mingling with the sweat and despair of the cast and crew.
Robyn's character, Amelia, was a pawn in the hands of a sadistic director named Donovan. His presence exuded a sinister charm, his eyes gleaming with malevolence as he reveled in his perverse creation. Donovan's demands pushed Robyn to the brink, forcing her to perform acts that violated her soul, leaving her feeling tainted and broken.
In the depths of her despair, Robyn's spirit flickered like a dying ember, but a spark of resilience remained. She clung to it fiercely, finding solace in the memory of the collective she had lost. Their voices echoed in her mind, reminding her of the strength she possessed, urging her to fight against the chains that bound her.
With each degrading scene, Robyn's determination grew, transforming her pain into a simmering rage. She saw through the facade of "Crimson Temptation," recognizing it for what it truly was—a testament to the darkest aspects of human desire. And in that recognition, she vowed to reclaim her power and break free from its suffocating grip.
CHP6: The dimly lit alley behind the decrepit warehouse where "Crimson Temptation" was filmed served as an unlikely backdrop for an unexpected encounter. Robyn, her spirit bruised but not broken, found herself face-to-face with Caspian Mortcombe, the man who had once held both her dreams and her heart in his hands.
Their reunion crackled with tension, emotions swirling in the air like a storm waiting to break. The flickering streetlamp cast shadows across Caspian's chiseled features, emphasizing the intensity in his dark eyes. Robyn, defensive yet filled with a longing she couldn't deny, met his gaze with equal fire.
"You've stooped to new depths, Robyn," Caspian stated, his voice laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. "Reducing yourself to this—"
Robyn cut him off, her voice tinged with regret and defiance. "You don't understand, Caspian. I never wanted this, but I had no choice. I'm fighting to survive in a world that's swallowed my dreams whole."
Caspian stepped closer, his voice softening with a mix of understanding and lingering desire. "I know the darkness of this industry, the compromises it demands. But you're capable of so much more, Robyn. I've seen it in you."
Their eyes locked, the intensity of their connection reigniting a long-buried flame. Robyn's heart yearned for Caspian's touch, his presence a reminder of the passion they once shared. A surge of desire pulsed through her veins, drowning out the doubts that had plagued her.
In that dimly lit alley, surrounded by the remnants of broken dreams, Robyn and Caspian gave in to their shared longing. Their bodies pressed against one another, their lips finding solace in a forbidden embrace. The raw electricity that had always existed between them crackled to life once more, their connection transcending the boundaries of reason and consequence.
As their bodies intertwined, the weight of their past dissolved, leaving only the present moment—their shared desire, their mutual understanding of the sacrifices made in the pursuit of their dreams. In that stolen moment, they found solace in one another, a respite from the darkness that threatened to consume them.
But as their passion ebbed and reality seeped back in, Robyn pulled away, a mixture of longing and regret etched upon her face. "We can't keep doing this, Caspian," she whispered, her voice filled with resignation. "The world we live in won't allow it."
Caspian's eyes bore into her, a mix of anguish and determination. "I refuse to let the industry define us, Robyn. Together, we can rise above its darkness and create something extraordinary. We can reclaim our dreams."
Robyn's heart wavered, torn between the love she still held for Caspian and the need to protect herself from further pain. But in that moment, a glimmer of hope flickered within her, reigniting the fire of her dreams. Perhaps, against all odds, they could find a way to navigate the treacherous path of their desires, where passion and artistry intertwined.
CHP7: The California coastline stretched before them, the crashing waves a symphony of freedom. Robyn and Caspian, drawn together by an undeniable force, found solace in stolen moments, their time together becoming a refuge from the chaos of their respective lives.
They sought refuge in a quaint beach house, nestled amidst a picturesque landscape of sandy dunes and rolling waves. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the intoxicating fragrance of blooming flowers. Here, they could escape the prying eyes and suffocating expectations of the industry that had brought them together once again.
In the golden hues of twilight, Robyn's laughter filled the air as Caspian recounted tales of their shared past, his voice a balm to her weary soul. Their connection, forged in passion and ambition, had stood the test of time, its flame reigniting with a fervor that defied reason.
But as their blissful respite carried on, the producer of "Crimson Temptation," a man consumed by jealousy and greed, grew increasingly restless. Donovan, a ruthless figure with a penchant for control, confronted Caspian one evening, the tension between them palpable.
"What do you think you're doing, Mortcombe?" Donovan sneered, his voice laced with venom. "You think you can just steal my budding starlet and get away with it?"
Caspian met Donovan's gaze, his own eyes blazing with defiance. "I'm not stealing anyone, Donovan. Robyn is not a possession to be claimed. We have a connection that goes beyond the confines of this industry."
Donovan's face contorted with rage, his voice seething with a dangerous edge. "Mark my words, Mortcombe. If you continue down this path, you'll regret it. I have the power to destroy everything you hold dear."
Caspian stood tall, his voice steady and resolute. "You underestimate us, Donovan. Love and passion are stronger than any threat you can conjure. We will not be controlled by your darkness."
As Donovan stormed off, the threat hanging in the air like a noose, Caspian returned to Robyn's side, his presence a shield against the encroaching storm. Their bond deepened with each passing day, their love an anchor in the tempestuous sea of the entertainment world.
Together, they vowed to navigate the treacherous currents of the industry, to create art that spoke to their souls and defied the conventions that sought to confine them. They became each other's muse, igniting creativity and passion with a single glance or touch.
In the late hours of the night, as the moon cast a silvery glow over their entwined bodies, Caspian whispered words of adoration, his voice filled with a mixture of reverence and longing. Robyn, her heart brimming with love, echoed his sentiments, their declarations intertwining like the intricate brushstrokes of a masterpiece.
CHP8: The weight of the industry's demands and expectations bore down upon Robyn and Caspian, threatening to extinguish the flame of their love and creativity. But in the face of adversity, they made a daring decision—to break free from the clutches of the entertainment world and forge their own path.
In the quaint beach house that had become their sanctuary, Robyn and Caspian hatched a plan. They would take their art into their own hands, reclaiming their creative freedom and sidestepping the suffocating constraints of the industry. Their vision became clear—they would create intimate and authentic films, placing their work directly into the hands of their audience.
With trembling excitement and a sense of rebellious liberation, they embarked on their new venture. They turned to a platform called "OnlyFans," a place where they could showcase their films without compromise. It was a risk, a departure from the traditional avenues of success, but they held onto the belief that true artistry lay in the hands of those who were unafraid to challenge conventions.
The beach house became their makeshift studio, a haven where their visions could come to life. Robyn's natural beauty radiated as Caspian captured her essence through the lens of his camera. Each frame whispered of their connection, their love and creativity intertwined in a seamless dance.
As they released their first independent film on OnlyFans, their audience responded with an overwhelming embrace. Their work resonated with those hungry for raw emotion and unfiltered storytelling. Robyn and Caspian became a symbol of artistic rebellion, a beacon of authenticity in an industry plagued by artifice.
In the intimacy of their digital platform, Robyn and Caspian found solace and empowerment. They were no longer subject to the whims of producers or the suffocating demands of the industry. Their art was created on their own terms, nourished by the connection they shared and the unyielding passion that burned within them.
As their independent films gained recognition, they became pioneers, inspiring other artists to reclaim their voices and redefine the boundaries of creativity. Robyn and Caspian reveled in the knowledge that they had escaped the clutches of the industry, creating their own world of artistry and freedom.
In the twilight of the beach house, with the sound of crashing waves as their soundtrack, Robyn and Caspian made a vow to one another—a vow to continue defying expectations, to never compromise their artistic integrity, and to forever choose love over the trappings of fame and success.
Together, they embarked on a journey of self-discovery and creative fulfillment, their spirits entwined as they blazed a trail of artistic rebellion. Their love, once threatened by the darkness of the industry, had found a refuge in their shared passion and unwavering devotion.
To be Continued.......?
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Robyn, dressed in a figure-hugging black cocktail dress, had dreams of becoming a successful actress. However, her current reality consisted of serving patrons in the upscale restaurant known as "The Golden Elysium," where the elite of Hollywood often dined. It was a place where whispers of fame and fortune danced in the air, mingling with the scent of truffle-infused delicacies.
Meanwhile, Caspian Mortcombe, a dashing and enigmatic film producer in his early thirties, cut a striking figure amidst the crowd. With his commanding presence and sharp jawline, he exuded an air of regal authority. Caspian had recently acquired a reputation for his underground noir films, casting a shadow on the mainstream industry. In search of fresh talent for his next project, he found himself drawn to the allure of this bustling nightclub.
Robyn's naive charm and captivating beauty caught Caspian's discerning eye, and he saw potential in her untapped talent. As he approached her, his dark eyes pierced through her, conveying both power and dominance. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, an extension of his personality, that spoke volumes about his wealth and influence.
The room was guarded by a bouncer, known simply as "Big John." A towering figure with a shaved head and a muscular build, he was a black mountain of strength. Caspian had made sure to slip him some extra cash to ensure their privacy in this secluded space. Big John maintained a watchful eye, ensuring no interruptions disturbed the affairs unfolding within these velvet-draped walls.
As Caspian engaged Robyn in conversation, his magnetic presence captivated her impressionable heart. The allure of the silver screen beckoned, and Robyn found herself drawn into Caspian's web. He regaled her with tales of his past successes, painting a vivid picture of a world far beyond the glimmering lights of the nightclub. Robyn's airheadedness and dreams of stardom made her susceptible to Caspian's charm, her aspirations blinding her to the underlying motives driving his interest.
Their encounter unfolded against the backdrop of a time when grunge music and flannel shirts defined the alternative culture of Southern California. It was a world where wild house parties and underground clubs whispered secrets of rebellion and freedom, carving out a space for artistic expression in the heart of an industry dominated by conformity.
In this dimly lit room, where dreams clashed with reality, Robyn and Caspian's lives collided. The stage was set for a seductive dance of power, ambition, and manipulation, the boundaries between desire and exploitation blurred. Little did Robyn know that this encounter would mark the beginning of a twisted journey, a tale woven with passion, deceit, and shattered dreams.
As the night wore on, and the echoes of jazz music faded into the early morning hours, Robyn and Caspian found themselves tangled in a dangerous game, oblivious to the consequences lurking in the shadows. And behind the velvet curtains, the secrets of the night whispered their unholy promise, sealing their fates in a world where passion and ambition intermingled, where nothing was as it seemed.
The private back room had become a secret haven for Robyn and Caspian. Their clandestine meetings unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance, fueled by their shared desires and ambitions. Robyn's infatuation with Caspian grew with each passing day, as he expertly played the role of mentor and seducer.
Caspian, aware of Robyn's impressionable nature, used his position of power to mold her into his ideal actress. Under his tutelage, she blossomed, her raw talent and beauty refined through his guidance. He pushed her limits, pushing her to explore the darkest corners of her emotions, blurring the line between fiction and reality.
As Robyn's days at "The Golden Elysium" turned into a blur of serving plates and nodding at patrons, her nights became an intoxicating whirlwind of auditions, rehearsals, and stolen moments with Caspian. The boundaries of their relationship were hazy, a web of desire, control, and artistic collaboration.
Meanwhile, the enigmatic Big John kept a watchful eye, guarding their secrets as if they were his own. His imposing presence served as a constant reminder of the shadows lurking behind their glamorous facade. Caspian had ensured their privacy with a hefty sum, and Big John remained steadfast in his loyalty.
CHP2: One fateful evening, as the neon lights of the nightclub flickered outside, Robyn found herself alone in the back room. Caspian had promised her an important announcement, one that would change the course of her life forever. The anticipation hung heavy in the air as she waited, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
The door swung open, revealing Caspian's commanding figure. His eyes, usually filled with intensity, now held a hint of vulnerability. Robyn sensed a shift in their dynamic, a subtle change that made her pulse quicken.
"Robyn," Caspian began, his voice tinged with emotion, "I've secured a role for you in my next film. It's a daring, provocative project that will challenge your limits as an actress."
Robyn's eyes widened with delight and apprehension. She had longed for this moment, to step into the spotlight and leave her mark on the silver screen. But as Caspian detailed the role, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss. The character was complex, enigmatic, and dangerously close to mirroring her own life.
As rehearsals commenced, Robyn found herself diving headfirst into the depths of her character's psyche. The lines blurred further, reality intertwining with fiction in a dizzying dance of passion and manipulation. Caspian's influence over her grew stronger, his control tightening like a vice around her fragile dreams.
But as Robyn delved deeper into her role, the shadows surrounding Caspian began to unravel. Whispers of his questionable tactics and dubious alliances reached her ears, casting doubt upon their once-promising collaboration. The world of underground noir cinema revealed itself to be a treacherous labyrinth of deceit and power plays.
And so, Robyn stood at a crossroads, torn between her burning desire for fame and the nagging doubts that gnawed at her conscience. The allure of the silver screen had drawn her into a dangerous game, one where the line between passion and exploitation was blurred beyond recognition.
CHP3: Robyn stood before the ornate vanity mirror, her reflection fragmented in a sea of gleaming glass. The weight of uncertainty pressed upon her shoulders as she prepared for another day of shooting Caspian's provocative film. The character she portrayed consumed her, merging with her own identity until she could no longer distinguish where the role ended and she began.
On set, the atmosphere crackled with tension. Caspian's domineering presence loomed, his eyes scrutinizing every movement, every line delivered by the actors. The crew whispered in hushed tones about the mysterious underbelly of Caspian's productions, tales of compromising compromises and blurred ethical lines.
As the cameras rolled, Robyn surrendered herself to the role, surrendering her soul to the art of deception. The character demanded sacrifice, extracting fragments of her true self with each take. The passionate scenes with her co-star ignited a tempestuous fire within her, further blurring the boundaries of reality.
Yet, amidst the chaos, Robyn's intuition screamed for her to break free from Caspian's grasp. Doubts gnawed at her spirit, reminding her of the stories she had heard, the warnings whispered by those who had fallen victim to Caspian's manipulations. But her dreams of stardom held her captive, the allure of fame weaving a seductive spell around her vulnerable heart.
One evening, after a particularly intense scene, Robyn found herself alone in the dimly lit corridor outside her dressing room. She gazed at her reflection in a nearby mirror, searching for traces of the girl she used to be. Her eyes, once bright with innocence, now reflected a flicker of uncertainty and defiance.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the door to her dressing room creaked open, revealing Caspian's imposing figure. His face, once a mask of control, betrayed a glimpse of vulnerability. He took a hesitant step toward her, his voice tinged with a mixture of regret and desperation.
"Robyn, I never meant for it to be like this," Caspian began, his voice laced with a fragile sincerity. "I have made mistakes, pushed boundaries, but it was all in pursuit of creating something truly extraordinary."
Robyn's heart wavered, torn between the remnants of affection she held for Caspian and the growing realization of the toxic dynamic that had ensnared her. She mustered the strength to meet his gaze, her voice filled with a newfound determination.
"Caspian, I can no longer ignore the whispers that surround you," she declared, her words resonating with newfound courage. "I refuse to be a pawn in your game, sacrificing my sanity and self-worth for the sake of art."
Caspian's face contorted with a mix of anger and desperation, his grip on control slipping like sand through his fingers. He pleaded, his voice desperate and raw.
"Robyn, you don't understand," he whispered, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I can make you a star. I can give you everything you've ever dreamed of."
But Robyn's resolve remained unshaken. She stepped back, reclaiming her autonomy, her voice steady and unwavering.
"I'd rather carve my own path, even if it means sacrificing the fame you promise," she asserted, her spirit ignited with a newfound sense of liberation.
As Robyn walked away from the suffocating grip of Caspian's influence, a weight lifted from her shoulders. She embraced the uncertainty of the future, determined to forge her own destiny in a world where art and integrity could coexist.
CHP4: Robyn's decision to break free from Caspian's grip marked a turning point in her life, but the aftermath was far from the fairy tale she had envisioned. The offers that flooded in were not the golden opportunities she had dreamed of but instead invitations to auditions for seedy productions that prized her physical attributes over her talent.
Determined to make a name for herself on her own terms, Robyn reluctantly stepped into the world of auditions, finding herself in dimly lit rooms with questionable characters. One such audition led her to the doorstep of "The Velvet Rose," a small production company that specialized in adult films masquerading as art.
The setting was a dilapidated warehouse, transformed into a makeshift studio adorned with flickering neon lights and tattered velvet curtains. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. Robyn, dressed in a simple black dress that contrasted with the flamboyant costumes around her, entered the room with a mix of trepidation and determination.
The director, a sleazy middle-aged man named Marcus, oozed an air of false charm as he beckoned Robyn forward. His leering gaze made her skin crawl, but she swallowed her discomfort, determined to prove her talent transcended the grim circumstances.
The audition scene called for Robyn to showcase vulnerability, to bare her soul under the guise of artistry. As she performed, her words filled the room, carrying a poignant truth that momentarily silenced Marcus's predatory gaze. But the spell was broken as Marcus cut her off, his expression morphing into a lewd smirk.
"Not bad, sweetheart," he sneered. "But let's see if you're as good in other... aspects."
Robyn's heart sank as she realized the true nature of this production. She had unwittingly stumbled into a den of exploitation, where talent and integrity took a backseat to the basest desires. With a sense of resignation and a flicker of defiance, she mustered the strength to walk away, leaving behind the suffocating atmosphere of "The Velvet Rose."
Undeterred, Robyn sought auditions in different corners of the industry, hoping to find a glimpse of genuine artistic expression. But time and again, she encountered the same bleak reality—a world where her talent was overshadowed by the allure of her physicality.
In a seedy underground theater called "The Midnight Masquerade," Robyn found herself surrounded by performers who had long lost their dreams to a cycle of vice and indulgence. The stage was set for a twisted cabaret, where darkness and desire entwined in a grotesque ballet of desperation.
The director, a jaded man named Vincent, exuded an air of faded glamour as he navigated the tangled web of his performers' lives. Each audition felt like a performance within a performance, as Robyn tried to impress Vincent while disguising her own crumbling spirit. But the allure of the Midnight Masquerade was tainted, a haunting reminder that her journey had taken a detour into a world she never anticipated.
Robyn's encounters with these seedy production groups became a mirror of her own unraveling dreams. With each rejection, she felt the weight of compromise pressing upon her, threatening to extinguish the spark that had once ignited her passion for acting.
As Robyn navigated the grim underbelly of the industry, she found solace in the fragments of genuine connections she forged with fellow actors. In the midst of this dark landscape, she discovered kindred spirits who yearned for artistic integrity as fervently as she did. Together, they formed a small collective, vowing to support one another and create their own path forward, away from the shadows that had swallowed their dreams.
CHP5: The collective formed by Robyn and her fellow actors had become a lifeline in the tumultuous world of seedy auditions and compromised dreams. Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, their shared experiences forging an unbreakable connection. They sought solace in late-night conversations, their voices echoing through dimly lit cafes and hidden speakeasies.
Amidst their collective struggle, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon—an opportunity to perform at "The Twilight Theater," a renowned establishment known for its commitment to artistic excellence. The theater's marquee, adorned with sparkling lights, beckoned to those who craved authenticity in a world of smoke and mirrors.
Excitement filled the air as Robyn and her companions prepared for their debut on the Twilight stage. The backstage area buzzed with energy, costumes strewn about, makeup artists applying final touches to anxious faces. The scent of anticipation mingled with the hum of the crowd beyond the velvet curtains.
But fate, with its capricious nature, had other plans in store. A sudden tragedy struck, shattering the camaraderie that had blossomed within the collective. A devastating fire ravaged the Twilight Theater, reducing it to ashes and tears. Dreams were shattered in the inferno, leaving Robyn and her companions adrift, the ties that bound them abruptly severed.
Heartbroken and alone, Robyn found herself forced back into the seedy underbelly of the industry. Necessity became her cruel mistress, driving her to take a job on a film so deplorable that even the darkest corners of her imagination could not have conjured its horrors.
The production was called "Crimson Temptation," a vile amalgamation of exploitation and degradation. The set resembled a dilapidated warehouse, its once grandeur now decayed and repurposed for the darkest desires. The stench of desperation clung to the air, mingling with the sweat and despair of the cast and crew.
Robyn's character, Amelia, was a pawn in the hands of a sadistic director named Donovan. His presence exuded a sinister charm, his eyes gleaming with malevolence as he reveled in his perverse creation. Donovan's demands pushed Robyn to the brink, forcing her to perform acts that violated her soul, leaving her feeling tainted and broken.
In the depths of her despair, Robyn's spirit flickered like a dying ember, but a spark of resilience remained. She clung to it fiercely, finding solace in the memory of the collective she had lost. Their voices echoed in her mind, reminding her of the strength she possessed, urging her to fight against the chains that bound her.
With each degrading scene, Robyn's determination grew, transforming her pain into a simmering rage. She saw through the facade of "Crimson Temptation," recognizing it for what it truly was—a testament to the darkest aspects of human desire. And in that recognition, she vowed to reclaim her power and break free from its suffocating grip.
CHP6: The dimly lit alley behind the decrepit warehouse where "Crimson Temptation" was filmed served as an unlikely backdrop for an unexpected encounter. Robyn, her spirit bruised but not broken, found herself face-to-face with Caspian Mortcombe, the man who had once held both her dreams and her heart in his hands.
Their reunion crackled with tension, emotions swirling in the air like a storm waiting to break. The flickering streetlamp cast shadows across Caspian's chiseled features, emphasizing the intensity in his dark eyes. Robyn, defensive yet filled with a longing she couldn't deny, met his gaze with equal fire.
"You've stooped to new depths, Robyn," Caspian stated, his voice laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. "Reducing yourself to this—"
Robyn cut him off, her voice tinged with regret and defiance. "You don't understand, Caspian. I never wanted this, but I had no choice. I'm fighting to survive in a world that's swallowed my dreams whole."
Caspian stepped closer, his voice softening with a mix of understanding and lingering desire. "I know the darkness of this industry, the compromises it demands. But you're capable of so much more, Robyn. I've seen it in you."
Their eyes locked, the intensity of their connection reigniting a long-buried flame. Robyn's heart yearned for Caspian's touch, his presence a reminder of the passion they once shared. A surge of desire pulsed through her veins, drowning out the doubts that had plagued her.
In that dimly lit alley, surrounded by the remnants of broken dreams, Robyn and Caspian gave in to their shared longing. Their bodies pressed against one another, their lips finding solace in a forbidden embrace. The raw electricity that had always existed between them crackled to life once more, their connection transcending the boundaries of reason and consequence.
As their bodies intertwined, the weight of their past dissolved, leaving only the present moment—their shared desire, their mutual understanding of the sacrifices made in the pursuit of their dreams. In that stolen moment, they found solace in one another, a respite from the darkness that threatened to consume them.
But as their passion ebbed and reality seeped back in, Robyn pulled away, a mixture of longing and regret etched upon her face. "We can't keep doing this, Caspian," she whispered, her voice filled with resignation. "The world we live in won't allow it."
Caspian's eyes bore into her, a mix of anguish and determination. "I refuse to let the industry define us, Robyn. Together, we can rise above its darkness and create something extraordinary. We can reclaim our dreams."
Robyn's heart wavered, torn between the love she still held for Caspian and the need to protect herself from further pain. But in that moment, a glimmer of hope flickered within her, reigniting the fire of her dreams. Perhaps, against all odds, they could find a way to navigate the treacherous path of their desires, where passion and artistry intertwined.
CHP7: The California coastline stretched before them, the crashing waves a symphony of freedom. Robyn and Caspian, drawn together by an undeniable force, found solace in stolen moments, their time together becoming a refuge from the chaos of their respective lives.
They sought refuge in a quaint beach house, nestled amidst a picturesque landscape of sandy dunes and rolling waves. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the intoxicating fragrance of blooming flowers. Here, they could escape the prying eyes and suffocating expectations of the industry that had brought them together once again.
In the golden hues of twilight, Robyn's laughter filled the air as Caspian recounted tales of their shared past, his voice a balm to her weary soul. Their connection, forged in passion and ambition, had stood the test of time, its flame reigniting with a fervor that defied reason.
But as their blissful respite carried on, the producer of "Crimson Temptation," a man consumed by jealousy and greed, grew increasingly restless. Donovan, a ruthless figure with a penchant for control, confronted Caspian one evening, the tension between them palpable.
"What do you think you're doing, Mortcombe?" Donovan sneered, his voice laced with venom. "You think you can just steal my budding starlet and get away with it?"
Caspian met Donovan's gaze, his own eyes blazing with defiance. "I'm not stealing anyone, Donovan. Robyn is not a possession to be claimed. We have a connection that goes beyond the confines of this industry."
Donovan's face contorted with rage, his voice seething with a dangerous edge. "Mark my words, Mortcombe. If you continue down this path, you'll regret it. I have the power to destroy everything you hold dear."
Caspian stood tall, his voice steady and resolute. "You underestimate us, Donovan. Love and passion are stronger than any threat you can conjure. We will not be controlled by your darkness."
As Donovan stormed off, the threat hanging in the air like a noose, Caspian returned to Robyn's side, his presence a shield against the encroaching storm. Their bond deepened with each passing day, their love an anchor in the tempestuous sea of the entertainment world.
Together, they vowed to navigate the treacherous currents of the industry, to create art that spoke to their souls and defied the conventions that sought to confine them. They became each other's muse, igniting creativity and passion with a single glance or touch.
In the late hours of the night, as the moon cast a silvery glow over their entwined bodies, Caspian whispered words of adoration, his voice filled with a mixture of reverence and longing. Robyn, her heart brimming with love, echoed his sentiments, their declarations intertwining like the intricate brushstrokes of a masterpiece.
CHP8: The weight of the industry's demands and expectations bore down upon Robyn and Caspian, threatening to extinguish the flame of their love and creativity. But in the face of adversity, they made a daring decision—to break free from the clutches of the entertainment world and forge their own path.
In the quaint beach house that had become their sanctuary, Robyn and Caspian hatched a plan. They would take their art into their own hands, reclaiming their creative freedom and sidestepping the suffocating constraints of the industry. Their vision became clear—they would create intimate and authentic films, placing their work directly into the hands of their audience.
With trembling excitement and a sense of rebellious liberation, they embarked on their new venture. They turned to a platform called "OnlyFans," a place where they could showcase their films without compromise. It was a risk, a departure from the traditional avenues of success, but they held onto the belief that true artistry lay in the hands of those who were unafraid to challenge conventions.
The beach house became their makeshift studio, a haven where their visions could come to life. Robyn's natural beauty radiated as Caspian captured her essence through the lens of his camera. Each frame whispered of their connection, their love and creativity intertwined in a seamless dance.
As they released their first independent film on OnlyFans, their audience responded with an overwhelming embrace. Their work resonated with those hungry for raw emotion and unfiltered storytelling. Robyn and Caspian became a symbol of artistic rebellion, a beacon of authenticity in an industry plagued by artifice.
In the intimacy of their digital platform, Robyn and Caspian found solace and empowerment. They were no longer subject to the whims of producers or the suffocating demands of the industry. Their art was created on their own terms, nourished by the connection they shared and the unyielding passion that burned within them.
As their independent films gained recognition, they became pioneers, inspiring other artists to reclaim their voices and redefine the boundaries of creativity. Robyn and Caspian reveled in the knowledge that they had escaped the clutches of the industry, creating their own world of artistry and freedom.
In the twilight of the beach house, with the sound of crashing waves as their soundtrack, Robyn and Caspian made a vow to one another—a vow to continue defying expectations, to never compromise their artistic integrity, and to forever choose love over the trappings of fame and success.
Together, they embarked on a journey of self-discovery and creative fulfillment, their spirits entwined as they blazed a trail of artistic rebellion. Their love, once threatened by the darkness of the industry, had found a refuge in their shared passion and unwavering devotion.
To be Continued.......?
2023.06.01 05:02 Euphoric_Hotel_1799 Elden Root: Valenwood. (Review)
Today I downloaded a series of new mods due to an update fragging my previous load order, one of these mods was Elden Root, a worldspace expansion taking us to Valenwood, the home of the wood elves.
Let me say, I was really impressed with all the custom assets the mod author made and used for this, This is definitely a worldspace made for quality rather than quantity. The Folliage, Custom Enemies, Houses and interiors all look fantastic and you can tell some serious love went into making them. I also really enjoyed seeing the wood orcs and rock fairies incorporated into the world space, it gave me the same wonder of exploring the game for the first time. That being said, There’s really not a lot for you to do besides chew in the scenery and collect things to hoard, the NPCs are all locked into generic dialogues and there’s only 4-5 small exterior dungeons to fight in, however it’s worth noting that this mod is probably in the early stages of what appears to be a proof of concept for an actual expansion so I’m not tearing down the hard work they’ve already put in because it really is impressive that they made such an impressionable and charming worldspace for it’s size. If I had to suggest any steps that should be focused on going forward, it would be to finish the interiors in the current build and create an engaging dungeon with some minor quests involving the current NPCs, I’d also suggest adding more NPCs to really flesh out the tree walkways and of course eventually expand the size of the worldspace so that they have all tools to tell the story they’re trying to tell. By itself it’d be a 6 due to lack of motivating content, however I’m giving it a 8 under the impression that they are already working on that and that this is still in it’s baby phase.
submitted by Euphoric_Hotel_1799 to SkyrimModsXbox [link] [comments]
Let me say, I was really impressed with all the custom assets the mod author made and used for this, This is definitely a worldspace made for quality rather than quantity. The Folliage, Custom Enemies, Houses and interiors all look fantastic and you can tell some serious love went into making them. I also really enjoyed seeing the wood orcs and rock fairies incorporated into the world space, it gave me the same wonder of exploring the game for the first time. That being said, There’s really not a lot for you to do besides chew in the scenery and collect things to hoard, the NPCs are all locked into generic dialogues and there’s only 4-5 small exterior dungeons to fight in, however it’s worth noting that this mod is probably in the early stages of what appears to be a proof of concept for an actual expansion so I’m not tearing down the hard work they’ve already put in because it really is impressive that they made such an impressionable and charming worldspace for it’s size. If I had to suggest any steps that should be focused on going forward, it would be to finish the interiors in the current build and create an engaging dungeon with some minor quests involving the current NPCs, I’d also suggest adding more NPCs to really flesh out the tree walkways and of course eventually expand the size of the worldspace so that they have all tools to tell the story they’re trying to tell. By itself it’d be a 6 due to lack of motivating content, however I’m giving it a 8 under the impression that they are already working on that and that this is still in it’s baby phase.
2023.06.01 04:53 Jigen8206 Something Horrible is Happening in Morefolk
Part One: There's Something Awful Happening in Morefolk : nosleep (reddit.com)
You know who this is. Sorry for the long wait, and thank you for your patience. Yes, this is a new email address, though the reason for that should be obvious.
I have to hand it to the pigs. They're not as clueless as I believed. What I once thought were monkeys dressed in uniform flinging shit at the wall, are actually monkeys using rudimentary tools to fling shit at the wall. I'll admit, it's cute. Still, if Morefolk's finest thought that updating their firewalls, naming their files gibberish, and using monoalphabetic substitution ciphers for their file text was enough to throw me off, they're sorely mistaken. For one, firewalls aren't as effective when I've left a backdoor in the system for free access. Seriously, it's not that difficult to get into something once you've already been inside before. Not to mention... you seriously thought documenting stuff in some basic code would do the trick? That I wouldn't be able to convert it to plain text? At least do something a little sophisticated next time; might I recommend studying some old telegrams from wartime and seeing how they did things? Seriously, your tech department should be paying me for tutelage, your cryptography is weak. The only thing I can give you credit for, is that I haven’t found any information on the unnamed agency referenced in your files. I assume their documents are cataloged in their own, entirely separate database, which isn’t surprising. Still, the only reason another agency would be involved with you at all, would be to order you around behind the scenes like the bunch of lackeys you are.
Regardless, that has no bearing on whether YOU can keep me out of YOUR shit. I suspect you'll either throw out the system and start anew, or, the more likely approach you'll take, is to start cataloging your documents in analog style. Don't know, don't care. I've already got enough as is.
To say that I've got a lot to drop on you all would be an understatement, and a severe one at that. Not everything is going to be shown right here and now, but in time, all will be clear. I've been waiting patiently, meticulously crafting my strategy, waiting for the perfect moment to re-appear. Such is the price of truth in a world run by breaking news and hastily woven narratives. There are always dozens, hundreds, even thousands of hands intricately drawing each needle through each thread, until a net of lies and misrepresentations have been constructed and cast. Cast upon what? You all, the "helpless fish" adrift at sea, going where the tide takes you. Yet, you are not helpless. There is a hand outstretched towards you, and it is my hand. I offer you access to the one thing more valuable than the money or security they try to bribe you with.
I offer you access to reality.
Reality is, regardless of who witnesses it. Therefore, the optimal way to deny one access to reality is to remove their ability to witness, to see, to observe, and to ogle the beautiful essence of truth. Think, for a moment, about what it is that best achieves this goal of restricting your perception of reality. What is it, that is such an obfuscation, such an obstruction, and such a danger?
I'll tell you, it's the narratives. The news, the media, and the outlets, all serve as distractions. Do not be so naive as to think that the news is on your side. They actively serve the interests of the authorities and their agendas... and once you become privy to that fact, it's obvious. Still, you might find my claims to be dubious, so let's take a look together, shall we? Allow me to show you precisely what I am talking about.
---
"Ellie Singleton, 33, Found Deceased in Home"
"The body of Ellie Singleton, 33, was found unresponsive in her home on Monday, January 23rd, 2023. Authorities arrived on the scene shortly after her husband, Barry Singleton, reported an incident that occurred that Monday night, around 4:47 AM. Although emergency services were quick to the scene, she was regrettably announced dead upon arrival at Morefolk Town Hospital at 5:09 AM. Detective Clark Casper, who arrived at the scene shortly following the incident, declined to comment. So too did Barry Singleton.
Although the nature of this incident remains highly unknown, its impact on our community is not lost on anyone. Plenty of tears were shed among friends, family, and loved ones, who all shared their sympathies with Mister Singleton. Ellie Singleton was expected to deliver her first child in the summer of this year. She very much had a love for children, and it wasn't uncommon for her to work as a substitute teacher at Morefolk Elementary. Many of the young students she taught and influenced took part in laying down flowers and paying their respects at the school, which hosted a memorial assembly in her honor. Ellie stood as a pillar of this community, doing what she could to ensure that future generations had a reliable shoulder to lean on. Now, a community stands as one, hearts torn apart for the Singleton family. This will surely be a day of much mourning and prayer."
---
Innocent enough, right? Just a heartfelt news clipping in response to a horrific happening. A good old unifier of the people to get them through a trying time. Aside from that, there's not much to go off of, granted this was the first of what we now know to be murders. Let's continue.
---
"Tragedy Strikes as 25-Year-Old Sasha Baker Was Found Dead In Her Bedroom"
"Onlookers littered the streets as Sasha Baker, 25, was peacefully wheeled out of her home the other night on Saturday, January 29th, 2023. Mothers, fathers, and children held hands in solemn silence as they watched, burdened with the great loss of their friend."
"It just doesn't make sense, she was young and healthy and happy, I can't even wrap my head around it," said Chuck Rivera, a long-time friend of Sasha Baker.
"This kind of thing doesn't happen in this town... it just doesn't," commented Ashley Sanchez, who was so disturbed by the death, that she had to be comforted by those around her.
"Morefolk police released a brief statement following the occurrence, with Sheriff Tom Mackey being quoted as saying, "We want you to know that our hearts are heavy, and this loss is weighing down on us, all of us. Sasha was a great woman. From the food pantries she hosted inside the church, to all the service work she did for our town, she always served as a positive influence on our youth. To us, she was family. A bright and optimistic woman we grew up alongside. Our thoughts and prayers go out to David Baker, and to any and all who are undoubtedly hurting at this time. We will be conducting an investigation into this incident, absolutely. I cannot confirm anything to you with certainty, but we have reason to believe that, well, this incident may have been the product of foul play. The chances of that being the case are low. Still, our officers are working diligently to ensure that this was not the cause of her death, because that, well, it would be heart-wrenching for all of us. Even more than it already is. We'll do what we can to keep all of you updated. Thank you for your time, and God bless you."
"At this time it is unspecified whether this event has any relation to the death of the late Ellie Singleton, who was found deceased in her home just a week prior."
---
Would you look at that? Do you know what I see? Useless fucking platitudes. Thoughts and prayers don't mean shit to us. Not to mention how vague Sheriff Mackey was about the supposed investigation they were hosting. They "peacefully" wheeled her body out of the home? Perhaps it appeared that way with several white cloths and EMTs blocking the view of her corpse. I'm not entirely sure how the word "peaceful" could be applied to the remains of a woman who had her unborn child violently ripped out. Nor am I sure how there could be any ambiguity as to whether she was murdered or not. Now you go ahead and wonder why it is that they're using such passive and evasive language. Something tells me that you already know the answer.
---
"Homicide Investigation Launched Following the Murder of Claire Summers"
"Town officials have confirmed that Morefolk Police are investigating the untimely death of Claire Summers, 28, which occurred on Wednesday, February 2nd, 2023, as a homicide."
"We are deeply disturbed by the passing of Claire Summers. The shock and sadness we are all going through cannot be understated. This is not an easy time for anybody," stated Sheriff Tom Mackey when asked for a comment about the recent development. "Our investigator's assessment of her death indicates to us that, regrettably, this was the result of a sick individual rather than a horrible accident or medical issue," continued Mackey.
"This revelation also came with an announcement from town officials that a curfew has been set in place. All citizens are to stay indoors after 9:30 PM, and all exceptions must be pre-emptively requested. Failure to abide by this regulation will be met with detainment, and offending persons may face criminal charges.
The investigation into Claire Summer's murder will incorporate the recently deceased citizens of Morefolk (Ellie Singleton, Sasha Baker) as police suspect those incidents may be related to this one. As of this moment, Kyle Summers has declined to comment.
Claire Summers, perhaps most well-known for her bakery located on Oak Way, will be remembered as sweetly as the goods she lovingly shared with us all. Not a single person would disagree that when in Claire's shop, smiles were formed and memories were made."
---
Three people had to die for them to announce that they were being murdered. Three. Whole. People. Suppose for a moment, that you don't believe me or my leaks. That you don't believe that this was all the doing of a wretched ghoul with sadistic tendencies. Is it not still strange that it took this long for a homicide investigation to be publicly launched? Each death took place inside of the victim's home, while their husbands were sleeping in the same bed as them. Are we meant to believe that a killer did their dirty work, and the husbands just... didn't notice? Seriously? These fucking rats in blue think you're all idiots. They think that you won't connect the dots. Don't let them treat you like clueless animals. Do not allow them to be evasive about what's truly happening.
---
"Morefolk Police Patrolling the Streets in Response to Most Recent Death"
"The killing of Jackie Middleton, 37, has unsettled Morefolk to its very core. Her death is another in a series of murders, now that the deaths of Claire Summers, Sasha Baker, and Ellie Singleton have been found to be connected. Morefolk police have decided to patrol the streets at night in response to this recent development, and the town curfew has been lowered to 9 PM."
"The safety of our town is our priority. We not only need to protect those of you living here, but find and prosecute whichever twisted individual is responsible for these crimes as soon as possible. We ask that you all cooperate with our curfew, and please, if you have any information that may be helpful to this case, contact us. Thank you," Sheriff Mackey explained when asked about his plan moving forward.
"When asked to comment on this tragedy, Jackie's husband Craig Middleton was quoted as saying, "There's not much for me to say at this time. The amount of hurt and devastation I'm going through can't be articulated. All I can say is that I hope our police force brings whoever did this to my family to justice."
"Furthermore, Kyle Summers, David Baker, and Barry Singleton requested to make a joint comment. The three men had also recently lost their loving wives, likely at the hands of the suspected killer involved in Jackie Middleton's murder."
"We've gotten together to support each other as of late. Things have been unimaginably hard to get through each day, but the condolences and support of all of you wonderful people have made it more manageable for us. We know we cannot change what happened, but we can, and must, address this problem before more lives are taken. Throughout these long, sleepless weeks, we've had the unequivocal support of the Morefolk Police Department. They have shown us great attention, care, and consideration. Most importantly, we know and trust that they will bring this murderer to justice. Please, support and believe in them, because they're doing all they can to fix this mess. Once again, we thank you for all the love and kindness you've given us. You all truly exemplify what it means to be wonderful neighbors, friends, and family."
"Jackie Middleton has always been an outgoing neighbor, working with Craig out of their small ice cream parlor on the nearby boardwalk. She'd often supply ice cream to nearby businesses for office parties and other celebratory events. Though store-bought ice cream would do the trick in a pinch, there was always something special about her delicious desserts that she made with the utmost love. To Morefolk, Jackie Middleton truly was the cherry on top."
---
They aren't even trying to hide it, are they? Surely you all caught it as well. Suddenly, the husbands who have gone without comment for so long, all come together to give a statement. A statement with the takeaway message of trusting the police department.
Want to know an interesting little tidbit of information? The author of all those newspaper clippings is the same person. Guess who it was. Does the name "Phil Pratt" ring a bell? Morefolk's beloved journalist, who happens to be married to Jamie Pratt. As is common knowledge, Jamie Pratt's maiden name is Jamie Mackey... these articles were written by the Sheriff's son-in-law.
I couldn't make this shit up.
Still, I know what you're thinking. It doesn't matter who wrote those articles and what biases they have! That doesn't mean the contents of the texts themselves aren't perfectly rational. Of course the husbands took a while to comment, they've been through so much trauma! Obviously, they all came forward together because they've got something in common to commiserate over, they're serving as each other's support systems, right?
Sure, it all sounds plausible at first, but the more you think about it, the more what I'm saying adds up. Remember, the husbands weren't allowed to stay at their homes, because their houses had become a crime scene. Plenty of neighbors and family members offered them places to stay, but you know where they ended up? That's right, they ended up staying in the police station. Yeah, I know the reason given was that the police wanted to ensure the husbands were receiving attention to their mental health, but then why not have them stay at the hospital? Then there's the explanation that the police wanted them close by so they could aid the investigation. Still, is that something that would require them to eat, sleep, and drink at the station for almost all hours of the day? That doesn't add up, does it?
I'll tell you the real reason that accounts for these abnormalities. The police were keeping the husbands there to monitor them. To ensure they weren't freely spreading their stories. To prevent them from commenting on the situation until they could be fed a comment generated by the pigs themselves.
You should also consider the fact that, despite these husbands having been in close proximity to their wives at the time of the killings, they were never once considered suspects in the case. What could possibly account for that, other than the fact that the cops knew that someone else, or something else, was responsible from the very beginning?
Some of you won't ever believe me, and I acknowledge that. That doesn't take away from the fact that this whole debacle has been handled so unconventionally. We've been told that the police would keep us updated on their investigations, but what have they really given us? We've received no identifiable suspect, no autopsy reports of the deceased victims, and the newspaper is more focused on selling this bullshit "Unify and support the police!" narrative than focusing on the particulars of the deaths themselves.
Go ahead and tell me we're being kept in the dark for the sake of investigative confidentiality. Tell me I'm seeking to divide us and push some communist anti-police agenda in the midst of a community tragedy. Claim that I'm making mountains out of molehills. Here's all I have to say. Either you're with me, the people, and the truth, or you're going to be a mindless sheep, licking the boots of those keeping the real facts at bay. The time is coming to make a damn choice.
Don't worry, I've got so much more to share. I'm not done exposing the hidden truths I found in the police files I cracked. I am simply waiting for the most opportune time to release more of what I have. Be patient my friends, it will be worth it. Trust me, after you see what's coming next, you will be as angry as I am. This monster terrorizing our town isn't going to stop at pregnant women and their unborn children.
After all, it already has claimed more than just those set of victims. You all might be aware that little Dennis Bowers went missing within the last week. Guess what?
They're lying to you about what happened to him.
All of it is connected, and I know just when and where to show you. The next time you hear from me, it'll be in a... different medium. Something big is about to happen. I'm certain of it.
Signing off,
-J
submitted by Jigen8206 to nosleep [link] [comments]
You know who this is. Sorry for the long wait, and thank you for your patience. Yes, this is a new email address, though the reason for that should be obvious.
I have to hand it to the pigs. They're not as clueless as I believed. What I once thought were monkeys dressed in uniform flinging shit at the wall, are actually monkeys using rudimentary tools to fling shit at the wall. I'll admit, it's cute. Still, if Morefolk's finest thought that updating their firewalls, naming their files gibberish, and using monoalphabetic substitution ciphers for their file text was enough to throw me off, they're sorely mistaken. For one, firewalls aren't as effective when I've left a backdoor in the system for free access. Seriously, it's not that difficult to get into something once you've already been inside before. Not to mention... you seriously thought documenting stuff in some basic code would do the trick? That I wouldn't be able to convert it to plain text? At least do something a little sophisticated next time; might I recommend studying some old telegrams from wartime and seeing how they did things? Seriously, your tech department should be paying me for tutelage, your cryptography is weak. The only thing I can give you credit for, is that I haven’t found any information on the unnamed agency referenced in your files. I assume their documents are cataloged in their own, entirely separate database, which isn’t surprising. Still, the only reason another agency would be involved with you at all, would be to order you around behind the scenes like the bunch of lackeys you are.
Regardless, that has no bearing on whether YOU can keep me out of YOUR shit. I suspect you'll either throw out the system and start anew, or, the more likely approach you'll take, is to start cataloging your documents in analog style. Don't know, don't care. I've already got enough as is.
To say that I've got a lot to drop on you all would be an understatement, and a severe one at that. Not everything is going to be shown right here and now, but in time, all will be clear. I've been waiting patiently, meticulously crafting my strategy, waiting for the perfect moment to re-appear. Such is the price of truth in a world run by breaking news and hastily woven narratives. There are always dozens, hundreds, even thousands of hands intricately drawing each needle through each thread, until a net of lies and misrepresentations have been constructed and cast. Cast upon what? You all, the "helpless fish" adrift at sea, going where the tide takes you. Yet, you are not helpless. There is a hand outstretched towards you, and it is my hand. I offer you access to the one thing more valuable than the money or security they try to bribe you with.
I offer you access to reality.
Reality is, regardless of who witnesses it. Therefore, the optimal way to deny one access to reality is to remove their ability to witness, to see, to observe, and to ogle the beautiful essence of truth. Think, for a moment, about what it is that best achieves this goal of restricting your perception of reality. What is it, that is such an obfuscation, such an obstruction, and such a danger?
I'll tell you, it's the narratives. The news, the media, and the outlets, all serve as distractions. Do not be so naive as to think that the news is on your side. They actively serve the interests of the authorities and their agendas... and once you become privy to that fact, it's obvious. Still, you might find my claims to be dubious, so let's take a look together, shall we? Allow me to show you precisely what I am talking about.
---
"Ellie Singleton, 33, Found Deceased in Home"
"The body of Ellie Singleton, 33, was found unresponsive in her home on Monday, January 23rd, 2023. Authorities arrived on the scene shortly after her husband, Barry Singleton, reported an incident that occurred that Monday night, around 4:47 AM. Although emergency services were quick to the scene, she was regrettably announced dead upon arrival at Morefolk Town Hospital at 5:09 AM. Detective Clark Casper, who arrived at the scene shortly following the incident, declined to comment. So too did Barry Singleton.
Although the nature of this incident remains highly unknown, its impact on our community is not lost on anyone. Plenty of tears were shed among friends, family, and loved ones, who all shared their sympathies with Mister Singleton. Ellie Singleton was expected to deliver her first child in the summer of this year. She very much had a love for children, and it wasn't uncommon for her to work as a substitute teacher at Morefolk Elementary. Many of the young students she taught and influenced took part in laying down flowers and paying their respects at the school, which hosted a memorial assembly in her honor. Ellie stood as a pillar of this community, doing what she could to ensure that future generations had a reliable shoulder to lean on. Now, a community stands as one, hearts torn apart for the Singleton family. This will surely be a day of much mourning and prayer."
---
Innocent enough, right? Just a heartfelt news clipping in response to a horrific happening. A good old unifier of the people to get them through a trying time. Aside from that, there's not much to go off of, granted this was the first of what we now know to be murders. Let's continue.
---
"Tragedy Strikes as 25-Year-Old Sasha Baker Was Found Dead In Her Bedroom"
"Onlookers littered the streets as Sasha Baker, 25, was peacefully wheeled out of her home the other night on Saturday, January 29th, 2023. Mothers, fathers, and children held hands in solemn silence as they watched, burdened with the great loss of their friend."
"It just doesn't make sense, she was young and healthy and happy, I can't even wrap my head around it," said Chuck Rivera, a long-time friend of Sasha Baker.
"This kind of thing doesn't happen in this town... it just doesn't," commented Ashley Sanchez, who was so disturbed by the death, that she had to be comforted by those around her.
"Morefolk police released a brief statement following the occurrence, with Sheriff Tom Mackey being quoted as saying, "We want you to know that our hearts are heavy, and this loss is weighing down on us, all of us. Sasha was a great woman. From the food pantries she hosted inside the church, to all the service work she did for our town, she always served as a positive influence on our youth. To us, she was family. A bright and optimistic woman we grew up alongside. Our thoughts and prayers go out to David Baker, and to any and all who are undoubtedly hurting at this time. We will be conducting an investigation into this incident, absolutely. I cannot confirm anything to you with certainty, but we have reason to believe that, well, this incident may have been the product of foul play. The chances of that being the case are low. Still, our officers are working diligently to ensure that this was not the cause of her death, because that, well, it would be heart-wrenching for all of us. Even more than it already is. We'll do what we can to keep all of you updated. Thank you for your time, and God bless you."
"At this time it is unspecified whether this event has any relation to the death of the late Ellie Singleton, who was found deceased in her home just a week prior."
---
Would you look at that? Do you know what I see? Useless fucking platitudes. Thoughts and prayers don't mean shit to us. Not to mention how vague Sheriff Mackey was about the supposed investigation they were hosting. They "peacefully" wheeled her body out of the home? Perhaps it appeared that way with several white cloths and EMTs blocking the view of her corpse. I'm not entirely sure how the word "peaceful" could be applied to the remains of a woman who had her unborn child violently ripped out. Nor am I sure how there could be any ambiguity as to whether she was murdered or not. Now you go ahead and wonder why it is that they're using such passive and evasive language. Something tells me that you already know the answer.
---
"Homicide Investigation Launched Following the Murder of Claire Summers"
"Town officials have confirmed that Morefolk Police are investigating the untimely death of Claire Summers, 28, which occurred on Wednesday, February 2nd, 2023, as a homicide."
"We are deeply disturbed by the passing of Claire Summers. The shock and sadness we are all going through cannot be understated. This is not an easy time for anybody," stated Sheriff Tom Mackey when asked for a comment about the recent development. "Our investigator's assessment of her death indicates to us that, regrettably, this was the result of a sick individual rather than a horrible accident or medical issue," continued Mackey.
"This revelation also came with an announcement from town officials that a curfew has been set in place. All citizens are to stay indoors after 9:30 PM, and all exceptions must be pre-emptively requested. Failure to abide by this regulation will be met with detainment, and offending persons may face criminal charges.
The investigation into Claire Summer's murder will incorporate the recently deceased citizens of Morefolk (Ellie Singleton, Sasha Baker) as police suspect those incidents may be related to this one. As of this moment, Kyle Summers has declined to comment.
Claire Summers, perhaps most well-known for her bakery located on Oak Way, will be remembered as sweetly as the goods she lovingly shared with us all. Not a single person would disagree that when in Claire's shop, smiles were formed and memories were made."
---
Three people had to die for them to announce that they were being murdered. Three. Whole. People. Suppose for a moment, that you don't believe me or my leaks. That you don't believe that this was all the doing of a wretched ghoul with sadistic tendencies. Is it not still strange that it took this long for a homicide investigation to be publicly launched? Each death took place inside of the victim's home, while their husbands were sleeping in the same bed as them. Are we meant to believe that a killer did their dirty work, and the husbands just... didn't notice? Seriously? These fucking rats in blue think you're all idiots. They think that you won't connect the dots. Don't let them treat you like clueless animals. Do not allow them to be evasive about what's truly happening.
---
"Morefolk Police Patrolling the Streets in Response to Most Recent Death"
"The killing of Jackie Middleton, 37, has unsettled Morefolk to its very core. Her death is another in a series of murders, now that the deaths of Claire Summers, Sasha Baker, and Ellie Singleton have been found to be connected. Morefolk police have decided to patrol the streets at night in response to this recent development, and the town curfew has been lowered to 9 PM."
"The safety of our town is our priority. We not only need to protect those of you living here, but find and prosecute whichever twisted individual is responsible for these crimes as soon as possible. We ask that you all cooperate with our curfew, and please, if you have any information that may be helpful to this case, contact us. Thank you," Sheriff Mackey explained when asked about his plan moving forward.
"When asked to comment on this tragedy, Jackie's husband Craig Middleton was quoted as saying, "There's not much for me to say at this time. The amount of hurt and devastation I'm going through can't be articulated. All I can say is that I hope our police force brings whoever did this to my family to justice."
"Furthermore, Kyle Summers, David Baker, and Barry Singleton requested to make a joint comment. The three men had also recently lost their loving wives, likely at the hands of the suspected killer involved in Jackie Middleton's murder."
"We've gotten together to support each other as of late. Things have been unimaginably hard to get through each day, but the condolences and support of all of you wonderful people have made it more manageable for us. We know we cannot change what happened, but we can, and must, address this problem before more lives are taken. Throughout these long, sleepless weeks, we've had the unequivocal support of the Morefolk Police Department. They have shown us great attention, care, and consideration. Most importantly, we know and trust that they will bring this murderer to justice. Please, support and believe in them, because they're doing all they can to fix this mess. Once again, we thank you for all the love and kindness you've given us. You all truly exemplify what it means to be wonderful neighbors, friends, and family."
"Jackie Middleton has always been an outgoing neighbor, working with Craig out of their small ice cream parlor on the nearby boardwalk. She'd often supply ice cream to nearby businesses for office parties and other celebratory events. Though store-bought ice cream would do the trick in a pinch, there was always something special about her delicious desserts that she made with the utmost love. To Morefolk, Jackie Middleton truly was the cherry on top."
---
They aren't even trying to hide it, are they? Surely you all caught it as well. Suddenly, the husbands who have gone without comment for so long, all come together to give a statement. A statement with the takeaway message of trusting the police department.
Want to know an interesting little tidbit of information? The author of all those newspaper clippings is the same person. Guess who it was. Does the name "Phil Pratt" ring a bell? Morefolk's beloved journalist, who happens to be married to Jamie Pratt. As is common knowledge, Jamie Pratt's maiden name is Jamie Mackey... these articles were written by the Sheriff's son-in-law.
I couldn't make this shit up.
Still, I know what you're thinking. It doesn't matter who wrote those articles and what biases they have! That doesn't mean the contents of the texts themselves aren't perfectly rational. Of course the husbands took a while to comment, they've been through so much trauma! Obviously, they all came forward together because they've got something in common to commiserate over, they're serving as each other's support systems, right?
Sure, it all sounds plausible at first, but the more you think about it, the more what I'm saying adds up. Remember, the husbands weren't allowed to stay at their homes, because their houses had become a crime scene. Plenty of neighbors and family members offered them places to stay, but you know where they ended up? That's right, they ended up staying in the police station. Yeah, I know the reason given was that the police wanted to ensure the husbands were receiving attention to their mental health, but then why not have them stay at the hospital? Then there's the explanation that the police wanted them close by so they could aid the investigation. Still, is that something that would require them to eat, sleep, and drink at the station for almost all hours of the day? That doesn't add up, does it?
I'll tell you the real reason that accounts for these abnormalities. The police were keeping the husbands there to monitor them. To ensure they weren't freely spreading their stories. To prevent them from commenting on the situation until they could be fed a comment generated by the pigs themselves.
You should also consider the fact that, despite these husbands having been in close proximity to their wives at the time of the killings, they were never once considered suspects in the case. What could possibly account for that, other than the fact that the cops knew that someone else, or something else, was responsible from the very beginning?
Some of you won't ever believe me, and I acknowledge that. That doesn't take away from the fact that this whole debacle has been handled so unconventionally. We've been told that the police would keep us updated on their investigations, but what have they really given us? We've received no identifiable suspect, no autopsy reports of the deceased victims, and the newspaper is more focused on selling this bullshit "Unify and support the police!" narrative than focusing on the particulars of the deaths themselves.
Go ahead and tell me we're being kept in the dark for the sake of investigative confidentiality. Tell me I'm seeking to divide us and push some communist anti-police agenda in the midst of a community tragedy. Claim that I'm making mountains out of molehills. Here's all I have to say. Either you're with me, the people, and the truth, or you're going to be a mindless sheep, licking the boots of those keeping the real facts at bay. The time is coming to make a damn choice.
Don't worry, I've got so much more to share. I'm not done exposing the hidden truths I found in the police files I cracked. I am simply waiting for the most opportune time to release more of what I have. Be patient my friends, it will be worth it. Trust me, after you see what's coming next, you will be as angry as I am. This monster terrorizing our town isn't going to stop at pregnant women and their unborn children.
After all, it already has claimed more than just those set of victims. You all might be aware that little Dennis Bowers went missing within the last week. Guess what?
They're lying to you about what happened to him.
All of it is connected, and I know just when and where to show you. The next time you hear from me, it'll be in a... different medium. Something big is about to happen. I'm certain of it.
Signing off,
-J
2023.06.01 04:52 elivings1 Why would UPS not deliver a package and reroute my package to a pickup location the next day
I was supposed to have 2 packages sent to me today. They dropped off one and the other was marked as to be sent to a pickup location in a sketchy looking shop the next day. I did not give authorization for the pickup location. They just randomly changed it to that shop after not delivering it. They also delivered one of the packages but not the other. I am now out 6 dollars because I had to change the location to a safer place and could not select my house for delivery.
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2023.06.01 04:51 dextrous_Repo32 Permanently banned from r/canadahousing for asking why Canada is the only country experiencing such a severe housing bubble
2023.06.01 04:39 Plus-Ad660 TRUTH
No matter who you send none will find success the ones 2 houses down I went to them later that day the big one I saw through him he pulled out gun nothing could happen my fake dad I seen you pull out guns behind my back everyone who thought I could not see I saw believe me God allowed to see everything in this journey my faith leaded me to where I am you have no authority over the one true GOD your scared run hide kill yourself it does not matter the staff of justice was placed in my hand the gold bracelet of authority has been placed upon my wrist.
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2023.06.01 04:37 playermademd unOrdinary Fatpass Episode 307
The episode begins with John strolling through the halls hearing peeps talk about Remi, Blyke, and Seraphina being missing for idk yeARS also them not bringing up Isen was a bruh moment. John still having his ability (well only half) was nice to see because apparently it was suppose to go away by now but we know John is to unOrdinary for that. Side not I always liked seeing John's aura channels flowing through him it's a nice touch. We move on to the combat classes John is instructing (glad to see he kept it up even without Seraphina) and the kids are getting rowdy because they want to use their abilities to fight like bruh John could smoke you without his abilities no diff (maybe not no diff but like close maybe?) so he takes them outside and we get introduced to Wyatt and John's like alright time to teach this kid a lesson and lets him pick who'll beat the sh*t out of him. They have a field trip outside and Wyatt chooses Sherri (we've seen her before in I think chapters 152, 205, and 234 and I got this info from Dhsjs Fjdksjs, lovely name btw) and they fight and Wyatt loses immediately so John's like alright watch and learn by copying Wyatt's ability and demonstrates how to be a boss with just his, AND MY MAN DOESN'T EVEN USE IT TO ONE SHOT SHERRI. (love you John) Also John thought about the bad memories again and he's like I'm not kid anymore lets move on but like Sherri didn't even do anything to anyone (besides bullying that one kid so long ago no one even remembers, I mean the main cast not the viewers ofc) so him Idk thinking about those thoughts again confused me a little like whY would? But Idk I digrace so the authorities talk and talk about whatever and mr.mustache was like shut it we got this and my boy William throws his remote at the TV (my John gets his rage from both his parents lol) and William is like alright screw it they hurt me and my family for to long and whips out his laptop and starts typing away. As of right now it's called UNTITLED but give me some names in the comments down below (I swear if it's unOrdinary Part 2 or something Ima lose it.)
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2023.06.01 04:25 Angeryreact Taking the buy button away from (a lot of) retail again
 | submitted by Angeryreact to amcstock [link] [comments] |
2023.06.01 04:18 Moses_Horwitz Seniors near scene of Seattle encampment homicide say state has 'turned their backs on us'
SEATTLE — Not even a week ago, residents of the Arrowhead Gardens Senior Living Community in Seattle's Highland Park neighborhood said they were afraid somebody was going to be killed at a homeless encampment across the street.https://komonews.com/news/local/seattle-homeless-crisis-homelessness-encampments-camps-homicides-violence-senior-citizens-concerned-over-crime-unhoused-people-housing-king-county-regional-homelessness-authority-wsdot-property-police-spd-arrowhead-gardens-highland-park#
That's exactly what happened Tuesday night when Seattle police responded to the encampment on Myers Way South after somebody located a man's body there.
2023.06.01 04:14 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
 | Flying SparksPre Order Nowhttps://i.redd.it/vvxa5zxkfb3b1.gif Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding |
2023.06.01 04:13 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
Flying Sparks
Pre Order Now
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Chapter 2
“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert.
“And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales.
“Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots.
“Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.”
“What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?”
Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type.
“Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.”
“I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown.
“Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!”
The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders.
“So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots.
“Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone.
“One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked.
“Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare.
“So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked.
“As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied.
“And?”
The biologist groaned and rubbed her face.
“As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.”
“Frass?”
“Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table.
“Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?”
“Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate.
“Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!”
“It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness.
“It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly.
“Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back.
“Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.”
The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body.
“Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.”
“Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake.
“Not me, him,” Ama said.
“Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said.
Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer.
“Emerald,” Ama said.
“Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded.
Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince.
“Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone.
“I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch.
Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time.
Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again.
“I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered.
“I could do it,” Drake offered.
“You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.”
Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder.
“Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.”
“Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up.
“Same as usual,” Ama confirmed.
Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes.
“I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room.
The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden.
“And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them.
Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat.
“Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?”
Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well.
“From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence.
She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her.
“Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-”
The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment.
“I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.”
Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?”
Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change.
“Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.”
Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure.
“Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.”
He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest.
Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet.
Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around.
Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life.
There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies.
Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it.
“Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?”
Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question.
Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules.
The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers.
However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow.
He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock.
He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday.
The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it.
The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root.
“Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.”
It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here.
He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable.
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“Flying Sparks”
Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon
#FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding
2023.06.01 04:13 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
Flying Sparks Pre Order Now Chapter 2 “Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!” The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding
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2023.06.01 04:07 InspectorWhole6201 “FAKE SPECIALIST” YAN LIMENG
 | submitted by InspectorWhole6201 to u/InspectorWhole6201 [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/g4rcq2f9eb3b1.jpg?width=3508&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=9110a430a8806a6b1802666622efd90263aed23a Overnight, Yan Limeng has caused a sensation throughout the right wing media. The senior adviser of President Trump and conservatives who has authority seem her as a hero. The social media labelled her interview as a fake news just as quickly. Scientists refused her research and said that was sophistry disguised in jargon. In fact, in the process of undergraduate to doctoral education, Yan’s areas of expertise are not virology at all, not even science. In fact, Yan’s title of “Top virologist of World” is sheer fiction. A series of papers published by Yan were copy from conspiracy theory on the Internet. Also, that is despised by the mainstream scientific community. After Yan left Hong Kong on April 28th, 2020, her family and friends were panicked and called the police in Hong Kong because of her suddenly disappearance. Until two weeks later, Yan contacted her family that all was well. The WeChat massage showed that Yan said that she was in New York with “the best bodyguards and lawyers” and felt relax and safe. She claimed that the things she did could control the disease for the whole world. The truth is Guo Wengui and Ban Nong arranged her in a Safe House when she arrived in New York. They hired a coach to teach her how to reply the questions from media. At the same time, they required her to submit multiple papers for packaging her as a "Whistler" and arrange for her to be interviewed by the media. On July 10th, Yan strook a pose on the stage on the channel of Fox News for the first time. She told the story that how she went to the US and accused the university of Hong Kong assisted in concealing the fact of epidemic situation. However, she did not mention her relationship with Guo and Ban. Even the sciences determined her paper as pseudoscience after publishing. Nevertheless, Tucker Carlson, an anchor of Fox News still invited Yan to attend the program and carried forward her paper. This interview was viewed at least 8.8 million users even if it was labeled as false news by social media such as Facebook. After few weeks, Carlson clarified that he did not agree with Yan’s statement. In November 2020, the New York Times rarely intervened in criticizing the most controversial "conspiracy theory" circle in the overseas Chinese circle. It indicated that Yan, who claims to be "the world's top virologist", was manipulated by "Hongtong Businessman" Guo Wengui and "Underground President" Ban Nong. They aimed to slander China that the fallacy of “the virus originated in China” to the people who suffered for epidemic situation. Ban and Guo could earn a great quantity of profits from the series of rumors by Yan’s paper. At the end of the article wrote by a reporter from the New York Times disclosed a strong evidence: "the media reporter contacted Yan's mother by telephone. Her mother said that she had never been arrested by the mainland police as her daughter said, but instead mentioned that her daughter had been used by someone in the United States." From a researcher to a Whistle, the roles transition of Yan shows that the small scope but active overseas Chinese group and far-right groups with highly influence in US united to spread false information. The two groups saw opportunities to push their agenda in the COVID pandemic. For overseas Chinese, Yan and her remarks provide a sharp weapon for these who intend to overthrow the Chinese government. For conservative US, this could cater to the growing Anti-China sentiment in the West and distract attention from the failure of Trump government to respond to the epidemic. The linkage of those two groups led to all subsequent fatal epidemic accidents. Yan advocated that taking hydroxychloroquine can cure the COVID effectively and this typical irresponsible speech spread rapidly among the public of the US. This caused a devastating blow to fight the epidemic of the US. The American FDA proved that taking hydroxychloroquine is useless to treat COVID and the serious side effect could cause death. “Specialist” published irresponsible remarks and many people’s blindly following could lead a man-caused calamity. Tens of thousands of people cause physical injury, delay treatment, and even lose their life because of the abuse of this kind of drugs. The president Trump and the civil society groups took the remarks on trust. Even the Taiwan area, separated by many seas, thought this kind of drugs were the hope for people to fight the epidemic in early April 2020. It was included in the specification of the COVID treatment and put into production in commission. It was known as " put into production actively, supply without worry". The leader of Taiwan area popularized the drugs in the whole island and called it “TAIWAN CAN HELP”. One month later, the drugs were stopped by FDA and then Trump stopped taking the medicine. Related industrial chain of Taiwan lost all the capital invested. In the event of Yan Limeng, through the publicity attribute of social media, the cultural propaganda offensive from Guo Wengui and Ban Nong made immeasurable loss in the process of resisting the epidemic all over the world. |
2023.06.01 04:06 rippervon [WTS] Massive Sale - Optics/AR Parts/Lights/Glock Stuff/Nylon - Come See My Wares
Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/2LvdiBK
This is one of the biggest sales I have done and its in response to some major life milestones, nothing bad but need to reprioritize and sell a lot of gear I can live without on a lot of my excess builds.
Some ground rules:
Now that that’s out of the way:
OPTICS
submitted by rippervon to GunAccessoriesForSale [link] [comments]
This is one of the biggest sales I have done and its in response to some major life milestones, nothing bad but need to reprioritize and sell a lot of gear I can live without on a lot of my excess builds.
Some ground rules:
- Please try to refer to the item number, and if you want additional details or pictures I will respond as quickly as possible.
- This is intended to be a fundrasier for non gun stuff unfortunately and at this time NO TRADES, thanks for understanding
- A Dibs Takes precedence over a PM to haggle which itself takes precedence over a Question for information
- I have a lot going on in my life and may take a few to several days depending on how many items I sell, I try to pride myself on being as quick and reliable as possible however finding enough packing material and shipping this all will take some time - ASKING FOR A STATUS OR “haVe yOu ShipPeD yET” WILL BE IGNORED. You will get a tracking number and I will do my best effort to communicate but be forewarned.
- Almost all items have the OEM boxes, screws, etc unless otherwise noted you will be good to go to install on delivery
- Please respond within 30 minutes or less or you may be passed on for a second dibser
- Discounts given for bundles
Now that that’s out of the way:
OPTICS
- Sig Sauer Tango6 1-6 in Anodized Gray, SFP, 30mm, HellfirePlex Reticle which is a dual illuminated fibeLED dot. Incredibly similar glass and performance to a Vortex Razor 1-6 in a better budget package albeit with a more straightforward reticle, capped turrets and throw lever, box and papers included - $600 shipped
PA SLx MD25 Single Dot, Gen 1 not shake awake, like new, with low mount, and riser mount with three spacer heights and all paperwork but not factory box, fantastic red dot that blends the best of a micro dot and a fullsize COMP dot - $60 shippedSOLDHolosun 510c ery good condition with only some minor housing wear if any, red reticle, no factory box but will ship padded and insured - $220 shippedSOLD- FDE Deltapoint Pro 2.5MOA with a low mount and factory rubber cover and screws - $325 shipped
- Holosun 407c V2, single dot, BIG BUTTON version, no factory box but includes screws, very good condition - $225 shipped
- Arisaka Micro Mount 1.7” Height, really solid underrated mount, comes spray painted wolf gray, if you give me a couple days I can clean it - $60 shipped
- Badger Ordnance 30mm Scope Mount COMM, good condition 1.7”, 0MOA, want to include if possible this JArm and Micro Plate and ACRO plate - $375 shipped
- My Gucciish Competition Upper - Lantac Dragon, 16” BA Hanson Premium 1:8 Twist .223 Wylde, Wojtek Adjustable Gas Block, Aero S-One 15” Handguard Cerakoted a custom “tanodized” color, Ripcord Clear Anodized Upper with a FCD Double Dimp Rose Gold Dust Cover, FCDxHodge Dimpled FA, and some rail panels -$700 OBO
- Reptilia RECCE Stock, FDE, some light install marks that get covered, otherwise great condition, really awesome, ultralight stock, the cooler UBR - $100 shipped
Daniel Defense Tornado Gray Stock with both stock pads, very great condition - $45 shippedSOLD- Griffin ECS Maritime Stock, Gray, $25 shipped
- Cloud Defensive CORv3 Handguard, 10.7”, Clear Anodized, Long recessed rail segment to allow Laser and Tape switches to be below the window of Lower 1/3 and higher optics and flush with receiver height, will come with all necessary hardware to install but you will need your own armorers wrench tool. Was installed and removed may show minor install and MLOK attachment marks but great overall condition - $150 shipped
B5 Systems Gray Pistol Grip with screw, I did a homebrew epoxy/grit powder grip and imo it came out pretty nice - $25 shippedSOLDRailscales Polymer RSB-M in Stealth Gray, like new, $20 shippedSOLD
Cloud Defensive REIN 3.0 FDE full kit with light, charger, Picatinny mount, and tape switch and an FDE flip up cap, mounted and removed but never shot with - $250 shippedSOLD- Tan Surefire X300U-A with all keys, great condition - $200 shipped
- Modlite PLHv2 Head, Black, minor housing wear but very clear lens, ships with a One Hundred Concepts cover - $160 shipped
- Cloud Defensive/IWC Offset Scout Mount, MLOK, Black, very good condition - $30 shipped
- Trex Arms Ready Rig, Wolf Gray, fitted and loaded with mags but almost never larped in ,just been sitting - $75 shipped
- LBX MAS Gray 2 Point Sling with an Upgraded Ferro Concepts Adjuster and Sling Silencer - $40 shipped
ESD Snow Camo Sling - $40 shippedSPF- Defense Mechanisms Sling, Wolf Gray with Built in Rilfe Elastic mounting - $40 shipped
- Glock 19 Gen 5 Slide, Jagerwerks F9 Cut/ACRO Footprint/Chamfered Edges/Enhanced Rear Serrations/Carbon End Plate/Nitride/All Internals/OEM Marksman Barrel from Black Phoenix Customs removing the unmatched rollmark and then Nitrided/OEM Iron Sights - $750 shipped
- Zev G17.3 Barrel, Bronze, Dimpled, very low round count with no significant wear - $150 shipped
- Zev Lightened Striker Spring/Red Channel Liner and Zev Extractor (Gen 3 or 4) - $40 shipped
- Agency Arms AOS Plate for Glock, DeltaPoint Pro, Irons Front with Ameriglo 5XL Cowitness Irons installed (Black ReaTritium Front) - $80 shipped
- CHPWS 509t Plate for a PDP Gen 1 cut, - $40 shipped
- Pair of Random Docter Optic Plates for Pic Rail from a FastFire 3 and a Vortex Venom box - Free + Shipping Cost if you want them
2023.06.01 04:04 Betty-Adams "Flying Sparks" A novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. 100K words of science fiction adventure.
 | Flying SparksPre Order Nowhttps://i.redd.it/7fvbpli8db3b1.gif Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. https://i.redd.it/t03pj0e9db3b1.gif “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding |
2023.06.01 03:58 Betty-Adams "Flying Sparks" A novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. 100K words of science fiction adventure.
Flying Sparks
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Chapter 2
“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert.
“And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales.
“Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots.
“Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.”
“What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?”
Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type.
“Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.”
“I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown.
“Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!”
The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders.
“So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots.
“Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone.
“One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked.
“Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare.
“So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked.
“As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied.
“And?”
The biologist groaned and rubbed her face.
“As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.”
“Frass?”
“Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table.
“Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?”
“Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate.
“Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!”
“It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness.
“It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly.
“Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back.
“Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.”
The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body.
“Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.”
“Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake.
“Not me, him,” Ama said.
“Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said.
Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer.
“Emerald,” Ama said.
“Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded.
Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince.
“Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone.
“I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch.
Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time.
Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again.
“I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered.
“I could do it,” Drake offered.
“You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.”
Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder.
“Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.”
“Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up.
“Same as usual,” Ama confirmed.
Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes.
“I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room.
The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden.
“And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them.
Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat.
“Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?”
Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well.
“From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence.
She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her.
“Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-”
The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment.
“I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.”
Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?”
Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change.
“Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.”
Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure.
“Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.”
He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest.
Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet.
Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around.
Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life.
There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies.
Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it.
“Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?”
Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question.
Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules.
The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers.
However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow.
He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock.
He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday.
The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it.
The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root.
“Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.”
It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here.
He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable.
https://i.redd.it/zafjty1qcb3b1.gif
“Flying Sparks”
Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon
#FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding
2023.06.01 03:56 Betty-Adams "Flying Sparks" A novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. 100K words of science fiction adventure.
 | Flying SparksPre Order Nowhttps://i.redd.it/kd8youy5cb3b1.gif Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. https://i.redd.it/o9pile07cb3b1.gif “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding |
2023.06.01 03:50 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
 | Flying SparksPre Order Nowhttps://i.redd.it/929p907cbb3b1.gif Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. https://i.redd.it/2wbccz0dbb3b1.gif “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding |
2023.06.01 03:50 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
| | Flying SparksPre Order Nowhttps://i.redd.it/q75ejmx6bb3b1.gif Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. https://i.redd.it/1w6jfrb8bb3b1.gif “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding |
2023.06.01 03:49 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
[Flying Sparks
Pre Order Now](https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon)Chapter 2“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!” The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert. “And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales. “Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots. “Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.” “What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?” Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type. “Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.” “I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown. “Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!” The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders. “So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots. “Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone. “One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked. “Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare. “So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked. “As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied. “And?” The biologist groaned and rubbed her face. “As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.” “Frass?” “Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table. “Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?” “Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate. “Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!” “It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness. “It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly. “Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back. “Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.” The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body. “Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.” “Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake. “Not me, him,” Ama said. “Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said. Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer. “Emerald,” Ama said. “Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded. Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince. “Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone. “I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch. Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time. Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again. “I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered. “I could do it,” Drake offered. “You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.” Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder. “Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.” “Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.” “Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up. “Same as usual,” Ama confirmed. Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room. The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden. “And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them. Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat. “Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?” Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well. “From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence. She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her. “Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-” The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment. “I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.” Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?” Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change. “Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.” Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure. “Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.” He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest. Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet. Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around. Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life. There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies. Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it. “Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?” Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question. Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules. The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers. However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow. He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock. He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday. The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it. The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root. “Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.” It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here. He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable. “Flying Sparks” Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home. https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon #FlyingSparks #ScienceFiction #Scifi #Story #novel #book #DrakeMcCarty #AmaLove #Donny #Em #Bard #Bole #Aliens #Spaceships #Crystals #fireflies #NPS #NationalPark #Doctor #Sever #family #storm #writing #reading #drama #literature #author #BettyAdams #DyingEmbers #Dragons #ThingsThatGoBoomp #Indiegogo #CrowdFunding
2023.06.01 03:48 Some_Fondant_4350 Looking for advice re. unbearable smell in flat and landlord refusing to help.
Hiya, this is going to be a really long post I'm sorry but TLDR landlord refuses to spend any money or do any maintenance, multiple horrible issues and now the house smells like a dead mans feet :-( Going insane and don't know what to do. Suspect broken pipe but given the runaround and now am just told 'there's nothing more I can do'. Glasgow southside
So I moved into the flat in 2021, it's visibly not been repaired in a long time but wasn't a huge problem. Covid was absolute hell for me and just pleased to be starting my life again. Classic damp, cracks in walls and ceilings, bizarre and eye-melting amount of different artex textures in each room that were clearly in fashion in the 70s. etc, but couldn't see any major issues and rent is cheap (I was wrong lol). Everything was sort of 'covered' or painted over, so we couldn't see any problems at the time. He was always slow to respond, but didn't think much of it as I've had bad landlords before.
First major red flag was a baby slug infestation in winter 2021 after we asked him to remove a rotten bathroom mirror contraption he'd built, and his 'fix' was to cover the entire floor with slug pellets. We had a cat at the time, so I just snapped and spent 4 days sealing every part of the bathroom just because I couldn't deal with the hassle, and alas no more slugs. He is aware of this and doesn't care. I'm comfortable with basic DIY and did this as properly as I could, and it looks great, clean and sealed and no slugs, cost about £200. (He's told me he intends to gut the flat when we leave and re-do it and whack the rent up, more on this later). Any time we ask for anything, he turns up with a young cousin and a screwdriver and says 'not much I can do' and just leaves, and essentially said do what you need to do to get by as long as you don't break anything. He sent me the inventory pictures and said as long as you don't do structural damage I don't mind. No major major problems I can see so I think whatever, easy life. He bumped the rent up in early 2022 from 600 to 700, not as bad as I've seen others and was doable for us and (probably stupidly) just accepted this.
Just before christmas 22, my housemate moved out and took her cat with her. We had a mouse, so I called the council who put poison down and I left to go and visit family for christmas. I came back to a smell so bad it SLAPPED me in the face as soon as I opened the door, and I was horrified. The classic sweet sickly rancid smell of death I think, so I called the pest control people back who suggested it was a mouse that had died in the wall. Makes sense, so on their advice I used a dehumidifer and waited a month. I washed the walls and floors I could touch with vinegar and bicarb etc. Tried everything and did make it liveable. I cleaned the entire kitchen and scraped back all the dirty sealant, and discovered that he'd painted over not only damp but so many mouse droppings, which had formed a kind of sludge around all the sealed parts of the kitchen. Absolutely rancid, made me sick to my stomach. Resealed everything in the kitchen I could, fine.
A month goes by, stench continues, I do what I can to get by and I saw a rat. Called the pest control people again, who came and did the same. He advised me that the smell should have long gone by now, and he suspected a burst pipe as the smell was also worse when it was warmer. He puts poison down, and I took it upon myself to try and seal up wherever it came from. I followed the trail behind the counters by the windowsill, and found that the open vent to the outside had been sealed up by a breadboard leaned up against it, and covered in foil... The whole bit behind the counters and underneath the windowsill was just haphazard bits of wood leaned up against eachother, and I found an old letter under there from 2019 recommending resealing the house to prevent pests which obviously was never done.
It's the cold snap at this point, so the smell isn't so bad. I hadn't been as on it as I'd like to be as my mum is terminally ill and I'm spending 2 weeks here, 2 weeks down south with her, and obviously massively stressed. I'm also disabled and going through intensive psych and physical treatments for preexisting issues, so haven't much capacity to deal with all this at the moment. My new housemate gets settled around march and refurnishing the flat after the old housemate left took a lot of time, and the smell is STILL there, and getting worse as it warms up. I've spent maybe 300£ on air fresheners, ozone sprays, dehumidifiers, all sorts just trying anything.
A few weeks ago, we had a sudden infestation of HUGE black flies, hundreds, literally hundreds, crawling out from under the skirting board. I came back and cleaned every single inch I could touch with bleach, just to feel comfortable, but I refused to eat in the house as I felt sick. During the clean, I discovered that the raised foundation in the kitchen is basically rotten along with most of the walls and internal structures adjoining the external walls. There is also a layer of bicarbonate of soda underneath the lino flooring suggesting he was well aware of issues. The smell was getting worse and worse, and by this point it had been months so clearly not a body decaying. I called the landlord round, who said he 'couldn't smell anything' whilst looking back and forth at his cousin, and I told him I'm sorry but you can't be serious. He said we can take up the floor maybe, see what's happening, I'll give you a can of air freshener and we'll see. He said the 'flies will take their course and get rid of the smell' (????) and tried to set me and the housemate against eachother, telling each of us the other had agreed to let it go when this was absolute bollocks.. as if we wouldn't talk to eachother? He got really angry when I suggested pipes, and emphatically denied any presence of any kind of plumbing under the property.
I called the pest control man for advice this time, and he came to chat. He has been to this property many times over the years, and confirmed presence of a cast iron pipe underneath the property and again suggested a burst sewage pipe. He advised environmental health, who would provide FOI evidence etc. and escalate. By this point, I'm at my absolute wits end, my mum's getting worse and I've applied for a housing association place but this is going to take months and months. My housemate messaged him today (his last contact was saying that she agreed to let it go (untrue) and someone will be in contact with me soon to 'chat about energy efficiency upgrades to reduce the bills' which I was suspicious of..) and he responded saying 'There's nothing more I can do about this.'. He has promised to deal with this, but the pest control man made me aware that the inspection needed for this costs a lot of money, money he refuses to spend.
He has multiple properties across the city, and I know he just refuses to invest any money in the property until we leave, so he can totally renovate and charge double. Due to the damp, woodworm, rotten foundations, crumbling ceilings etc. it's going to be a major job, and he just doesn't want to do anything. I've contacted Scottish Water to check outside drains, which should be happening soon. But fuck knows what to do now... I haven't the emotional capacity or the funds to move into a random room somewhere short notice as my mental health is in crisis and I need a base to travel back and forth to care for my mum (please no comments on this set up as it's complicated). I'm holding out on a housing association place, but honestly it's really upsetting being here and I have nowhere in the world I feel comfortable and safe right now, especially as I need somewhere safe to work through my recovery that doesnt smell like the inside of an arsehole.
What can I do? I'm scared to report him to environmental health or authorities as I don't think I'll make it through if he kicks us out for this. When I'm set up somewhere new, I'd feel comfortable reporting him and have kept everything as evidence, but I can't risk my stability right now. I can't live like this anymore, the smell makes me gag and is making me so depressed. Thanks so much for reading, any advice?
submitted by Some_Fondant_4350 to glasgow [link] [comments]
So I moved into the flat in 2021, it's visibly not been repaired in a long time but wasn't a huge problem. Covid was absolute hell for me and just pleased to be starting my life again. Classic damp, cracks in walls and ceilings, bizarre and eye-melting amount of different artex textures in each room that were clearly in fashion in the 70s. etc, but couldn't see any major issues and rent is cheap (I was wrong lol). Everything was sort of 'covered' or painted over, so we couldn't see any problems at the time. He was always slow to respond, but didn't think much of it as I've had bad landlords before.
First major red flag was a baby slug infestation in winter 2021 after we asked him to remove a rotten bathroom mirror contraption he'd built, and his 'fix' was to cover the entire floor with slug pellets. We had a cat at the time, so I just snapped and spent 4 days sealing every part of the bathroom just because I couldn't deal with the hassle, and alas no more slugs. He is aware of this and doesn't care. I'm comfortable with basic DIY and did this as properly as I could, and it looks great, clean and sealed and no slugs, cost about £200. (He's told me he intends to gut the flat when we leave and re-do it and whack the rent up, more on this later). Any time we ask for anything, he turns up with a young cousin and a screwdriver and says 'not much I can do' and just leaves, and essentially said do what you need to do to get by as long as you don't break anything. He sent me the inventory pictures and said as long as you don't do structural damage I don't mind. No major major problems I can see so I think whatever, easy life. He bumped the rent up in early 2022 from 600 to 700, not as bad as I've seen others and was doable for us and (probably stupidly) just accepted this.
Just before christmas 22, my housemate moved out and took her cat with her. We had a mouse, so I called the council who put poison down and I left to go and visit family for christmas. I came back to a smell so bad it SLAPPED me in the face as soon as I opened the door, and I was horrified. The classic sweet sickly rancid smell of death I think, so I called the pest control people back who suggested it was a mouse that had died in the wall. Makes sense, so on their advice I used a dehumidifer and waited a month. I washed the walls and floors I could touch with vinegar and bicarb etc. Tried everything and did make it liveable. I cleaned the entire kitchen and scraped back all the dirty sealant, and discovered that he'd painted over not only damp but so many mouse droppings, which had formed a kind of sludge around all the sealed parts of the kitchen. Absolutely rancid, made me sick to my stomach. Resealed everything in the kitchen I could, fine.
A month goes by, stench continues, I do what I can to get by and I saw a rat. Called the pest control people again, who came and did the same. He advised me that the smell should have long gone by now, and he suspected a burst pipe as the smell was also worse when it was warmer. He puts poison down, and I took it upon myself to try and seal up wherever it came from. I followed the trail behind the counters by the windowsill, and found that the open vent to the outside had been sealed up by a breadboard leaned up against it, and covered in foil... The whole bit behind the counters and underneath the windowsill was just haphazard bits of wood leaned up against eachother, and I found an old letter under there from 2019 recommending resealing the house to prevent pests which obviously was never done.
It's the cold snap at this point, so the smell isn't so bad. I hadn't been as on it as I'd like to be as my mum is terminally ill and I'm spending 2 weeks here, 2 weeks down south with her, and obviously massively stressed. I'm also disabled and going through intensive psych and physical treatments for preexisting issues, so haven't much capacity to deal with all this at the moment. My new housemate gets settled around march and refurnishing the flat after the old housemate left took a lot of time, and the smell is STILL there, and getting worse as it warms up. I've spent maybe 300£ on air fresheners, ozone sprays, dehumidifiers, all sorts just trying anything.
A few weeks ago, we had a sudden infestation of HUGE black flies, hundreds, literally hundreds, crawling out from under the skirting board. I came back and cleaned every single inch I could touch with bleach, just to feel comfortable, but I refused to eat in the house as I felt sick. During the clean, I discovered that the raised foundation in the kitchen is basically rotten along with most of the walls and internal structures adjoining the external walls. There is also a layer of bicarbonate of soda underneath the lino flooring suggesting he was well aware of issues. The smell was getting worse and worse, and by this point it had been months so clearly not a body decaying. I called the landlord round, who said he 'couldn't smell anything' whilst looking back and forth at his cousin, and I told him I'm sorry but you can't be serious. He said we can take up the floor maybe, see what's happening, I'll give you a can of air freshener and we'll see. He said the 'flies will take their course and get rid of the smell' (????) and tried to set me and the housemate against eachother, telling each of us the other had agreed to let it go when this was absolute bollocks.. as if we wouldn't talk to eachother? He got really angry when I suggested pipes, and emphatically denied any presence of any kind of plumbing under the property.
I called the pest control man for advice this time, and he came to chat. He has been to this property many times over the years, and confirmed presence of a cast iron pipe underneath the property and again suggested a burst sewage pipe. He advised environmental health, who would provide FOI evidence etc. and escalate. By this point, I'm at my absolute wits end, my mum's getting worse and I've applied for a housing association place but this is going to take months and months. My housemate messaged him today (his last contact was saying that she agreed to let it go (untrue) and someone will be in contact with me soon to 'chat about energy efficiency upgrades to reduce the bills' which I was suspicious of..) and he responded saying 'There's nothing more I can do about this.'. He has promised to deal with this, but the pest control man made me aware that the inspection needed for this costs a lot of money, money he refuses to spend.
He has multiple properties across the city, and I know he just refuses to invest any money in the property until we leave, so he can totally renovate and charge double. Due to the damp, woodworm, rotten foundations, crumbling ceilings etc. it's going to be a major job, and he just doesn't want to do anything. I've contacted Scottish Water to check outside drains, which should be happening soon. But fuck knows what to do now... I haven't the emotional capacity or the funds to move into a random room somewhere short notice as my mental health is in crisis and I need a base to travel back and forth to care for my mum (please no comments on this set up as it's complicated). I'm holding out on a housing association place, but honestly it's really upsetting being here and I have nowhere in the world I feel comfortable and safe right now, especially as I need somewhere safe to work through my recovery that doesnt smell like the inside of an arsehole.
What can I do? I'm scared to report him to environmental health or authorities as I don't think I'll make it through if he kicks us out for this. When I'm set up somewhere new, I'd feel comfortable reporting him and have kept everything as evidence, but I can't risk my stability right now. I can't live like this anymore, the smell makes me gag and is making me so depressed. Thanks so much for reading, any advice?
2023.06.01 03:48 Betty-Adams Flying Sparks Volume 1 - A Novel of a boy, a dragon, and an alien. Avaliable for preorder on Indiegogo Now.
Flying Sparks
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Chapter 2
“Hazardous? I’ll show that manipulative, misanthropic, anti-establishment cretin just what hazardous means if he thinks I’m going to fold on this!”The sound of vigorous guitar riffs made a fitting accompaniment to the angry tirade despite originating on opposite sides of the communal area. Ama was glaring at a laptop that sat on a stained oak desk shoved against the large table near the kitchen. She tapped a fingernail on the wood as she read through the alert.
“And what violation of basic human dignity has her royal prudishness’s undies in a bunch?” Em demanded with an affected sneer without looking up from his guitar scales.
“Oh you’ll agree with this one tree-hugger,” Drake muttered from where he sat oiling his work boots.
“Yeah,” Donny piped up, “Finney is trying to kill a perfectly healthy fir.”
“What!” Em demanded, carefully placing his battered old acoustic guitar down in its case and darting over to look at the computer screen. “You mean apark tree?”
Despite her simmering frustration Ama allowed a small smile to flicker across her face as she continued to type.
“Get out of your pajamas and I’ll tell you,” Drake ordered pointing towards the bathroom door with a stained rag. “School starts in forty-five minutes and you still have breakfast and chores. That goes for you too Pip-squirt.”
“I hope you washed your hands before you touched our food,” Em said with a frown.
“Boot grease makes a great source of fatty acids.” Drake retorted. “Now go!”
The two smaller boys muttered in annoyance but stumbled off to follow orders.
“So what is up?” the youth asked as he bent his head back over the smooth leather of his boots.
“Mrs. Finney wants that tree down that’s blocking her perfect view of Crescent Lake.” Ama replied in a dry tone.
“One that’s clearly on park property?” Drake asked.
“Indeedy-do.” Ama replied giving the paper in front of her a glare.
“So how’s she justifying it?” Drake asked.
“As a safety hazard to her house.” Ama replied.
“And?”
The biologist groaned and rubbed her face.
“As far as I can tell the trunk is perfectly healthy. There is an old trash can lid grown into the trunk and a little discolored sap is leaking out there.”
“Frass?”
“Watch your language!” Donny interjected as he darted up to the table.
“Frass is not a bad word,” Drake stated. “Have you let the chickens out?”
“Yes, what does frass mean?” Donny asked as he started piling stir-fry onto his plate.
“Look it up.” Drake ordered him. “Emerald! Breakfast ends in ten minutes! Get your tukus down here!”
“It’s bad health to rush meals,” Em snapped out as he came down a narrow stairway with deliberate slowness.
“It’s even worse for your health to skip meals altogether,” Drake growled threateningly.
“Shut it and give me some eggs.” Em snapped back.
“Emerald Waters Undersun,” Drake hissed out through gritted teeth. “You are going to get your own eggs.”
The boy threw himself into a chair and glared at Drake with challenge in every line of his body.
“Emerald,” Ama said in a calm tone. “I think you should apologize to your cousin now.”
“Sorry I disturbed you Ama,” he offered without breaking eye contact with Drake.
“Not me, him,” Ama said.
“Sorry you had to hear that Donny.” Em said.
Ama heaved a sigh and closed her computer.
“Emerald,” Ama said.
“Do you want to eat or go hungry?” Drake demanded.
Ama glanced at him with a familiar uneasy look in her eyes and Drake fought down a wince.
“Now, Em.” she said in a patient tone.
“I’ll go hungry,” Em snapped, jumping up and stalking over to the couch.
Donny kept his eyes fixed on his plate. Ama heaved a sigh before turning back to her computer. Em wriggled on the couch for several minutes before skulking back to the table. Drake moved to intercept him but Ama stopped him with a look and he let Em serve himself. Drake cast irritated glances at the wall clock as the time crept more and more into school time.
Ama closed her computer and stood, then sighed, sat and opened it again.
“I need to pick out their report topics,” Ama muttered.
“I could do it,” Drake offered.
“You do quite enough,” Ama replied briskly, as she scanned the news. “Here you go. For Donny, malfunctions at the Lewis- McChord Air Force Base air show.” A frown creased her face. “Wow, this is pretty serious. It looks like the F-16 demonstration team nearly got killed.”
Drake whistled and leaned over her shoulder.
“Multiple system failures,” he read out loud. “I am pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nope,” Ama agreed. “Here is a topic on big game management for Em.”
“Reports due by next week?” Drake asked as the old printer on the desk began to squeal and grumble as it powered up.
“Same as usual,” Ama confirmed.
Drake put the printouts on top of the homework pile and moved to wash up the breakfast dishes.
“I need to get to work early today so you two be good for Drake,” she called out placing a quick kiss on top of the smaller boys’ heads and giving Drake’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“Good luck with Mrs. Finney, and stay safe.” Drake called out as she went into her room.
The table was cleaned off and wiped down and the clink of forks gave way to the steady scratch of pencils on paper. They broke for a recess after religion and then lunch after history and math, and by the time the Grandfather clock in the corner struck two the younger boys twitching with energy. Drake made certain the internet was disconnected at the router, and chased Donny and Em out into the garden.
“And don’t come in until dark,” he ordered tossing two snack bags out after them.
Donny as usual snatched his food and disappeared into the small orachard. Low grumbles about troglodytes and the Amish wandered out into the high corn following Em and Drake shook his head in exasperation wondering, not for the first time how the dark haired princeling came from the same gene pool as his little brother. The kitchen being mostly ordered Drake was turning to put the last random dirty sock in the hamper when a gnarled hand clutching a cane head appeared in the corner of his eye, causing his heart to make a valiant attempt to bolt out of his throat.
“Abuelita!” he gasped forcing his hands down from the guard position. “Where did you come from?”
Smoldering black eyes ran searchingly over the tall youth. An impossibly long mane of streaked silver and black hair was barely contained in a thick braid. A sharply pointed nose perched over a small wrinkled mouth. A vibrant red horse-hair serape hung over her shoulders concealing everything except her brown and gnarled hands which currently clutched the old tree branch she used as a cane. Drake had been more than a little comforted by the fact that both Em and Donny had admitted to having the thought ‘witch’ every time time they saw her as well.
“From the hand of God by the bodies of my sainted mother and father,” she replied after a long, uncomfortable silence.
She always spoke in a low husky voice that suggested years of smoking, though Drake had never smelled even stale smoke on her.
“Right,” Drake blinked and grinned at the response; the one she always gave. “So you are here for their Spanish lesson? I have their grammar books ready and-”
The narrow end of the tree branch rapped against the concrete of the floor causing Drake to jump. Abuelita glared at him, locking his gaze and holding him in place with it for a moment.
“I am here for their lessons,” she finally stated, “and you are there for my payment.”
Drake thought longingly of the repair and maintenance manuals in the cab of the truck and the new tool he was itching to try, but he forced a grin on his face.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “What can I get you today?”
Abuelita pulled out a bag of woven grass from under her serape causing the indistinct patterns on the cloth to shift and change.
“Take this,” she ordered him, “and collect me the cobalt blue berries that grow on a single stalk close to the ground. They must come from the mountain to the south east of here by the crystal brook.”
Drake nodded, and took the little bag, he didn’t quite manage to infused his gestures with enthusiasm he supposed. The old woman, probably wouldn’t have noted it anyway. She turned and moved towards the garden door without waiting for any other reply. However she called out over her shoulder as he turned to find his own way out of the rambling structure.
“Don’t dawdle little one. A storm brews in the distance.”
He tried not to roll his eyes at that, the weather forecast was clear and eighties for the next week according to the morning fire report Ama had printed. The youth only nodded and slipped around the corner. He circled the barn and pulled a set of loose tan pants and tunic out of the cubby. The soft worn leather almost perfectly matched the forest floor for color as did the moccasins he pulled on after them. His morning running clothes were modern stuff that wicked the sweat away from him and let him speed through the forest. These were his free day clothes. The ones that let him disappear into the forest and wander. Abuelita, for all of her demands, would tend Em and Donny until he returned no matter how late that was, and with the Park’s yearly budget talks still under way it was highly unlikely Ama would be home until long after the sun had set. Despite still hearing the call of the half restored truck he felt something lossening in him already. The soft cotton and smooth leather rested easily against his skin and Drake slipped into the forest.
Freedom; for the moment at least, blissful freedom. Pushing aside the guilt that accompanied the thought as well as any lingering worries about his charges the youth let his legs carry him through the trees. He shunned the man made paths, following the faint animal trails. This close to the barn they were as clear to him as if they were named city streets. Being animal trails, they invariably led him to water. Today he stopped at a trickling stream, took off his moccasins, and rolled up his pants legs. The youth turned and followed the thin flow of icy water upstream, letting it steal the heat from his body through his feet.
Some distance upstream, the stream widened and pooled under a boulder. There Drake paused and pulled an old black compass out of his pocket. Behind him he knew every trail and tree. Ahead was a broad swath of National Wilderness he would have to cross, or possibly Bureau of Land Management or even state managed forests where he more rarely wandered. It was hard to tell where the boundaries were from the ground. The clearing he wanted for the berries was solidly in BLM land and he still had quite a ways to go to get there. The stand of timber that stood between him and his goal was dense with young tree and branches that frequently formed impenetrable hedges he had to track around and he checked his compass regularly as he climbed in elevation. Even so the youth found he had wandered too far off his route and had to correct when he spotted the boundary fence. However he was in no hurry and he reached the clearing long before the sun told him it was time to turn around.
Sometime in the past some unknown force had carved a shallow trench across the side of one of the small mountains that that dotted the wilderness. It had puzzled Drake at first. The scour was at the wrong angle to be an old rock slide, and terminated in a near perfectly circular clearing at the lower end. Centuries old Douglas Firs abruptly gave way to a second ring only a few decades old. Those were in turn beginning to produce cones and a smattering of knee high saplings. The rest of the space was completely given over to wildflowers. No matter what season Drake visited it he found a riot of life.
There had been an early spring and many herbs that normally would have waited a month or more were already in full bloom in the mountain meadow. A white wave of foamflower washed in from the deep forest surrounding the clearing, sending up knee high stalks covered in the delicate white blooms. Late trillium hid close to the roots of the great firs, many having shed their white corollas and begun to put forth their bulbous seed heads. Fuzzy white baneberry blossoms nodded gently in the breeze. A riot of yellow and purple spread across the ground as vetch and buttercups and a host of clovers competed for space in the open sun. Great stalks of lupine as high as his head thrust up their purple and blue proudly from thick clusters of palm shaped leaves. Pink shooting stars and violet harebells crouched under the protection of the larger plants. Indian paintbrush lit the scene with flames of red and orange. Where a spring seeped into the meadow elephant’s head flared neon pink and corydalis bushes put forth blushing blooms. Pale green wild orchids stood along the wet spot and the swarms of bees danced from them to the glacier lilies.
Sometimes, as he bent over a tiny blossom and traced the intricate network of veins in the petals, drank in the scent, and felt the smooth surface of the leaves an otherworldly feeling would come over him. It was as if there was another world just out of range of his senses. If he could only really look, the thin illusion that was blocking him would slip away and reveal the real world underneath it.
“Look Awiegwa,” his father would whisper, pointing at a deer mouse perched on a fallen log. “What does it see?”
Awiegwa would screw up his face and squint. Trying to find the answer to the question.
Awiegwa had often wondered how so many flowers had come to be in the relatively small area. He had identified dozens of species and there were more he had yet to determine. The clearing was always the first place to bloom and the last to go dormant. Many of the flowers seemed to utterly defy their usual blooming patterns. However, as time passed he had simply come to accept it. It was one of the small good things that brought back the memories of his father. If it didn’t quite follow the rules Ama had taught him, well an impossible clearing in the mountains wasn’t a place for rules.
The particular bloom that Abuelita had requested had taken full advantage of the early sun and had already put forth a few cobalt blue berries; easily spotted at the edge of the clearing in the delicate sea of white flowers.
However before he left the shade of the forest for the meadow the youth paused and closed his eyes. Bole wasn’t always here, but he was often enough that Awiegwa always checked for him. Carefully he reconstructed the clearing in his mind; marking every tree and boulder on the edge. Three years he had been coming here and each time it was easier to recreate the clearing. Breathing evenly he opened his eyes, letting the mental image merge with the actual. There was a brief moment of confusion as details like the play of light through branches and the trembling of small clusters of flowers fixed themselves but there was only one truly jarring note. Awiegwa didn’t let his eyes focus on the disparity; he never did anymore, but a warm smile spread across his features as he slipped silently into the meadow.
He was here. As the youth moved in a low crouch, gathering the first fruits of the Queen’s Cup, he let his peripheral vision linger on a particular snag. There was nothing obviously interesting about it, other than the fact that it had not been there the last time Awiegwa was here. He had named the wanderer Bole, because it most often appeared as a thick tree trunk; sometimes living, sometimes dead. Occasionally it would be a boulder or simply a mound in the dirt. Often it wasn’t in the clearing at all. If the youth moved forward and tried to closely examine it he could never find anything to suggest it was something other than a tree or rock.
He had thought about taking a sample occasionally, had taken his knife out to do just that more than once, but something always held him back. Bole was a part of this place. Dissecting him would be too much like attempting to dissect his sense of his father’s presence here. The youth had never told anyone about this place, not even Ama with who could get most things out of him easily enough. Down at the house, in town, when he was Drake; solid, reliable, first up in the morning, two grades ahead in school with a penchant for science Drake, a productive member of modern society with a promising future and his mother smiling at him. Here he could be Awiegwa. Here he could believe in the ancient medicines his father had dug out of dusty old tomes and brought to life from the forest litter. Every time Awiegwa left the clearing and headed back towards home reality would reassert itself. Bole would resolve back into a figment of his imagination, created from pride in a somewhat better than average memory and what the social workers had called an “intriguing imagination”. When he reached the house and become solidly Drake again flickers of embarrassment would begin eating at him for letting his senses trick him like that, but as long as the blooms nodded around him in this garden Bole could exist even on a Thursday.
The little woven grass bag filled up with the berries fairly quickly and Awiegwa soon stretched out of his crouch and let his gaze wander contentedly over the clearing. As it always did, the warm space was working its special magic. Worries about Em getting out of his schoolwork, of not paying enough attention to the quiet Donny, of letting Ama see his petty resentments: it had all melted away from his muscles, thoughts of college costs and abandoning his duties dissolved into an acute sense of the now. The leaves rustled softly in a barely-there breeze, the heavy scent of some unidentified blossom filled his lungs, a dozen shades of green framed the rainbow of flowers, and over and above it all the creaking of the firs as the wind played over them. It was at times like these that he felth he could almost see into heaven; that something wonderful that existed just beyond his senses, and all he had to do was reach out and claim it.
The youth took a deep breath and let himself fall backwards onto a handy rise in the forest floor. His path had taken him to the foot of the snag and he shifted slightly to align himself with the gnarled roots. One hand gripped a time smoothed root.
“Ama trusted me enough to go out of state,” he murmured. “That’s the first time she’s done that. Usually she has Abulita stay with us to fend off the Harsh, but she said it’s long past legal now.”
It was his imagination of course that made him think the root vibrated in his hand in response. Many a long hour he had spent in this clearing with the wanderer. He had poured out his frustrations and anguishes over life’s injustices, had shared his secrets as he grew, and had shouted his triumphs. Sometimes he felt closer to Bole than to any of his human friends. However, something that sounded like his mother’s voice warned him that there was something odd about this and that awareness was the main reason he had kept this place secret from Ama. Their mother hadn’t exactly liked stuff like that. She had never objected to his father’s digging up the old stories of her people. Making cross generational connections between elders, who more often than not lived isolated lives, and the next generation, was an admirable goal in of itself in her eyes; objectively a social good. Storytelling was only the natural course for these relationships to take, but subtle looks had warned even a very young Drake that it was best to cautious what he shared with his mother. At least of those things that couldn’t be placed on a microscope slide. So this was Awigewa’s place, and while his father’s spirit wanders the flowers with he had never felt his mother here.
He let his focus drift up, and up. Dark blue Lupine nodded over his head framing the faint crisscross of jet contrails that threw a light haze over an otherwise cloudless sky. His clothed grew deliciously hot from the spring sun. The ground too had eagerly accepted the energy and now it conducted the heat into the muscles of his back. Bole’s wood beneath him was warmer even than the surrounding ground and an idle thought traced across Awiegwa’s awareness; something about it being odd for the light colored wood and relatively dry wood to retain more heat than the darker soil surrounding it. His mind was filled with the impression of a goal. He had been meaning to do, something. Something fun, yes, exploring, he’d meant to see if whatever had dug that den by the second boulder was cubing this year. He would just get up and do that in a minute. His back was so warm and comfortable.
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“Flying Sparks”
Another foray into the lives of Drake McCarty, Ama Love, and the rest of their siblings as they discover that something alien is out in the forest around their home.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/flying-sparks-a-novel-of-dragon-bear-and-boy/coming_soon
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