There's several problems with a 76ers sign & trade for Fred VanVleet, mainly logistically:

1. The 76ers don't have many contracts to match Fred's presumed next contract (let's say $30/year for 4 years); Tobias Harris is the closest with his outgoing salary being $39 million but said contract would push the Raptors over the first tax apron...
2. ...if a 1:1 was even possible as the trade is around $21 million in outgoing vs $39 million due to another quirk around sign and trade i.e. how much outgoing salary is counted for the player being sign and traded and the incoming player's salary
3. Due to the rules around sign and trade, multiple players cannot be included with the player being sign and traded unless the players included can be traded in separate, legal transactions i.e. Fred for __ and Thad for __ that are combined into a single trade; a Fred + Thad for Harris trade would not comply with the CBA
4. Tobias Harris' contract, even as an expiring for a decent player, doesn't have much value on its own and Philly doesn't have any other moveable contracts nor assets they can trade since Maxey is likely off the table and their futures are a series protected 1sts that would leave the team waiting until 2029; a swap in 2026 is possible but unlikely to be altogether valuable

TL;DR Unless it's a 3-team sign and trade where Harden agrees to a sign and trade to the Rockets or that rumor about the Raptors really liking Jalen McDaniels at the deadline was true (and McDaniels would also have to be a sign and trade which would hard cap the Raptors), a Fred to Philly sign and trade is more difficult than just about any other option out there.
This is a leverage play by Klutch and/or the 76ers trying to maintain what little leverage they have in maintaining James Harden.

This was inspired by the recent community post on Cloud 9's official Youtube channel, and I noticed several posters say Jay and Trudy (though have given no reason why).
Sorry in advance for the long rant, but IMO, when I learned they were being paired up with Series 5 was soon to premiere, I wasn't sure what to think. I was happy my girl was finally going to find someone, but I was kind of annoyed it was Jay when he was already in a love triangle between Ebony, him, and Amber. About 8 episodes into the series, I liked their interaction and the chemistry between James and Antonia, but then Trudy's speech to Jay about doing something they know will hurt a lot of people started to kill it for me, because I knew they were setting up Trudy to be something of a romantic villain who was standing in the way of the writers' new power couple, Jay and Amber. As the series went on, I was immediately turned off by how Trudy's character was written. All that character development, including one of my favorite scenes from Series 4 of Trudy confronting Lex of complying with the Technos, all thrown out the window in a season that truly jumped the shark with a holographic Zoot. There was even a point in time in Trudy's development that I thought Bray would be impressed and start to wonder if he missed out (but of course we know that wouldn't have happened). If the writers had been clear about Trudy's reason for her behavior, especially addressing her mental illness like they started to in A NEW WORLD, then I would have accepted it.
TL;DR: Jay and Trudy potential, but the writers gave us an early Series 1 version of Trudy instead of the developed character.
What are everyone eles's thoughts?

That's right, we're back in the jungle!
We challenge 18 of our franchise's greatest players to return to the cruelest, fiercest, and most insane competition yet. They will be put to the test as they try to survive the jungle's hardships and precarious situations, while trying not to be eliminated by each other. Which of the stars will reign and shine in the sky?
​

Angela Merkel RikkiSnake	Austin St. John Squidgameonbookpot	Daniel Robert Middleton Reasonable-Layer7963
Elon Musk alittlechese	Emma Stone PossessionWhich	Erin Moriarty PossessionWhich
Hideo Kojima Kingfin9391	Johnathan Schlatt CitrusKey1129	Karl Jacobs alittlechese
LeBron James Majestic-Attorney516	Lin Shaye	Melanie Brown RikkiSnake
Michael Cera Hi-Shinx	Millie Bobby Brown Majestic-Attorney516	Miranda Cosgrove SilverOwl24
Natalie Nunn angiewantscookies	Ryan Reynolds bryandje235	Zendaya ChemicalStick4626

Link of the Season: All-Stars Edition

My favorite players: Natalie, Angela, Erin, Dan MTK, Zendaya, Ryan and Elon Honorable players: Karl and Austin

Thank you to everyone who play and congratulations to the winner.
Seasons:

1. Borneo
2. Australia Outback
3. Africa
4. Marquesas
5. Thailand
6. The Amazon
7. Pearl Islands

Guess where this comment is from:

https://passionfruitmusic.com
This is a snippet of ‘James Dean’ by one of our favorite artists VAR!N, check him out here: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0oFNKEjPeTHKmKqlZ1Zi7r
*all gifs were sourced from various users on Pintrest. https://in.pinterest.com/amrmecca/boards/

Write your guesses like this: RedditIndiaGuesser
You can find all the possible subreddits here

I just finished season 6 and I think it is my favorite so far! S6E6 James had me lmfao
But I kept thinking “what’s the deal with….” and feel like I never got my answers so I’ll list my musings here. I am guilty of not doing my research first so if I got some facts wrong or missed something in the news or reunion, sorry!!

1. What’s the deal w Logan and James??? Was it edited weirdly??? Did he plan to have Logan lie on the phone and that’s why he did speaker?? Is it really a lie?? Did Raquel think anything??
   
2. What’s the deal with Jeremy being really creepy and gross at Katie’s wedding? Do we know any more about that? Did Stassi ever share exactly what he was doing to her or was she keeping it to herself to avoid causing more trouble?
   
3. What is the deal with Scheena constantly talking about Rob?? Was it just the editing?? It was so disturbing and sad how she refused to listen to anything negative about him and kept pretending everything was perfect. I started with S10 and I thought that she and Brock have the most amazing and beautiful relationship. And now I realize that she talked Shay and Rob up just as much so it doesn’t mean much
   
4. Ariana and Tom got in some pretty ugly fights this season…what was the deal with that? He keeps talking about how they were hiding any trouble from the cameras but I think their fights felt really ugly and dark, maybe even more than Katie and Schwartz’s fights
   
5. What is up with Schwartz blacking out and making out with people??
   
6. Why hasn’t Lisa smacked the Toms already for their attitude about TomTom. They each own 5% but they are inserting themselves in decisions like they own 50%. And Sand keeps talking about how he’s always wanted to own his own bar and keeps calling TomTom his. I had to fast forward through the Nick Alain Vegas meeting because I was cringing so much. They really needed to be put in their place. Also them having the stupid progress party is great foreshadowing for the million launch parties that they had at Schwartz and Sandy’s
   
7. I feel like we got to see a little of Raquel trying on her big bad billy shoes and confronting LaLa about her friendship with James
   
8. Do they ever go back to realize that Sandoval asked James if he HUNG OUT w Kristen and that’s why he said “a little bit but not really”??? They were really so sure that he had confirmed they hooked up
   
9. Why does LaLa have a baby bottle in Mexico? Lol
   Please share any thoughts!! My Vanderpump addiction is becoming a real problem lol
   

*Sorry if the formatting isn't great* Reddit's text editor is butt cheeks.
The draft is less than a month away. After the combine, we've seen a shift in prospects. The following is my completely unqualified and unprofessional opinion of the current power rankings. This is not in general, but keeping the Jazz in mind completely and basing it off their needs and fit. So here ya go...
​
1) Victor Wembanyama (8'7" 105lbs Unicorn - Deltron 750)
Victor wouldn't drop to 9 even if it cured cancer.
2) Scoot Henderson (6'3" PG - G-League Ignite)
Hoping that Scoot falls to 9 is like hoping the Celtics come back to take their series against the Heat in game 8 of the ECF
3) Brandon Miller (6'9" SF - Alabama)
Yeah I wish...
4) Amen Thompson (6'7" PG/SG - Overtime Elite)
Amen falling to 9 is about the same odds as me getting a girlfriend in the next 6 months. Basically zero.
5) Ausar Thompson (6'7" SG/SF - Overtime Elite)
Wishful thinking to get him at #9 but not impossible. He's an amazing athlete that seems to have a well-polished game with star potential. Some scouts are claiming he's better than his brother Amen, but only time will tell.
6) Taylor Hendricks (6'8" PF - UCF)
The guy is rocketing up the board and at this point, grabbing him at 9 might end up being a stretch. Great 3 point shooter, scorer, and hyper-athletic big. The guy at one point seemed to be a sleeper hit, but is now getting good attention and is climbing fast.
7) Anthony Black (6'5" PG/SG - Arkansas)
Admittedly I am still a little hesitant on Black, but I'm coming around to him. There's a good chance he'll be available at #9. He's a great defensive combo guard that needs to polish his shooting. Seems like a good locker room guy and he has good size.
8) Cason Wallace (6'2" PG - Kentucky)
Probably my favorite player in the draft. He has less star potential than the players listed above, but seems to be one of the lowest-risk players in the draft. I get a Marcus smart/mike conley vibe from him, though he likely won't reach the peak that Conley did. Love the lockdown defense and potential to become a great playmaker in the future.
9) Jarace Walker (6'9" PF - Houston)
Arguably the best big in the draft after Wembanyama. He's developing a 3 point shot to have him help stretch the floor. Place this guy next to Walker Kessler and we could have an extremely young and unstoppable 4-5 combo down in the paint. I just have him lower because he is slightly derivative of Kessler. But still worth taking at 9 if he's available.
10) Cam Whitmore (6'5" SF - Villanova)
The more time goes on, the more worried I get about Whitmore. We've seen players similar to him that rely on athleticism and natural talent that ended up bombing in the NBA. Guys like Michael Kidd-Gilchrist, Anthony Bennett, Josh Jackson just to name a few. Not saying that's guaranteed, but the guy just doesn't have a knack for the game that others above in this list do. I genuinely hope he does well for whoever he ends up with though.
11) Gradey Dick (6'6" SG/SF - Kansas)
I'm not rock solid on Dick at #9. His ability to score is impressive and his ability to fit right up into a tight system and satisfy his teammates is worth noting. He is going to have to soak for a little bit before we know how big he can be long-term. He is also known to work long and hard to make sure he does his part. But he also comes across as one that can only do so much long-term, sometimes you want something with a little bit more of a natural feel.
12) Leonard Miller (6'9" PF - G-League Ignite)
He's a long guy with some raw talent that's climbing up the board fast. One of the most intriguing things about Miller was his jump from last year to this year. Last year looking lost, this year he's looking like he could be the real deal. Good amount of potential here that could fit as a good stretch 4 in Utah's system. Rumors have it that the Jazz are pretty high on him and my prediction is that if he's available at 16 we'll take him.
13) Kobe Bufkin (6'4" PG/SG - Michigan)
Another player who has been climbing quickly and has gone from a mid-to-high twenties player up to the late lottery. He shows a lot of promise to develop into a good player in today's NBA being a good scorer with quickness and agility to get the ball to the hoop. He's my guy at 16 if we go for a big guy at 9 and if he's available which is no longer a guarantee.
14) Keyonte George (6'4" SG - Baylor)
A player who was starting to fall before having a good showing at the combine. Seems to have a pretty solid shot and ability to score. He's a decent 2-way guard that seems like a more built and less explosive Jordan Clarkson.
15) Nick Smith Jr. (6'5" PG/SG - Arkansas)
Another big question mark. Seemed to be one of the most hyped prospects going into college and due to injury had a shortened and unimpressive season with Arkansas. Seems to have the body and mindset for the NBA, but talent just hasn't been proven yet.
16) GG (Gregory) Jackson (6'9" PF - South Carolina)
A very intriguing pick at 16. He has some growing up to do mentally but he also impressed at the combine and in his first and only season with South Carolina. Seems to be a prospect that will either shine and be a steal or sink and be a bust with little in between. He's an incredible offensive talent with the ability to hold his own on the defensive end. Comparable to Taylor Hendricks but he's also a higher risk than Hendricks.
17) Brice Sensabaugh (6'6" SG/SF - Ohio State)
Comes across as a guy that needs the right coach to develop well. Immaculate offensive game with some major concerns on the defensive end. If a coach can help him on D, he could be an absolute steal. But it's important to understand that his defense needs some work if he wants to stay in the league.
18) Jett Howard (6'7" SG/SF - Michigan)
Good strength an shot maker who because of his upbringing has always been around NBA minds (His dad is Juwan Howard, one time all star and 18 year NBA player). He doesn't seem to be a shoe-in fantastic player but has the work ethic and the mindset to succeed in the NBA. Needs to work on consistency on the offensive end if he wants to be a difference maker in the league.
19) Jordan Hawkins (6'5" SG - Uconn)
I'm not 100% sold on Hawkins at 16. He's a solid player with good intangibles but does give some pretty strong Jalen Suggs vibes. Good enough player, but also not quite built for the NBA. He has the heart and effort to make it in the league, but there are definitely higher upside players available at 16.
20) Jalen Hood-Schifino (6'6" PG/SG - Indiana)
Solid guard with some hype and some naysayers. Seems to be somewhat decisive. He absolutely has the heart and size to compete, but consistency on the offensive end is a problem. Some games he's looking incredible, and other games he looks like a benchwarmer. It's hard to predict how he's going to pan out. (Also the latest ESPN mock draft have the Jazz taking him at 9??? Horrible take in my book, I think there are better players available at 16)
21) Kris Murray (6'8" SF/PF - Iowa)
One of my favorite players in this year's draft, though one that I have to admit probably isn't a great pick at 16. He has a higher floor but lower ceiling than a lot of other guys around this point in the draft making him a safe but probably not earth shattering pick. All around solid player that could be a valuable bench piece on a good team.
22) Sidy Cissoko (6'7" SF - G-League Ignite)
A possible sleeper who was outshined by his teammate Scoot Henderson who's a guaranteed top 3 pick. He's a solid sized wing who can also play a small ball power forward. His effort on defense makes him likely to get playing time early on. Athleticism isn't fantastic and tends to use his size to get what he wants on the court. A risk at 16, a no-brainer at 28. Hard to predict where he'll land.
23) Noah Clowney (6'10 PF/C - Alabama)
Likely not an immediate impact in the NBA but has the potential to be really good down the road. He's primarily a stretch 4 who can also play center if he puts on some weight. He moves well and has a raw game that's worth taking a chance on. Unfortunately he's too high risk for 16 but probably won't fall to 28 either.
24) Maxwell Lewis (6'7" SG/SF - Pepperdine)
A possible sleeper pick. He's a solid 3&D player with good length that needs to add a little more weight. Not an elite athlete, but he's still able to score by making smart plays getting to the basket. His 3 point shot is looking solid, and if it translates to the NBA he could be an impact player off the bench pretty quick. Another one that likely won't be there at 28 but also may not be worth taking at 16.
25) Dariq Whitehead (6'4" SG/SF - Duke)
Poor guy has had bad luck. Talent of a top 10 pick, but 2 foot surgeries have set him back from reaching his potential. Has a knack for the game and is a good perimeter defender, but recent play shows that he may just end up being a 3&D type guy. But injury history and questions regarding how he'll recover from existing injuries put him back on the list.
26) Dereck Lively II (7'1" C - Duke)
This is one that is higher than 26 on regular power rankings, but for the Jazz he just doesn't make a ton of sense unless he somehow falls to 28 which likely won't happen.
27) Bilal Coulibaly (6'8" SF - France)
One of the bigger question marks in this draft. Taking him at 16 is a definite stretch but at 28 might be worth it. He's long but skinny and has consistency issues making him the question mark he is. It's really hard to know if his game will translate to the league or not.
28) Brandin Podziemski (6'5" SG - Santa Clara)
I really like the idea of taking a risk on Podziemski at 28. He's another player that won big time at the combine. After his first year in the NCAA he was thought to be a nobody before transferring to Santa Clara where he dominated. He's far from athletic, but has good Basketball IQ and is a deadly scorer. He's a slight risk at 28, but one I think worth taking if he's available at 28. Could be a Kyle Korver type player in the future.
29) Trayce Jackson-Davis (6'9" PF - Indiana)
One of the most physically gifted athletes in this draft, 6-9 with a 7-2 wingspan weighing in at 240, this guy is ready for the NBA in that way. In terms of play, probably not as much. His play style is traditional center, but he's a little undersized and that style of play is on its way out. He seems to be highly competitive and wants to be successful which will help him in the next level, just needs to start developing a shot if he wants to be a long term piece in the league. But if he does that, he could be a steal at 28)
30) Colby Jones (6'6" SG/SF - Xavier)
A safer pick at 28 if he's available. His play style has been compared to Josh Hart as the type of player that does a little bit of everything without being incredible at any one thing. A safe bet if we're looking for a role player off the bench at 28.
31) Olivier-Maxence Prosper (6'8" PF - Marquette)
One of the biggest winners from the combine. He was thought to be a mid-to-late second rounder that has blasted into late first discussions. He played extremely well against his peers and is now looking to be more polished than once thought. High energy and great size contributes make him worth seriously considering if available at 28.
32) Julian Phillips (6'7" SG/SF - Tennessee)
Phillips is slowly working his way up the draft ladder, once thought to be a mid second rounder is now cracking the late 1st. He has good length but needs to put on some weight if he wants to stay healthy. He's not a good 3 point shooter and would really need to develop on that end to get playing time, but the athleticism and explosiveness make him really intriguing at 28.
33) Jamie Jaquez Jr. (6'7" SF - UCLA)
The last on the list here that I would be okay with the Jazz taking a chance on at 28. He's an all-around solid player that proved to be one of the best with UCLA over the last 4 years. He has good size and seems to be fairly polished. Reason he's this low is potential ceiling doesn't seem to be very high. Could be a good bench piece for us, but also doesn't seem to be one that has the potential to be a long-term player for any team in the league.
34) Bobi Klintman (6'10" PF - Wake Forest)
High risk, high reward type player. There are others I like better at 28, but Bobi wouldn't be a waste. He's a 6-10 stretch four with a great 3 point shot but does not quite seem to be NBA ready. With the right development staff he could turn out to be solid, but I expect him to spend some time in the G-league for his first year or two.
35) Rayan Rupert (6'7" SG/SF - New Zealand)
I do not understand the hype behind Rupert. He's athletic, has a great wingspan and he's young. On the other hand, he played backup minutes in New Zealand averaging barely over 6 points a game. That on top of injuries and I don't see why he's projected to go as high as our 16th pick.
36) James Nnaji (6'10" C - Barcelona)
I like Nnaji, but I'm not sold on him for our 28th pick. He gives me Azibukie vibes but with more potential. He he has great athleticism and size, but would need a lot of time to develop. I feel like we would be better off finding a backup center in free agency.
37) Andre Jackson Jr. (6'6" SF - UConn)
A definite project player that was a good piece in UConn's national championship run. He would be worth investing in if we had a second round pick, but he's just not quite NBA ready yet.

Continued from Pt. 1, which can be found at:
Pt 1: https://www.reddit.com/Horror_stories/comments/13wymkl/ghost_word_pt_1/
WARNING: This story contains depictions of non-consensual sex and gun violence.
---------------------------------
Lyle found himself on foot, the valise at his side, the night air crisp and noisy. He realized he was ravenous. No surprise there, he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in twenty-six hours. The late evening traffic was brisk around the campus, and as he passed a roving pack of students Lyle realized it was Thursday night*. Thirsty Thursdays*.
In keeping with ancient tradition, the majority of undergraduates avoided Friday morning classes at all costs, preferring to begin their weekend revels on Thursday nights. Lyle followed his feet. He imagined power emanating from the briefcase at his side, thrumming up his arm. He felt, for perhaps the first time in a life of shrinking uncertainty, boundless.
And it felt extraordinary.
Somewhere inside of him a notion was forming that he did not dare articulate. But he followed his feet. The easy ebb and flow of walk signals, the pleasantly cool night air, the passing chatter, even the occasional car-horn—which in the past had never failed to startle him, jittery as he was—seemed buoyant and agreeable. The night was his. He realized he was sloping gently downhill, as he followed his feet. He realized he knew exactly where he was going. He found himself before O’Flaherty’s Pub, with its sandwich-board blaring LADIES NIGHT 1/2 WELL DRINKS -- TRUST ME YOU CAN DANCE in electric pink loops. It felt only natural to step beneath the awning, swing wide the knotted mahogany door, and enter the din.
The ham-hock manning security—probably a redshirt lineman in his off-season—turned toward Lyle on autopilot, one hand reaching out as a question formed on his lips, lemme see some ID. Lyle made no attempt to reach for his wallet because he knew the inevitable would happen when the bouncer took in his face, which he did a half second later. A tiny beat of recognition flickered and was gone, and the bouncer turned away. No need to card the old dude. Good luck navigating the vicissitudes of adult life, you Mongoloid, Lyle thought. The jag off had a Black & Mild tucked up behind one ear, Lyle felt an insane urge to snatch it off his head and break it in half. He did not do well with the pretend authority of chunky, dead-eyed adolescents.
But I’m not here for him.
Lyle wove his way into the evening crush with the delicate, shuffling little steps he always used in crowds. By fits and starts he made his way deeper, deeper, winding toward the back bar, the one with the full-length mirror. That was her favorite. O’Flaherty’s had a Crosley jukebox, wood-paneled and coin-operated, reaching for vintage but stuffed to the gills with Bluetooth and wi-fi and digital memory and whatever else. A woman’s voice was booming out of it, an empty pop ballad gussied up by her big, operatic sound. Lyle tried to think of the singer’s name, but couldn’t. He squeezed into a narrow gap at the back bar.
Darby was flirting as she mixed a rum-and-coke for a gawky, dough-faced kid in a flat-cap and a Harrington jacket. On the few occasions he had come out on Darby missions, Lyle had stayed well back from the bar, waiting for drink service at one of the small cafe tables lining the billiard room. But tonight, he wasn’t here to watch.
Darby handed off the drink and caught sight of Lyle. He winced—he could read the surprise, even discomfort, on her face. But she was tending bar, and she was quick on her feet, and she rearranged her expression into a smile. She held up a finger—*one sec—*to which Lyle nodded, as she took flat-cap’s (father’s) Amex back to the register and opened up a tab.
Lyle enjoyed watching her walk. Enjoyed looking at her from the back, or in profile. He usually saw her face, in class, big brown doe eyes and very pale, freckled skin. A shade away from clear, he had heard her joke once, to James, as she had invited him to touch the roadmap of blue veins on her inner arm. That had enraged Lyle—the sudden, unwelcome image of James with those long creamy legs locked over his waist, his long, slow thrusts.
Because he restrained himself from ogling her in class, it was a pleasure to come to O’Flaherty’s during her shifts and watch her as she worked. Darby was not the first of what Lyle thought of as his “favorites”. Every year or two there was a fresh, irresistible young thing, for him to think about, alone, late at night. One of the unspoken perks of professordom was the constant influx of eye-candy, of short skirts and long legs and high asses and pert young tits. In his mind’s eye it was an endless profusion of imagined aureoles, of wondering about their panties—boy-briefs or frilly little whatsits or g-strings or none at all—and even if Lyle never slept with them there was an intense eroticism in holding power over these girls he could never have bedded in his own college years. In pushing that term paper over the failing line and waiting, deliciously waiting, for them to come to his office hour and plead. Only Darby’s work was reasonably competent, so even that grimy thrill was denied him.
Darby finished up with the register and came over, the pale of her neck stark against her tight black t-shirt. O’FLAHERTY’S was printed on it in green, the name stretched to accommodate her bust. Her hair frazzled at the temples; she’d been working hard.
Just a little dirty, that’s how I like you, he thought.
“Dr. L! We missed you today, thought maybe you caught the gunk. You all right?” Darby beamed her big smile at him, a gift of the gods (and of immaculate orthodontics).
“I’m fine, Darby, thanks. Just a communication mix-up. I’m sorry you all waited.”
She kept smiling, seemed to be waiting for more. He didn’t give it to her.
“Well—can I get you anything?”
Lyle hesitated, trying to think of a manly drink, something urbane and—professorial.
“Scotch-rocks. A double.”
Darby continued to stare at him, expectantly. “Any… particular poison, or-?”
Lyle glanced up, made a show of studying the bottles arrayed behind her. He knew nothing about scotch. Stupid. He settled on Johnnie Walker Black, and Darby poured his drink.
Lyle realized his heart was racing. Darby set the drink in front of him and he downed half of it in one swallow. He managed to keep his face neutral as the liquor seared his throat.
“This is a—little bit of a departure, for you, huh?” Darby indicated the scotch.
“What?”
She must have known he heard her but she raised her voice anyway. The music had changed to a British pop group with a lot of electronic undertones, trying to sound haunting.
“The scotch,” she said. “Don’t you always order lemon drop martinis? When you come in?”
Busted. Two bright red circles appeared high on his cheeks.
“You know, it, it depends,” he replied. “Depends on my mood. And you—you make a hell of a lemon drop martini, here.”
Fucking idiot, he thought. They make the same Goddamn lemon drop martini as everybody else and she knows it.
Darby was smooth, though. Graceful. She rolled right past it. “I wondered why you never came over and said hi.”
“Well I don’t want to, you know, be a bother. You’re working. It’s always busy. And I’ve been coming here for years, off and on. You get used to seeing students out on the town. I try to give them their space.”
“Oh.” Her smile reappeared. “Well I’m glad you came over. Let me know if I can get you anything else?” She was already angling away.
“How was class today?” Lyle didn’t want to let her go. She glanced down the bar, she had customers waiting.
“It was great, really great,” she hurried her answer. She was giving him the brush-off. “James did great. He’s an awesome teacher. Awesome guy.”
“You know, I’d been meaning to ask you, about James…” Lyle leaned in, conspiratorially. Darby’s smile was faltering, but courtesy won out and she leaned in to hear.
“Are you fucking him?”
Darby recoiled, as though he had spit on her.
“What?”
“Do you laugh at me, when you do it? When you fuck, do you laugh at the scabby, horn-dog professor?”
Darby’s breath hitched in her chest, she looked like she was about to cry. She took a step back. She looked down the bar, and then past him—toward the door.
Bouncer, he thought. She’s looking for the bouncer.
“I think you need to—” she began.
Then Lyle said the Word. The alien Word, meant to be moaned, easy as pie, really, when you thought about it, how the sounds flowed together. The Word that meant libido.
Darby froze. Her pupils flickered, Lyle saw, they constricted down to pinpricks, and then dilated as wide as they could go, swallowing the puppy-dog brown of her irises. Her face went slack. That wide, expensive smile vanished, and her mouth hung slightly open.
“Moisten your lips, Darby,” he said.
Her tongue slid out, pink and supple, and she obeyed.
Oh, my God, she OBEYED.
Lyle’s penis twitched in his pants, he realized he was painfully erect, his balls aching. He realized he had been, had been since—since I said the Word—since he had her and a cruel, savage sense of triumph shook him, he felt his pulse hammering in his veins, he felt like standing up on the bar and—
ROARING I want to ROAR at this dewy twat and all her imbecilic peers—
But instead, he took his cock firmly in his hand, through the cheap fabric of his Ross trousers, squeezed himself, and said—
“What are we going to do with you, Darby?”
#
Lyle fucked her in the alleyway behind O’Flaherty’s. That meant hurrying more than he liked, the dumpster provided cover but the blocks surrounding the campus were too well policed. It was all right, though. Now that he was armed with the libido-Word, the next time could be more leisurely.
He took her in. All of her. The small, surprisingly dark nipples, nothing like he’d imagined. The fine, black hairs on the nape of her neck, the peach fuzz of her freckled low back, her inner thighs. Her panties were white briefs with green stitching, they were covered with tiny frogs. He tugged them down, and nuzzled her there. He left hickeys, on her ass, her mons. Her smooth, exquisite young cunt.
Lyle took her from behind and saw the groggy confusion in her dilated eyes, the amazement*—*and through that the pleasure, the unsuspected, unwanted, violating pleasure that jolted moans out of her.
Lyle sucked her neck, bit it, hard enough to sting. She gave a tiny mewl as she came, and her spasm triggered him also. Lyle buried himself to the hilt in her, finished in her, and felt—
Like a king. Like a GOD.
They stayed there as the minutes stretched out, panting, still joined. He savored her, until his own tumescence vanished, and he slipped out. Lyle patted her derriere.
“Get dressed and get back to work, Darby,” he said. “We don’t want you to get in trouble.”
She jerked her head, drunkenly, from side to side, as though she were trying to shake water out of her ears. Lyle breathed deep, in through his nose, the fine scents of the city. Fried food nearby, probably the Thai joint catty-corner to the pub. He stood and admired, as Darby tugged her frog-panties back up those long pale legs.
“I’ll see you in class.”
Darby stared blankly at him as he took up his suitcase, turned, and strode into the night.
#
When Lyle opened his eyes the next morning, he was only mildly surprised to discover that he felt no guilt at all. The sun streamed in, the world was up and running, coffee was calling, and by God he felt fine.
He sat up in bed, stretched. He glanced at the alarm clock, that hateful sentinel, now toothless—10:27AM. The mattress was bare, beneath him. He’d never washed the sheets. Puddled on the floor were yesterday’s clothes. He resisted the urge to tidy them up. Later. He padded to the bathroom and went about his ablutions, brushed his teeth, took out his shaving kit. He had used the sleep-Word on himself again, last night. After.
After! He let the memories wash over him. Her smell: the tang of sweat, bar-odors, the undercurrent of peach soap. The taste of her! And then the feast, afterward. He had followed his nose to Great Elephant Thai, wolfed down a plate of kai thot, fried to a crisp and dripping oil*.* It may have been the finest meal of his life.
And he had had such dreams! Dreams of Darby, and of favorites past. Dreams of fucking and of wealth and of slights avenged and of respectful, deferential looks, dreams of voices falling silent when he entered a room, of every eye on him. A song lyric drifted into his head, something from his childhood, a favorite of his father’s one long summer, repeated ad nauseam on the fourteen-hour drive down to Savannah.
“Twenty years a’crawlin’… were bottled up in Tommy… he wasn’t holding nothin’ back, he let ‘em have it all…” Lyle sang, full voice, into the morning. A stupid grin spread over his face, as he wicked away the last patch of Barbasol, the careful spot right over his Adam’s apple, and rinsed his razor. He took a long look at Mirror-Lyle, looked into his eyes. He almost always avoided a close examination of his reflection, force of habit, but today he was a new man, and he wanted to take that man’s measure.
“Everyone… considered him… THE COWARD OOOF… the COUNTYYYY…”
Something else surfaced, then, in his memory, something that cranked the wattage down on his smile. He didn’t get all of it, just a glimpse, like a dorsal fin rising above the water. He had dreamed of more than power and sex. There had been something else. Lyle had a vague red recollection of tangled depths and faceless figures. His mind offered up a fleeting image of a crumbling stone structure, of keening wind and squat pillars; and of a great broken vault overhead, through which could be seen a blasted sky.
Lyle charged his phone as he brewed up a fresh pot. It had run out of juice somewhere during yesterday’s festivities, and when it finally powered up again it began to vibrate against the Formica tabletop in his dining nook. He ignored the first two pulses, but the phone insistently continued, not with the regular rhythm of an incoming call, but rather the inconsistent bursts of message notifications trickling in from the cloud. He tapped the touchscreen, and saw he had seven missed calls: one from a colleague, yesterday; and six from James, each one with a voicemail attached. The most recent of these had come just twenty minutes ago.
Lyle sipped on his coffee as he retrieved the briefcase from beneath his bed. He sat at his dinette and removed the fascicle, easily finding the rigid page. He opened it, and this time the new Word was waiting for him below the first, long entry: the entry corresponding to the letter “A” itself. This Word was angry, Ks and Zs, a hornet-word, serpent-word. Lyle looked to the white space, where the definition would arise. He pricked his forefinger with the tip of a steak knife and squeezed out two droplets of blood.
der zorn
Lyle sipped. Lyle thought. Greek, then Latin, now German. Was it moving forward in time? He wondered again about those first shapes he had seen, in the library. The more he tried to remember the more he doubted they had been in Greek. Something older, maybe. Phoenician syllabary? He would likely never know. But the Words were changing. The book was changing.
And there was this: both of the—*spells, they’re spells, let’s cut the shit—*both of the Words it had given him so far had been…
“Intuitive,” he said finally. “Useful. Like it knew.”
Lyle took down the last foil sleeve of blueberry Pop Tarts from his cupboard. Pauper’s breakfast, he thought, but not for much longer. He searched through his contacts until he found the number for the Chancellor’s office. He thumbed the little blue phone icon beside it.
#
Lyle had just started boxing up his things when James burst into his office, perfectly symmetrical face distorted by fury, his generous features made ugly. Ah, the righteousness of youth. James took in the dense sheaf of Staples boxes, waiting to be folded; took in the bare walls, the stacked diplomas and photographs.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded.
“Emergency leave,” Lyle answered with a dismissive wave. “I’ve had a family crisis. I’m afraid I have to attend to it. Professor Chole will be taking over my workload for the remainder of the semester, I’m sure she’ll be in touch—"
“What did you do to Darby? What the fuck did you do?” James spoke with the husky, quaking tone of pure adrenaline. He was just barely restraining himself from lunging across the desk, Lyle realized. He took the younger man in with bemused calm. He let the moment stretch out.
“Therese called me,” James continued, the words throttling out of him. “Darby’s roommate. She came home last night, she has—bruises, all over her, little, little *bites—*she won’t speak, she just sits there and cries, but she said your name. It’s the only thing she said. What did you do to her, Lyle? Did you rape her?”
“Dr. Hereford,” Lyle replied.
James craned forward. “What?”
*“*You don’t get to call me Lyle.”
Lower, now, almost a whisper: “Tell me what you did to her.”
“I made her come,” Lyle said. “And she fucking loved it.”
James did lunge then, he screamed and he leapt across the desk, coming down on Lyle in a tangle of thrashing limbs and rabbit punches, the two of them toppling Lyle’s chair, compressing awkwardly into the tight space between desk and wall. James kicked hard off of the gray metal drawers, managing to end up on top. His hands found Lyle’s throat and began to squeeze. Lyle felt himself constricting, felt the energy draining out of him, pinned, as he lost oxygen. He noticed the curds of spittle at the corners of James’s snarling mouth. He started to see spots in the periphery of his vision, and as he slapped ineffectually at James’s face he thought am I going to die here—?
Lyle dug down for the last of his strength. The Word chose me. This wasn’t the end. Couldn’t be the end. He extended his leg as far as it would go, and used the distance to drive his knee, hard, into James’s crotch. A grunting exhale was propelled out of the younger man*.* Lyle pulled back to do it again; James squeezed his thighs together to block, and when he did, he compromised his balance. He took one hand off Lyle’s throat and thrust out his arm to catch himself as be began to roll, allowing Lyle to draw in a long, ragged breath.
Then Lyle spoke the Word.
The der zorn-Word.
The word that meant anger, that meant rage, that meant WRATH.
#
“Son. Son, you’re bleeding, let me—let me help you, come on. Son, it’s gonna be okay, come on, now— “
The campus policeman approaches James like a dog that might be rabid, that slow hunched posture with arms wide, except for the policeman it’s only one arm because his right hand is flush up against his service weapon and his thumb snaps the little thumbsnap and it’s a very small noise but it’s so loud in James’s head and he shakes it, his head, does James, from side to side, in herks and jerks, like a dog that might be rabid, now, like there’s water in his ears and he’s trying to shake it out, is James, and the policeman is coming on and speaking in clear precise syllables that explode behind James’s temples, clusterbomb-words, and the cop is speaking but he’s hearing another voice, is James, and it’s Lyle’s voice, it’s Dr. L’s voice, not Lyle never Lyle, and Dr. L’s voice is saying snakebit you’re snakebit she fucking LOVED it and James touches his own face now and it must be true because there’s blood on his face and when he blinks his blink is heavy and liquid like he just dropped Visine in there but the thing is but only but except it’s blood and he’s bleeding from the eyes, is James, and now the policeman is right on top of him saying “son what happened can you hear me respond if you can hear me” and James hears the exploding words all right and he blinks and blood oozes from the corners of his eyes and the cop is changing now, in the blood, his face is BOILING and now it’s Darby’s face on the policeman and she opens her mouth and her head cranes back and she’s ruined inside OH FUCK SHE’S RUINED INSIDE SHOT HERSELF SHE SHOT HERSELF SHE’S SHOT and now it’s DR L IT’S DR L SCREAMING SNAKEBIT SNAKEBIT SNAKEBIT—
James rears back and head-butts the campus cop as hard as he can, the smooth acne-less center of James’s forehead connecting with the soft cartilage of the policeman’s nose. A sick crunch echoes in the lobby of the Humanities building, a young woman close enough to hear it vomits on the floor, it is the first puking incident of the day but not the last.
The cop recoils with a sick moan, in his surprise clapping his hands to his shattered nose; in that moment James bellows, an awful inarticulate animal sound of hate, and yanks the policeman’s service piece free of his holster.
The handful of rubbernecking students freeze as James shoots the policeman in the face.
The policeman’s name is (was) Lou, the students know, and he is (was) genial and well-liked. A silent second passes in the lobby, and then the screaming begins.
James dips down and pulls two spare clips out of Lou’s belt. He pockets them. When James looks up, he doesn’t see fleeing students.
He sees Dr. L.
A gaggle of Dr. L’s. A school, a clutch, a murder. He sees laughing Dr. L’s running in every direction, diving behind furniture, breaking for the street or hurtling into the stairwells. One Dr. L dives behind the reception desk. James starts after him on wooden legs.
When he reaches the desk, there is Dr. L beneath it, a cell phone in his hand, cackling. James shoots him in the stomach. Dr. L keeps right on laughing, howling with it now, whatever it is must be hilarious, a real knee-slapper, then James remembers its him, Dr. L is laughing at him so James shoots him again, shoots him so he’ll stop but there are so many more—
#
Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., rested his browning forearms on the wrought iron railing of his third-floor balcony. He looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. The breeze was warm and gentle, suffusing, but it no longer calmed him. He took no notice of it. He was lost, as he was always now lost, in thought.
The one, lone thought.
It had taken a little less than two weeks for James’s horrific shooting spree to drop out of the news. The demands for GUN CONTROL NOW (or, conversely, for guns in every classroom) receded and were shelved for the next go-round. Politicians took to the field and unfurled their heraldry for the usual pro-forma skirmishes. Then, mercifully, a Cabinet official fucked somebody he really shouldn’t have and the national discourse (such as it was) barreled off, like a dog chasing a ball that its owner had only pretended to throw. As to why a handsome, popular, well-adjusted student should suddenly snap and murder sixteen of his fellows? The theories ranged from medically reasonable (an inoperable tumor which could not be verified via autopsy, as James’s brains had been removed by the responding tactical unit); to the paranoiac (James had been the subject of a Manchurian Candidate-style CIA/NSA/Acronym-of-your-choice experiment gone horribly wrong); to the Occult (the Devil made him do it).
Lyle had enjoyed that last one.
What Lyle had not enjoyed was that some of the conspiracy theorists, and even some of the legitimate press, had mentioned him by name. He had disappeared, after all, on an auspicious and chaotic day, to manage a crisis no one could verify involving a family no one could find. It had not been difficult to remain ahead of any enterprising investigators, though. Not with the Words.
And there had been so many more Words. Words in French and Finnish and Russian and Spanish and Mandarin. Words that meant envy and silence and fear and blindness and, perhaps the most potent yet, a Word that meant stupid. Lyle had employed that one against a statie who pulled him over as he crossed the Louisiana line, coming through Vicksburg. The guy had been six-two, maybe two-twenty, with sharp, curious eyes sunk deep in his skull. Lyle hadn’t liked the way he had looked at him, so he used the Word. Now the statie—*Edmonds was his name, Trooper Edmonds—*was six-two, two-twenty of drooling simpleton, probably staring at a wall somewhere in the nearest brain injury ward and driving the resident neurologists absolutely bugshit.
By the time Lyle made it to a quiet, lazy town on the Cajun Riviera and decided to set a spell, he had traded in his Acura for a Beemer and was carrying close to a hundred and twelve thousand dollars in cash. He had also acquired a 9mm Ruger and a shotgun with a pistol grip (the dealer had called it a snake charmer just before Lyle killed him).
None of that matters now, though.
All that mattered was the Word. Which, he had come to realize, was the last Word.
Because the book was alive, of course, had always been alive, Lyle knew that. Hadn’t let himself come right out and say it, but he knew. It had slept, maybe, possibly, until he woke it, with his touch, with his blood, but if it slept, it woke up thirsty*.* The book was always ready with the next Word, the next thing he would need. The book was collaborating with him. It was dancing with him, and at first he had thought he was the one leading, but now he knew better.
Lyle felt it. Felt it—pulling on him. All the time. Felt it in the room behind him, pulling, knew that he would go back in, sooner or later, go back in, and open the book, the book that has been leading him. Knew that he would open its hundreds of pages, because it was longer now, because it had grown, because it was three inches thick and the front plating had vanished and it wasn’t pretending to be a dictionary anymore.
He knew that he would open it and on every single page, centered, would be a single Word, the last Word, the Word that he will say, that he must say, sooner or later, and under it swirling in blood, blood that must be the book’s own, the final explication, the final command, the final meaning, and God, oh God, Lyle was afraid, because the last Word was
DOOR

Hello all! I'm a screenwriter and longtime lover of horror prose, taking some time during the strike to polish up old unpublished pieces and maybe embark on some new ones. This is the first I'm sharing publicly -- it's a nasty piece of work, about a nasty little man who receives a power he really shouldn't have. Most of my stories aren't like this, but Lyle Hereford insisted upon himself, and I haven't yet managed to forget him. It's also a bit lengthy, about 8600 words (30ish manuscript pages). I'm posting it in two parts.
WARNING: This story contains depictions of non-consensual sex and gun violence.
​
GHOST WORD
By Jonathan Redding
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ghost word
1. (noun) A previously unknown word appearing in a dictionary or list of words, often by error--but sometimes by design.
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Lyle Hereford laid there, slick and frightened, and thought about the Word.
He rolled his head to the right, to the nightstand beside his narrow bed, saw the flat green numerals pronounce it 3:17AM. On another night he might have thought of the Gospel According to John, at that hour, or more obscurely, of the Weird Sisters, of the Walpurgisnacht. Sleeplessness was a condition of his pinched, brittle being*.* Tonight he lay there sweating, insomnia buzzing in his thighs, his hamstrings. The inevitable heartburn seethed in his concave chest, and he thought about the Word.
The Word was not with him.
He thought about it sitting, inert, on the small rolling desk, in his office, across the city. Thought about the urban glow, blotting out the stars, seeping in the window, slanting though the low-bid venetian blinds the first contractors must have installed and none of those cheap bastards at the University ever bothered to replace, the blinds that always tear at their thin top fixtures, that Lyle mends with tight sleeves of Scotch tape. He thought about the city’s ambient nightlight seeping in, and falling, across the side desk, across the Word. He thought about the binding. Cream, once, probably, soft and blameless. Faded to no-color, now. An old traveler. But what was it? And how had it come to be there? How did it come to rest on that shelf, that groaning, overburdened, mid-century plank?
Lyle imagined someone slipping into the library, furtive, mounting the stair, the tome swinging against them, tucked in a messenger bag. Some faceless someone, head down, hood up, sunglasses in the dim. Lyle pictured them skirting around the encyclopedias and the medieval histories and bypassing the long rows of technical manuals and the corridors of Euclidean geometry and enzymology and theoretical economics and arriving at the neglected, quaint, neat rows of purest Reference: the Dictionaries.
Lyle had gone to consult the Oxford English Dictionary. Specifically the 1989 Second Edition, magnificent in twenty volumes; a tool with which he insisted each of his students familiarize themselves. On this day he had sought out the second volume specifically, the one beginning with B.B.C.
James, that young Turk, had challenged his interpretation of a passage of Taming of the Shrew. It turned on the etymology of the word bonnie.
Tried to score off me, in front of the whole class, that smug little prick.
James, graduate student par excellence. James of the falling black hair, perpetually obscuring his face, terminating above his perfect smile. James who was such a favorite among the bouncing, giggling undergraduates. James who found it easy to excel, in any environment, who found it very difficult to accept Lyle’s criticisms, Lyle’s guidance. James was many things Lyle was not, had never been, and Lyle knew it. But James had not yet learned to survive in academia. James was going to discover that you did not score points off Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., and Lyle would see to it that it happened painfully. In the town square, as it were. It would have to be just a touch humiliating.
`Darby, especially, Lyle thought. She has to see it. Yes. Just the right amount of condescension to really cut into him, to make it memorable.
Only Lyle never found his ammunition in the second volume beginning with B.B.C. because his interest was diverted. He never queried the etymology of bonnie in the compressed italics of lexicalese, never perused the examples from John Donne and Sir Thomas Aquinas and the Cursor Mundi behind their truncated century marks, because something else caught his eye. Something that shouldn’t have been there. Tucked in between the seventh and eighth volumes (Interval and Look, respectively, he knew) was a tattered book, somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred pages, grayed to nothing, the color of a shroud. Lyle reached down, placed his index finger atop the book’s spine, and drew it from the shelf. He gave it a cursory glance—the cover lettering had been savaged by time, but fragments of the lower half survived:
PART A—ANT
#
OXFO D
1877
“What in the world,” Lyle said. The library swallowed the sound, took it into the mute stillness of itself, into its hush. What he held in his hands was not genuine—could not be genuine. The original OED was printed like this, piecemeal, in what were called fascicles.
But not this soon, God, not this soon! They hadn’t even started!
The first fascicle of the OED, the very first product of their seventy-year odyssey, the publication that made the London philologia realize they had bit off quite a bit more than they could chew, was designated A-Ant. It was a rare bird, a thing to be coveted. It was valuable.
It was first printed in 1884.
Lyle had always thought it a clever, tiny nod of Orwell’s, lost to the mass of readers: that the OED should rule for a century, before Newspeak replaced it. This, then, if it was what it purported to be, what the front cover claimed it to be, was early. Seven whole years early.
A misprint, he thought. Has to be. That would change the valuation—this could be one-of-a-kind. Not that Lyle would dream of selling such a book. Before this moment, he wouldn’t even have allowed himself to dream of holding such a book. He checked for a barcode, a borrower’s card. He found neither. What is it DOING here?
He had let it fall open at random, there, among the stacks, a single water-damaged page stood up like a cowlick, he gingerly pressed it flat. The type within was much more preserved than the weathered front-plating. He scanned, gliding over the forms: aglist, aglitter, aglomerular, aglopened, aglossal, aglow-
That was when he had seen the Word.
Though it wasn’t the Word itself, that had drawn his attention. It was the empty white, beneath it. The dictionary game was all about spatial economy. Column inches and abbreviations. In forty-seven years of nebbish quietude, forty-seven years of slow vanishing into a wilderness of text, Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., had never encountered empty white space in the body of a dictionary. Thus, first, the white. Then he had looked above it.
The Word did not begin with the letter “A”.
The Word did not conform to any structural schema that Lyle recognized. There was no easily discernible root in the Romance lineage, nor the Germanic, nor even the primordial Oriental or Sanskrit Anglicizations which the casual peruser of the Mahabharata or of Patanjali’s Sutras might intuitively place. The Word began with the character “X”, and proceeded from there to a feral enjambment of consonants and choked, almost Hebraic “Y’s”. It possessed no other vowels. Merely the Word, this strange word, had greeted Lyle. No origin, pronunciation, part-of-speech. No definition. Merely the Word, and the white beneath, there in the stacks.
Lyle brushed his thumb across the Word. Looking back, now, he couldn’t really say why. It was the sort of automatic, immediate impulse that you don’t question until it’s complete. It came over him like a yawn. He felt the thin whisper of the paper beneath his skin, he traced the Word from its first syllable to its eighth and final and
“FUCK— “
A kind of WRETCH, a spasm, behind his eyes, within his temples, his core, the cilia of his inner ears. His stomach flopped over queasily in his abdomen and he clenched his ass, just ahead of a hot dart of pressure, a hot sharp dart of pressure, gas and a tincture of liquid, a foul egg smell, he fought to hold it—
“fuckfuckfuck— “
Tremoring in his calves, his whole body strained, the feeble musculature flared from his neck, his weak chin pressed down and his gorge rose. Warm coppery blood pattered and trickled over his lips. Lyle’s nose was bleeding. The fit—whatever it was—began to pass, and Lyle looked down through watering eyes to the object in his hands.
“What in the Christ-?”
The library remained silent, the book remained still, the Word remained inscrutable. He noticed the spatter, low on the page, of his blood, obscuring the column inches, smearing over agnathous. He gathered up a shirt cuff in his hand, squeezed it to his nose—*that’s never coming out—*and awkwardly sat, pooling the book in his lap. He reached down with his other cuff to dab at the page, mitigate the damage. That is when, Lyle now thought, he may have gone mad.
The beads of blood began to crawl up the page.
The traversal of the droplets wasn’t smooth, wasn’t a rolling. They jerked upward in spurs—they forked, like lightning. They crept laterally, then cut upward again, the spastic scribbling of an unseen hand. Lyle became aware that his body was rigid, his breath held, his eyes dry and pained, he stared unblinking. Sweat stood out on the crenellations of his widow’s peak, his acne-scarred brow. His ruptured sinus oozed, his sleeve was warm and sodden. The bloodbolts reached the inexplicable white gap. Swirled into the emptiness. Beneath the Word the blood swirled. It arranged itself.
It formed shapes.
It formed letters.
Lyle had made a sound, then, something between a sob and a laugh and a scream—
—snakebit it’s a snakebit sound—
*—*rupturing the stillness, a harsh throaty sound, reeding through the library, and then he clapped the book shut and fled.
“But I didn’t drop it, did I?” he asked the green numerals. They showed 4:07AM. Time always slid, on sleepless nights. He thought it one of their worst qualities.
“I ran. I ran from it*.* But my hands… my hands wouldn’t let it go.”
Lyle sat up in bed. Only when the sheets peeled away from his back did he realize he was perspiring. He stripped the damp bedclothes and shambled across the room, to his small closet. He bent to his hamper, deposited the sheets inside, closed the latch with a discrete click. He took a fresh button-up and crisp slacks down from their hangers, and he began to dress.
#
Lyle barely heard as the starter of his aging Acura chugged, and whinnied, and finally caught. He floated across town, the CD player in the dash resumed Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C sharp minor, the volume hovered at the bottom edge of audibility. It did not pierce the veil of Lyle’s exhaustion. His memory, the vision of the mounting blood, felt unreal. The marine layer had rolled in with the night’s cool, heightening the strangeness. Occasionally headlights swam up out of the fog, the vague shapes of alien drivers flickered and were gone. Lyle had passed through a membrane—*a glass, darkly—*and everything normal was rendered strange, as though the laws underpinning the universe had grown suddenly elastic. His fatigue coupled with the new fact of the Word to cast a surreal pall over the familiar streets. He wondered, at each car he passed, about the journey of the driver. Was it possible that just beneath the frequency of his attention there was a whole world of men on grim, predawn errands? Men confronting mad and impossible things, men fallen through unsuspected cracks in their comfortable facade? And just where in the wild blue fuck had it come from?
Lyle made it, not without difficulty, to the faculty lot. He parked askew—someone’s sure to bitch about that he thought, and tittered*—*and walked his scuttling walk across the plaza toward the Humanities complex, fumbling for his keycard. His footsteps seemed to echo off of nothing but haze. The fog encroached, he felt as though it watched him.
His office was a shabby, cramped afterthought on the fourth floor. He turned the bolt behind him as he entered, resting his weary head against the door. He thumped it, once—his forehead, that is—against the wood. He crossed to his chair, the brown faux leather cracked and peeling, and sat heavily. The office was cheaply appointed, but pristine. No tchotchkes or personal touches were in evidence, with the exception of some of Lyle’s own (stark, black-and-white) photography. The book he had found, the impossible book, was not alphabetized on his shelves with the others. It sat alone. Nothing shared, with it, the small rolling side-desk, which Lyle pulled to himself. He reached for the book, heart pounding, hands tremoring. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes. Mastered himself. By and by, the shaking passed. He opened his eyes to look, again, upon the Word.
First there’s fear, of course there’s fear, but then... but then....
Then, perhaps, there was room for curiosity. He had found this thing, this extraordinary thing, or perhaps, just possibly…
“It found me. Maybe it was--meant. For me.”
And if it were, that might make it—would make it—the first thing, the first special thing, that had ever been meant, for Lyle Hereford, Ph.D. He opened the book, the tremor in his hands barely perceptible, now. He sought out the Ag’s—aglow, aglist, aglitter—and found them easily enough. He stared, eyes bulging, straining, at the page.
The Word was gone.
Nothing. No fractal X’s and Y’s, no phantom space, no broken line. Smooth, black column inches, the rhythms of the dictionary, nothing out of place.
“No—no, no, no—” Lyle flipped the page, aggressively, almost tearing it from the binding, another, another, flipped them, faster and faster, scanning, rapidly scanning, seeking white space.
“No, fuck you, no, it was here, you were just here, I didn’t imagine you you cocksucker come back here and talk to me— “
He flipped forward, the opposite direction, toward the front of the fascicle, when he felt something under the pad of his thumb. It was—a shift in the texture, a vibration—a definite, awful, sly little movement. He felt the thing change, somehow. Lyle froze. He held perfectly still—*snake, snake in my hands, subtle subtle snake—*then he slid his thumb, just his thumb, the tiniest hair, a fraction of an inch, over the page-ends. Rasped his thumb, along the margin of the book. *Something, there’s something, right there—*he rasped again. Felt it. Toward the back. A water-damaged page. Lyle seized on it, almost eagerly, letting the book part around it. It stood up like a cowlick. He pressed it carefully down, closed his eyes. Lyle felt a curious swirl of anxiety and hope. He was afraid. Afraid to see it again.
He needed to see it again. He needed to know.
He opened his eyes. He scanned the page, now, a completely different section of the fascicle. Amputee, ampyx, amrel, amrita, amry, amsel. Faster, faster…
There.
Crowded into the bottom-right corner. An empty, white space. Above it, a Word.
A different Word.
This one began with an LN, and to the litany of Y’s had been added double-Us. The same layout: no explicatory text below, nothing else. The single, unpronounceable Word.
“There you are,” Lyle whispered. He turned to his computer, felt for the green button along the back of his monitor, pressed it. He thumbed the spacebar on his keyboard. The desktop awoke mid a staccato burst of tiny electronic clicks, followed by the usual cheery synth-tone. Lyle set a yellow legal pad on his lap, popped the well-chewed end of a mechanical pencil into his mouth, clenched it between his teeth. He tugged open a gray metal desk drawer, hideous and utilitarian, pawed around inside until he found what he wanted, closed it again. He turned back to the Word.
“Tell me a secret,” he said. His voice was queerly pitched, hollow. He hardly recognized it. He held up the small object taken from his desk, held it up above the page, showed it to the Word. It was a pushpin. Tell me. Lyle pricked the ball of his middle finger, blood welled into a fat bead. He turned his hand over, held the blood above the white, watched it distend, watched it fall. This time there was no lightning, no crawl. This time it sizzled, as though he had dropped it on a skillet. It sizzled, bubbled, on the white, then separated, it raised blood-red letters below the Word. Characters. This time, Lyle was ready.
It’s Attic Greek, he realized. The characters stood out in the elegant script of the Septuagint, the language of Alexander the Great. The language that, at one time, had conquered the world, and had later been conquered in turn. A language of emperors, and of slaves. Lyle sucked on his bleeding finger as he hunched over the legal pad, copying out the unfamiliar letters:
ύπνος
It was a matter of a few moments to download a keyboard for ancient Greek characters on the desktop. A few more to pull up Google, find a translator widget, and hunt-and-peck his way to the answer. The cursor blinked beside the translation. The word beneath the Word, the Greek extraction written in blood, fat and placid and banal:
sleep
Lyle felt a flush of disappointment. He had expected something, he realized. Some kernel of an answer. The name of a daemon, or of a god. A celestial body, perhaps. And why Greek? If it was printed in the nineteenth century, printed in English in the nineteenth century? Lyle turned back to the fascicle but the blood was gone. He brushed a cautious knuckle across the white gap and found it dry.
Thirsty, he thought. You feel thirsty.
The language of Alexander, and of Oedipus Rex, and of Aristotle. He considered the Word. Sleep. A definition? Was the book itself carrying some kind of, what, repository, fragments of a lost language, preserved by some oblique arcana? The work of a secret society, or a cult? Some Rosicrucian gimmickry? He looked down at the white space, the secret-keeping space, awakened by blood. Considered, again, the crooked syllables, the LM, the double-X, the Y’s and double-U’s.
Sleep.
Sleep was a word with a certain beauty. Especially for the chronic insomniac. A beauty and a kind of longing. Sleep. The LM, the double-X, the Y’s and the double-U’s. Strange, riotous Word.
“Sleep is a beautiful word.” Lyly was unaware that he had spoken aloud. The LM, the double-X, in the middle, the double-X. It occurred to him that this Word, too, was beautiful.
Beautiful and possessed of a kind of interior sense, Lyle realized. A kind of logic. When you think about it.
The double-X, a kind of sluggish, sloughing sound in the middle. A collapse, to link the long consonants, as if the effort of producing the Word were too much for one’s throat, all at once. The LM, the double-X, the double-U’s. Lyle opened his mouth, still unaware. The Word intensified, in his field of vision, came into a sharp focus. The rest of the page somehow fell around it. Lyle wondered if he was being hypnotized. There was no more color in the world, he knew how to say the Word, the Word was teaching him, patiently, to say it, he opened his mouth not knowing and he said the Word that meant Sleep and—
#
Lyle awoke on the floor of his office. He shook his head, once, experimentally. He winced—his left temple was sore; a bruise was coming on.
Did I fall? Black out? The fascicle was still on his side-desk. It was closed, now. His computer was dark and quiet, hibernating. All at once he remembered—*oh, my God—*it wasn’t a definition or a repository or a code—
“It’s a command,” he croaked, his voice husky in the stillness. Everything clicked, almost audibly, like tumblers turning in his head. It was a command, and that made the book something else, that made the book something very much else indeed, oh, oh God, that makes it something else.
What time is it? The sun hadn’t risen, the streetlights still slanted through his shitty, frail blinds. Traffic had picked up though, he could hear it outside, and he felt—incredible, I feel incredible—fine, other than the bump on his noggin and a few cricks in his shoulders, his neck, Lyle felt like a million bucks. He pawed at his phone. He carried it in his front-left pocket, and if he had fallen on it it might have—
The phone showed 9:44PM. He had slept, all right. He ran the math. He had been at his desk, it had been maybe five thirty…
It put me to sleep for sixteen hours? Lyle have never slept that long in his life, to the best of his knowledge*.* It was enough to make him want to weep. He’d been just an anxious little bedwetter when his long war against insomnia began, and the notion of simply saying a Word, a beautiful Word, and dropping off like a stone—
He crossed to his office door, turned the bolt. Opened it. A sticky-note was affixed to the outside:
Dr. L, wasn’t able to get ahold of you today, hope you feel better. Walked the class through Act III, reiterated their assignments re: Marlowe comparison & cut them loose, will check in tomorrow first thing.
It was James’s fluid cursive. Even his penmanship was pretty*.*
Lyle turned his attention back to the fascicle. He picked it up carefully, reverently. He felt a surge of glee, an unbridled joy at the power in his hands. When he closed his eyes he could still see the sleep-Word, the constellation of unwieldy letters stood out bright and vivid. His heart raced with the implications of his discovery—something else something else it’s something else—
The term Grimoire drifted hazily across his consciousness.
He rasped his thumb along the margins and felt immediately the bristle of the damaged page, somewhere in the center. He held the book upright and let it fall open, the single page left standing. He smoothed it carefully down. He looked upon the book.
The empty white stood out easily, in the center column, the exact mid-point. Above it was yet another Word, this one shorter, beginning with an A and three O’s, a sound meant to be moaned. Lyle rummaged for another push-pin in his desk. He pricked his ring-finger, this time—*spread the love, I might be doing this a lot—*and smeared a sizzling patina of blood onto the white paper. The red letters formed on the page, he couldn’t wait for them, he was greedy for them—
That isn’t Greek, Lyle realized. The new Word was explicated in a much more familiar—and, curiously, more recent—tongue. The new Word was translated in Latin.
libido
Was the first Word I saw translated into Greek? he wondered. When I ran from the library, from the blood, the first time, were those Greek letters? He couldn’t be sure, it had happened so quickly, and hysteria warped the memory.
He couldn’t be sure, no. But he didn’t think so.
“Libido,” he pronounced into the quiet of the office. “Lust. Desire.” He stood there a long moment, lost in thought. Finally he reached beneath his desk and pulled out a slender leather briefcase. He wouldn’t leave it at the office again, not—
Not knowing what it can do.
He placed the fascicle inside, locked the briefcase, and killed the grating fluorescents overhead. As he left the office he crumpled James’s sticky note in his fist and let it fall.
​
​
CONTINUED IN PT. 2:
https://www.reddit.com/Horror_stories/comments/13wyq9j/ghost_word_pt_2/

3 years ago the NBA mandated that all players have their heights listed without shoes; opposed to the listings for the past 3 decades - heights with shoes. Fans saw many of their favorite players heights instantly drop. Some fans know the heights without shoes have always been listed in a player's combine numbers. We've always known 95% of player's height without shoes. Even Kobe Bryant's height without shoes was 6'4.75, confirmed in his last playing season https://fansided.com/2017/03/27/kobe-bryant-height-6-foot-4-lakers/
But, when the new height listing mandate occurred - some players heights somehow didn't change. Some fans hypothesized that this was because the players grew.
Lebron James height listing increased, from 6'8, to 6'9. At the NBA combine in 2003, Lebron was measured at 6'7.25 without shoes, 6'8 in shoes. Since the new listings, he's listed at 6'9, but pictures tell us he did not grow. Here is a picture with a 32 year old Lebron standing next to Kevin Love, who is listed at 6'8 now. https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/default/poste10/8/break/images/artworkimages/medium/3/kevin-love-kyrie-irving-and-lebron-james-david-liam-kyle.jpg
Kevin Love at his combine measured at 6'7.75 without shoes, so his 6'8 listing currently is correct. And he still looks about .5-1" taller than Lebron. https://media.gettyimages.com/id/610641166/photo/lebron-james-kyrie-irving-and-kevin-love-of-the-cleveland-cavaliers-poses-for-a-portrait.jpg?s=612x612&w=gi&k=20&c=Zh42Oas0cHbVEeIVZGlLKlfNj_0X3UQ0_IKgYiAFFrA=
Anthony Davis is listed at 6'10 and Lebron 6'9. https://cdn.nba.com/teams/uploads/sites/1610612747/2022/09/Davis-LeBron-Photo-Shoot-1600x900-0B1A5234.jpg
It looks like Lebron is as tall as he was at his combine 6'7.25 , and AD is 6'10 without shoes, there is almost 3", not only 1" height difference here.
I know everyone wants to mythologize how much of a physical specimen Lebron is, but he's not 6'10.5 in shoes. He's 6'8.5 in shoes, and should be listed currently as 6'7, but he didn't want to drop to 6'7 on his listing.
Giannis is not 7' without shoes. Even though he grew from 6'9 in shoes as a rookie, nobody ever thought he grew to 7'1.5....Here he is currently listed at 7'0, standing next to 7'1 listed Brook Lopez
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Fdmk8foXkAkRITn?format=jpg&name=4096x4096
That's more than 1" difference. Giannis is probably 6'11.5 in shoes. Meaning he grew 2 inches since a rookie.
Every draft cycle inspires me to think about these heights, because fans see heights at the combine now, and think these players are shorter than before, or shorter than advertised. For instance, the Thompson twins just measured at 6'5.75 without shoes, and a lot of people are disappointed, saying they aren't 6'7. They are the traditional NBA 6'7, an inch taller than Kobe, an inch shorter than Lebron; and the same height as Andre Iguodala (6'5.75 at his combine without shoes).
Karl Towns, Embiid, and Giannis are all listed at 7'0. Why they lying to us?
https://media.gettyimages.com/id/920096908/photo/2018-nba-all-star-game-portraits.jpg?s=1024x1024&w=gi&k=20&c=4reQiMNzF5Sm9G0H1zw91eSDcAG0HACFLybFfm4AJlY=
If a player's height stayed the same or increased when the heights got re-listed, it's probably a lie, it should have decreased.
edit: Bron/Klove https://youtu.be/k2VJW8hZLqM?t=13

While it was no surprise James was still the best player in Masters, I was amazed how much Andrew, Matt, and Mattea improved since their original run despite having to balance demanding jobs while James has been laser-focused on trivia full time the last 4 years. I can’t help but wonder if we’d see a more balanced tournament if every player had equal time and energy dedicated to preparing. Does this make James the heavy favorite in every Masters? I wonder if this would give rise to the new career 'Jeopardy Professional' which I'm sure the show doesn't exactly want to promote. Thoughts?

Which is why Philadelphia has begun giving thought as to who could replace the former league MVP. According to league sources close to the organization, Raptors All-Star guard Fred VanVleet has emerged as a potential replacement for Harden this offseason.
https://twitter.com/brettsiegelnba/status/1663956149010415616?s=46&t=4ZntrIMASDK3oTWSgZlnJQ
--------------------
So, what do y'all think? Would you rather give Harden the 4 year max or a smaller deal (something like 4 year 120+ mil) to FVV?
source

Hello everyone! :)
After two years of working on this album, I wanted to finally show one of my favorite bootleg albums!
"Chameleon Days" is a collection of rarities, remixes, and demos previously unreleased by the band. The album features two sides; one side (Side A) includes singles and remixes, while the other side (Side B) features unreleased early demos from 1981 and 1983, outtakes & b-sides from 1988’s Spirit of Eden and 1991’s Laughing Stock, and a solo piano piece by Hollis himself titled “Piano” from the 1998 album "AV 1".
I've been a big Talk Talk fan for almost nine years now and due to new Talk Talk content coming out from unreleased demos to a documentary that got made about a year or two ago, I thought about making my very own bootleg album for the band. I didn't mix any of the tracks as it wasn't necessary but I did do the track listing and make the album art, taking a painting of a chameleon done by James Marsh himself who had worked with Talk Talk from 1981 to 2002 with Missing Piece. I made sure that the album art looked as close to a Talk Talk album as possible and I truly wanted this to be the sister album to "Asides Besides" which is probably my favorite album by Talk Talk disregarding their official studio albums.
As a longtime fan of Talk Talk, I hope all TT fans enjoy the album! It took a long time to complete it but now the wait is over!
Link to my blogspot: https://talktalk-chameleondays.blogspot.com/2023/05/talk-talk-chameleon-days-2021-bootleg.html?m=1

which is why Philadelphia has begun giving thought as to who could replace the former league MVP. According to league sources close to the organization, Raptors All-Star guard Fred VanVleet has emerged as a potential replacement for Harden this offseason.

https://twitter.com/brettsiegelnba/status/1663956149010415616?s=46&t=4ZntrIMASDK3oTWSgZlnJQ

One of the NBA’s biggest conspiracies is still unknown. Who was the rape victim in Denver is 2003?
Karl Malone was born in 1963.
Kobe Bryant was born in 1978.
now lets do some simple maths: 1978-1963=13
Coincidence? Lets dig a bit further.
Kobe Bryant wears the numbers 24 and 8.
24x8=192
If we divide 192 by 14.769 we get 13 again.
But thats not all…
13 is the number of James Harden.
There is no pictures taken of James Harden when he was 13.
Where was James Harden when he was 13 years old?
In 2003 James Harden was in Denver
In 2003 James Harden was 13
In 2003 Kobe Bryant was in Denver
Kobe Bryant and Karl Malone where teammates in 2003. Karl Malone 13.
Below is an exert from the 2003 Rape Victim giving there testimony, till now there identity is not revealed.
“That’s when he kept coming inside me and then he leaned his face toward mine and asked me if I liked it when a guy came on my face, I said no. Then he was like what did you say. Grabbed and like tightened his hold on my neck, I said no. He said he was gonna do it anyway. And then at that point I got a little bit more aggressive with him and tried to release his hands from my neck. And he was still behind me and at that point he’s still choking me, I was not trying as hard as I could of to get away, but I was still trying.”
Can this be the explanation behind James Hardens stripper addiction? Is he suffering from mental trauma?
Is this the reason James Harden keeps such a long beard? To hide the stains of Kobe Bryants cum on his face?
We need to stop asking Adam Silver about Ja Morant and ask him the real questions regarding the origin stories of James Harden.
Thank you for reading.
See you when we bust the next NBA conspiracy theory.