7/8 thin wall socket harbor freight

A Strategical Blunder

2023.06.04 07:46 lnedible A Strategical Blunder

The soldiers lined on Ardenholms beaches. Their bright, jewel encrusted armor flashed brightly in the glaring summers sun. The warriors were eager to get on with their game of conquering and subjugating. They were Ardenholmites, Humilauians, and Pommedorans, as well as Tuberite religious warriors hailing from Solanum. They were gathered in Ardenholm to prepare for an imminent invasion from Veritas and their leader, BB.
Ardenholm, Humilau and especially Pommedora were in open rebellion from BB. They thought of him as a tyrannical leader, levying heavy taxes and other unreasonable demands. They finally decided to declare themselves separate from BB, but the turmoil quickly devolved into a fight for control of the entire island chain.
Pommedora was a Tuberist nation, so they called upon their Solanarian brothers to help the fight. The Tuberists, thinking it would be an easy battle, happily joined in.
As the Tuberites made the short voyage to Pommedora, tensions arose. There was an attempt to reestablish diplomatic relations which quickly broke down, resulting in a raid from Veritas on Pommedora, their closest neighbor.
The Tuberites arrived far too late to join the fray, but fortunately the raid was mostly scared off before any real fighting could occur, and the casualties were 6 in Pommedora, after a single arrow barrage and 8 Veritasian raiders who brought their boat too close to the walls and were sunk by a well placed explosive firework.
Thus began an alarmingly fast arms race. Both sides were on islands, so a full force invasion was not viable…yet. Seemingly overnight the once windswept and backwater islands in rebellion turned to industry. The once salty and warm air choked with the smoke from the flames of fires roaring in their mighty hearths. Peaceful and sunny harbors because overrun with heavy bots of war.
Veritas kept pace with the industrial might and the islands were equal in strength. Both bought mercenaries to fight, but Veritas gained a significant upper hand by taking a hefty loan from bankers overseas and buying much better metals than could ever be reaped from the earth on the barren island chain.
Finally the mines were depleted of what little resources they could muster. Though bright earthen metals were occasionally still warm from being melted and pounded into their molds.
With no more brawn games to play, both sides made a quick shift to mind games. Spies. Spies everywhere. In the streets. In the factories. In the harbors. Everywhere. Private conversations became public knowledge overnight. The town square of Ardenholm ran red with the blood of those suspected of treason.
Next came the starvation. The already small fields had been neglected because the farmers had been made to become factory workers. This time, the rebellion got the upper hand, with the Tuberists providing food from their vast fields back in Solanaria. Veritas attempted a naval blockade to stop the shipment of food from arriving. The Tuberists didn’t slow down. The naval commander ordered them to hold. The Tuberists, already very near to the maximum pace, almost appeared to speed up. Finally they stopped just outside of cannon range. They waited in a locked stalemate for 3 days until the Veritasians ran out of water and were forced to return to port. Thus, they spent the winter on meager rations and had to sell some of their newly bought steel to pay for food.
Finally, after a long and cold winter of light eating and intense stare-offs, the spring blossomed in the remaining fields.
The Veritasians had survived the winter by the skin of their teeth and knew that they could not survive another winter. This years winter had been astoundingly warm (by West Phagosian standards). In fact, this was the warmest winter ever recorded.
Over on Pommedora, which at this point had been established as the capital, the situation was almost as grim. The Tuberists, who were creeping up on a years time spent on an island were becoming increasingly obstinate and downright treasonous. They longed to go back to their homeland, and run on green fields, with gently rolling hills bordered by lush, fertile marshes, encased by the great mountains far to the west, just where the eye could see them. They downright despised the cramped island.
Tensions were starting to boil over on all sides of the war, until finally the spy game did its job. The Pommedorans received definitive proof that the Veritasians would be sailing for a “surprise” attack on Ardenholm in one months time. This was the break they needed and with this knowledge they could easily win the war.
Under the cover of darkness they began to very slowly and methodically ship soldier to Ardenholm. They arrived on mail boats and pleasure crafts, in wine barrels and tiny crude rafts. Simultaneously, these same craft evacuated the women and children, bringing them safely to Pommedora.
Then, the day before the battle, an idea was had. It was decided that instead of defending the city they should go on the offensive while the opposing military was away. The idea was they would go quickly to Veritas and slay BB, and then swiftly bring his head back over to Ardenholm where his army, seeing that they had nothing to fight for, would surrender.
There were problems with this plan, though. The entire army was already on Ardenholm, and Pommedora was still the closest island to Veritas, so it would make no sense to keep an army anywhere but there. Also, the ships would probably sail right by each other on their way to conquer their respective islands.
“None the matter with these details” said the commanders, “This plan is too good to pass up.”
And thus we pick up where we started, with the solders, armed to the teeth, sitting in the early morning sun, waiting for their boats to take them to Veritas.
They boarded and set off. 1/10 of the army was left behind to There was nothing but excitement as they lost sight of the shore. The soldiers were tremendously confident in their plan.
The boats sailed for 38 minutes without interruption.
Suddenly, a lookout sounded their horn. The soldiers instantaneously switched from their excited and eager chatter to silence as they looked on the horizon, expecting to see a fleet of opposing ships.
Instead they saw a tiny island. Barely even an island. More like a sad sandbar. The entire island was completely covered in Veritasian troops. They were all standing on the island, their bodies facing the fleet. They were all watching the fleet sail by.
All wielded a dull blue trident, the color of cold and drear ocean
Then one, the commander most likely, stepped forth and walked slowly to the edge of the shore, about 10 feet. He stopped at the edge and dipped the pronged fork of his trident into the water
Not a single eye strayed from his trident as it leapt to life. It’s dull and sad color replaced by an electric blue. The blue started from where the water touched the prongs and snaked down the trident at a decently fast pace.
Then he did the most unexpected thing of all, and fell face first into the water. All eyes remained on where he fell. The seconds ticked by. 15. 30. 60. 90. Was he dead? 120. Then at 133 exactly he sprang from the water. His right hand clamped so tightly around his trident his knuckles were bleached like dead coral. He sailed 50 meters in the air, well above the masts of the boats, and about 150 meters towards the boats.
Then his army all seemingly sprang to life and walked swiftly to the waters edge. It was a trap! They didn’t pause for dramatic effect like he did, diving headfirst into the water and sailing through the air with almost no delay.
The archers attempted to ready their bows but the boats were already packed tight with men, horses, cannons, and all sorts of equipment of war.
The tridenteers sprang forth and plunged into the ocean like rain. A hundred a twenty, they numbered. They rapidly began closing the distance. The archers pulled back their bows and waited for them to get into firing range. They quickly closed in. Finally, they were in shooting distance and they fired. None of the shots struck. In fact, none even came close. The soldiers were simply too small to hit accurately, especially from a rocking boat.
The tridenteers then passed overhead, and did the most unexpected thing of all. A few reached into their pouches and pulled out a single gray stick about the size of a baton. They then dropped them.
All of the tridenteers possessed 8 of these sticks, so most waited until they had clear shots to drop. A few thought they did right then, and threw their sticks towards the ships.
All except one missed. It was tremendously hard to fire accurately while trying to dodge projectiles.
The one that didn’t miss sailed down, down, down until it landed barely on the port side of a medium sized Humilauian cruiser. The wood of the boat was no match for the explosion that rang out. The front port side was torn. The water spout produced from the explosion went 15 meters into the air.
The ship sank in 2 minutes.
Immediately it’s neighboring boats turned sharply to rescue the screaming survivors. The tridenteers passed about a kilometer away from the boats before veering to the left and turning to made another pass.
The ships were thoroughly spooked, and most moved to do evasive maneuvers.
Suddenly, three powerful horn blasts rang out. This was the sign to press forth. The ships readjusted course to fan out, but 9 blasts rang out, the sign to stick together.
A second pass was made with 2 ships sunk. Another pass was made, but no ships were sunk. Than another with no ships. Another with 1. Another with 1. Another with none. This continued until 87 passes were made. There were 137 boats in total at the beginning, 7 large, 38 medium and 94 small. 93 remained. There were 4 large boats remaining (the 3 that were sunk had been sunk at the very beginning), 15 medium boats, and 75 small boats. Almost all of the surviving medium and large boats had tied themselves together with rope and formed a sort of floating pontoon. This greatly increased the sailing time, and a journey of 3 hours took 6.
Not all of the ships that were lost had sunk. Of the 19 small boats that were not present in the final fleet, only 2 had actually been sunk.
There had been a sort of mutiny aboard some of the smaller boats after the 8th pass. 2 of the 7 large boats had been hit and were sinking and the situation was looking very dire. In the rear, 9 of the small boats and 8 of the medium boats (the medium boats were the very end of the fleet) all mutinied against their captains, with three being stabbed to death and one being cast into the sea and turned around back to Ardenholm. Watching them sail away nearly caused the entire fleet to break apart but they were guided by a common foe.
A few of the boats lagged behind. 4 medium boats couldn’t keep pace due to being non-fatally struck and turned around. The tridenteers were given orders to at least damage the ships heavily enough to force them to turn around, so they allowed those ships to flee.
3 small ships, in an interesting turn of fate, were nearest to the islands when the bombing started. They were the ones who had sounded the alarm. The tridenteers had passed over them entirely without dropping a single bomb. They were still horrified watching the preliminary carnage before the ships could form up, and decided to run themselves aground on the tiny island the Veritasians had started out in.
They hid under the 6 palm trees for 8 days, not knowing anything about the status of any of the nations. They survived by eating the horses they had brought and drinking the wine they had brought which they were going to celebrate with once the island of Veritas was conquered.
Finally, after 6 hours, the boats sighted Veritas. The midday sun was high in the air and the archers could not see the trident wielders through the sun, accelerating their losses.
Veritas looked abandoned. The alarm has been raised but very few troops were on the walls, looking very frightened.
The soldiers let out a halfhearted cheer upon laying eyes on the island. The Veritasian tridents veered right after the fleet made their way into the smooth natural harbor.
The tridenteers had only lost 11. 7 from lucky bow shots, 3 from the binding from their wrists to their tridents slipping off, and 1 stupid soldier who tried to land on a small boat and was instantly slain.
The boats neared the docks of Veritas. The harbor wasn’t much of a harbor at all, only having a narrow wave-breaking sandspit that only extended past a third of the docks.
The boats made passes towards the docks, with some soldiers being so desperate to get off of them they leaped from the boats and swam to shore.
The boats all started to unload as normal, with horses being placed on the shore and equipment to breach the great gate of Veritas being unloaded
Suddenly the great gate of Veritas, which was expected to be a large obstacle swung open and half of Veritas’s army (still a formidable number mind you) roared forth, banging their shields, and sprinted at the unprepared rebels.
This was not expected at all, and no precautions for this had been taken. The rebels on the beach all turned to run back to the boats when, alas! The tridenteers reappeared from out of nowhere behind the boats. They hurtled towards the crafts, flying much more recklessly now, and dropped their bombs. The boats were not moving or fighting back this time and 8 were struck.
In the same run, 47 of the tridenteers dropped their explosives on top of the docks, blowing all except two up. Those two would be decommissioned in the next run.
This mostly stranded the peoples on the shore, whose only option now was the rowboats from the large ships. Some ran towards those but right then the charging army from the gates slammed into those on the shore.
18 rowboats were cast off, from the beach and the rest were not able to and were scuttled. The battle for the beach was a terrible situation for the rebels with them being completely pinned against the sea.
The battle lasted 15 minutes. There was no command from any officers due to most still being present on the boats. No definitive line was formed up and many men swam out to sea to try to wait out the slaughter. Most men threw their weapons on the ground and begged for mercy.
1/6 of the seaborn army was slain and 1/6 of the army surrendered on the beach, totaling 1/3 of invasion, or exactly 642 men.
The boats tried to leave the harbor but all tried to leave at once and a few collisions occurred. The boats that made it out were harassed by the tridenteers the entire time. A few tridenteers were observed landing on the decks of boats and stabbing sailors as they tried to get the boats under control before running away
To top it off, the winds were blowing in an awful direction and most of the boats were blown far to the right. They nearly crashed into an unwalled peninsula. The horn of orders was silent because the ship they were on had taken a direct hit and was rapidly sinking. The commander of the entire operation, on that ship, had died instantly in the blast. The entire senior commanding force had migrated to that boat during the trident harassment because it was centrally located and the safest option. None of the senior officers survived, as the bomb quite literally split the ship in two, and as they were gathered midship below the upper decks they had either been torn up from wood splinters or went down with the ship and were drowned.
Due to the lack of orders, all ships had their own idea of what to do. Most of them thought that the wind was far too unfavorable to set into open water so decided to land on the peninsula. About 1/3 decided to try the winds and sailed in various directions to various islands. This time, the tridenteers could harass them all they wanted and most would not get far. One tridenteer was assigned per boat, which ended up being a large blunder on Veritas's part because most were out of ammunition and could not do any damage.
Those who landed on the peninsula were met with an immediate problem. Unloading. Most of the men jumped overboard to swim to shore and some ships went completely unmanned before being either sunk or captured by the opposing force. Some men who didn't take of their armor were weighed down by it and drowned. The same happened for the archers, who's quivers filled completely with water instead of arrows, and if they were unable to get the quiver off they drowned.
There was one final factor that was at play. The peninsula itself. It was very long and narrow. So narrow that a tridenteer could safely jump all the way over it without being dashed apart on the rocks.
A single tridenteer sprang fourth. Their bright blue trident electric against the sky, which was growing progressively cloudier. They reached into their pocket and pulled out one of the sticks. They lazily let it go before safely landing in the water on the other side.
They didn’t even have to aim. It exploded on the top right corner of the peninsula and some were caught in the blast.
The other tridenteers followed suit. There were only 26 archers still armed as almost all of them had either abandoned their gear or were weighed down by it trying to swim over.
The entire peninsula was scourged. The walls extended to the beach on either side, and the coast became far too treacherous and rocky to swim around.
40% of the entire army was slain on the peninsula. A further 20% (of the men on the peninsula) surrendered and only 19 men escaped. 9 on a rowboat that was let go because of its irrelevance and 10 somehow survived the swim around the walls and ran up the island before stealing a sailboat and escaping.
Those that turned around and fled immediately suffered casualties, but not to the scale of this. About 5% of the army died on the sail back from getting picked off. Most of the tridenteers ran out of ammunition.
A grand total of 67% of the army perished in this advancement. A further 14% surrendered and of those, 1% died in prison from disease or starvation. 1,531 men in total lost their lives.
As for the boats, of the ones that made it to Veritas, none of the large ships survived, 4 of the medium ships made it back (2 were captured, 9 sank) and 29 of the small ships made it back (38 sunk, 8 captured). Of the 18 rowboats that were on the beach during the initial beach attack, 15 landed on the peninsula, with the other three rowing all the way to Pommedora.
Those that escaped ended up on all manner of islands in the surrounding area. One boat drifted with only one man on board for 8 days. He too survived off of horseflesh but also was lucky enough to get rainwater.
The other half of Veritas’s army had taken a longer route to Ardenholm. Ardenholm somehow managed to pull off an astonishing victory, despite being outnumbered 5-1. They were helped by the crew that had mutinied initially. They made use of their thick walls and used a turtle strategy to wait for help, until after 24 hours when they realized that something had gone seriously wrong they then went on a sudden offensive catching the Veritasian army completely by surprise because they had grown used to not being shot at.
The Ardenholm fighters used bows and a ridiculously large pile of arrows to shoot at the invaders non-stop until they finally gave up and went home. They were significantly hampered by not having the other half of their army. Both sides suffered relatively minor casualties, with Ardenholm losing 19 men and Veritas losing exactly 100.
Veritas lost 58 of their 120 tridenters, with the vast majority being lost by flying too close to the boats and being shot with arrows. Interestingly, 82% of those that landed on boats to stab individual sailors would perish. Their army suffered a loss total of 329.
This defeat left the rebels in shock. Their entire standing army had been effectively wiped out. They would start having to recruit younger men and paying more for mercenaries.
The Tuberists had taken the highest casualty rate, with an unimaginable 80% casualty rate and 16% captured. Only 4%, or just 16 men on one small boat, which they never left, managed to make it back. When the elder potatoes learned about this, they were understandably shocked and devastated and justifiably withdrew all future support to the rebellion. They claimed that the Tuberites had been used as cannon fodder and that that was an stupidly high casualty rate for a defensive mission. They had lost every single one of their ranking officers they had sent on that mission and demanded insanely high rates of compensation. It wasn’t until the battle was thoroughly explained and they were promised that all the islands would convert to Tuberism that they agreed to help once more.
The defeat didn't spell doom for the rebels, but would certainly go on to hamper their future efforts.
And that is the story of one of the worst strategical blunders in Stoneworks history.
This story is based around the truth. Ardenholm was indeed attacked by Veritas and BB after rebelling with Pommedora and Humilau. The Tuberists did indeed help out for religious reasons. There was indeed a failed charge counterattack which was poorly planned and the casualty numbers are accurate if you combine the dead and captured and just consider them all dead. The Veritasians did indeed use tridents to pick most of us off, and I myself died. This would have easily cost us the battle as we lost 80% of our total gear and didn’t really have enough time to make a proper repot. We used the good old 0-armor-stone-axe-rush strategy and only won because they placed capture points underwater which is illegal. So yeah the next battle is in a week (I think) and we have a LOT of grinding to do haha.
Also Stoney hmu if you ever want any scriptwriting help. I love to do this.
If you read this far um gg I guess
- lnedible
submitted by lnedible to StoneworksMC [link] [comments]


2023.06.04 04:11 GoodDog_168 My pre-boulder preparation checklist

Hey guys, I just thought I would share the routine I go through before every boulder problem. I’ve been using this for a few months now and it really helps me make sure I have all of the factors in my favor for tougher problems like a V2. Here it is:
  1. Brush the holds. I use a custom-built 4 piece brush set to achieve optimal results. I use the brushes in this order:
-First, my Boar’s hair wide brush 3a bristle stiffness rating. This is the best one to start with. A medium strength bristle with wide brush surface gets the top layers of dust and chalk off the holds
-next, a thin-bodied brush with level 4c stiffness synthetic bristles. The thin body and stiff bristles help to really scrub away the more persistent debris and break up caked chalk and grime
-third, a small, steel wire-bristled precision brush (6a stiffness) is great for breaking up the toughest bits of grime which can throw off an entire send.
-finally, I clean each hold with a large, soft, horse hair and wool composite brush (1a stiffness) this wipes away the loose particles of chalk stirred up by the other brushes and removes moisture from sweat and humidity
  1. Now that the holds are clean I take about 10 minutes to think about how I am going to attempt the problem. I first mime out the movements with my hands, and then climb to various points on the problem to practice harder moves and get a feel for any tough holds. I also use this time to practice proper falling technique
  2. Now I do some final checks on my shoes, making sure that the sides haven’t stretched or shrunk messing up the fitting of my shoes, which could seriously impact my performance.
  3. At this point I lay out my crash pad below the wall, since I don’t trust the gym to properly maintain their pads, and replace them monthly as they should be.
  4. Next I clear the area below the wall, making it explicitly clear to all the birthday party gumbies with rental shoes and overconfident show off wannabe-honnolds to stay out of my area as that could impact my concentration and cause me to fall on them.
  5. As part of my final preparations, I select a beanie from my collection. This is very important for my mental state to get the right beanie. Oftentimes I will change beanies multiple times between attempts until I get the right one for the problem.
  6. Now is the point where I put in my airpod pros which I got from my gym’s lost and found and turn on my warm up music, weezer’s blue album.
  7. With my warmup music on I spend about 15 minutes stretching and doing cardio warm-ups to get the blood flowing. I also warm up my grip by using custom grip strength exercise balls.
  8. Next, it’s very important to go through the brushing process once more as particulate dust and chalk in the air can settle on the holds during the other steps.
  9. Now it’s time to ready my hands and chalk up. first I moisturize my hands a few times with different lotions (cerave sensitive skin lotion, working hands lotion, and aloe-infused Brazilian coco shea butter climbing lotion with hyaluronic acid). Then I spit on my hands to lay a good base layer for the chalk. Then, I apply a thick layer of liquid chalk, followed by several pieces of loose chalk, and a final dusting with a chalk sock.
  10. Finally, I switch my music to the free solo soundtrack and step up to the wall to send the problem.
Hope this helps you guys improve your bouldering skills. If you have any questions or ideas for additions to my routine feel free to comment!
submitted by GoodDog_168 to ClimbingCircleJerk [link] [comments]


2023.06.04 01:48 rickoleum Bar issues

The chain came off the bar on my chainsaw recently. (Probably didn't tension it enough.)
Anyway, there were some burrs on the drivelinks, I cleaned those up with a file, the chain seems to be ok.
However, there is an issue with the guide bar. When the chain came off, it looks like there was some damage to the bar, inside the groove back near the bar bolts/sprocket. So the drivelinks, even after the burrs were filed off, doesn't travel smoothly on this part of the bar.
I have some very thin files from harbor freight that fit into the groove and have been running them through the bar groove to try to fix this but don't seem to be making much progress.
Any suggestions would be appreciated.
submitted by rickoleum to Chainsaw [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 17:00 Proletlariet Composite Bond - Main Body

I admire your luck, Mr...?
Bond. James Bond.
Special Agent 007, James Bond is the star agent of MI6. Always cool under pressure and licensed to kill, James is sent to infiltrate enemy organizations and destroy them from the inside. Over the decades, James Bond has gone from serious to campy and back again, but always manages to get the job done through wit, physical ability and superior equipment.
Bond generally wields a sidearm with lethal efficiency, along with a number of incredible gadgets developed by the geniuses at Q Branch. With his remarkable physical ability and ever-changing bag of tools, there isn't an international crime organization that Bond has failed to take down. The only thing that could possible distract Bond are his own vices: women or booze, both of which have gotten one over on him in the past.
James Bond Respect Threads by Actor
Sean Connery- 1962 to 1967, once more in 1971. Physically strong, numerous gadgets disguised as everyday items. Adept in traditional spy skills, like infiltration and observation.
George Lazenby- Once in 1969. Very similar to Connery in his craftiness, skilled specifically in winter sports.
Roger Moore- 1973 to 1985. Downright campy, making use of almost cartoonish skills that actually work in-universe. Skilled driver and pilot with a variety of gadgets.
Timothy Dalton- 1987 to 1989. Colder and more quick to become violent than the others. Usually carries a firearm and a lethal gadget to kill enemies.
Pierce Brosnan- 1995 to 2002. Best variety of gadgets of any Bond. Great feats of endurance and athletic ability.
Daniel Craig- 2006 to 2021. The most realistic Bond, yet has some of the most impressive physical abilities in any of the movies. Low variety of gadgets, but excels in gunfights.
Hover over a feat to see the film it’s from. Additionally, the name of any gif on Gfycat contains the last name of the actor that accomplished it.

Physicals

You have a nasty habit of surviving.
Well, you know what they say about the fittest.
Strength
Striking
Lifting/Throwing
Grip
Pushing
Other
Endurance
Blunt Force
Piercing/Cutting
Other
Agility
Movement
Reflexes

Combat Skill

Problem solver?
More of a problem eliminator.
Unarmed Combat
Quick Knock Outs
Against Individuals
Against Multiple Attackers
Against Armed Attackers
With Weapons
Blades
Blunt Objects
Unorthodox Items
Environment Focused

Accuracy

You wouldn’t kill me. You’d miss me.
I never miss.
Pistols
Against Vehicles
Rifles/Submachine Guns
Other Firearms
Non-Firearm Accuracy

Other Skills

I always enjoyed learning a new tongue.
You always were a cunning linguist, James.
Athletics
Driving/Piloting
Driving
Piloting Aircraft
Other
Traversal
Stealth
Other

Equipment

Right, now pay attention 007. I want you to take great care of this equipment. There are one or two rather special accessories.
Q, have I ever let you down?
Frequently.
Weapons
Firearms
Other
Gadgets
Mobility
Reconnaissance/Infiltration

Continued in Comments

submitted by Proletlariet to u/Proletlariet [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 16:50 MjolnirPants Gary and the Nightmare: Part 4

Part 3
The landscape changed as Gary prowled through it. It started as the farmland he remembered so well. Small copses of trees began to appear as he moved around, hunting. Between them, individual trees began to appear. The buildings, small houses and sheds, mostly, thinned out as the trees grew thicker. The ground grew steeper and mountains rose around him.
Before long, he was prowling the slopes of a narrow wooded valley. He could see ixlets darting through the woods around him. He glanced down the slope and saw a mix of greasers and Taliban, moving through the trees.
He moved further down the valley, towards the Taliban and greasers. They ignored him, except to keep their distance. That suited Gary just fine, as he was after a different prey.
Down below the greasers, the landscape changed again. The trees thinned out and vanished, replaced by rocky, windswept tundra, dotted by small lakes. He found a ruin there, massive gray stones emerging from the ground.
He moved past the ruin. Trees appeared again, but instead of oak and ceder and ash, he found mangroves and pines and huge ceibos. They came together, getting denser and denser until he stepped out onto a large rock and could see the town of Esteli spread out before him.
He continued on, into the narrow streets. The buildings crowded together, wall to wall. There were signs everywhere; for the shops that dotted the streets, for American companies that selflessly graced the slums of Nicaragua with their business, for local brands, for strip clubs and bars.
The people crowded the streets, competing with the tiny cars and occasional donkey. Gary moved on.
The streets changed. The crowds changed, too. They had darker skin and wore less clothes. Trikes began to appear, enclosed three-wheeled ramblers built around a motorcycle frame. A sign pointed him to Clara Town in English.
This time, Gary paused. He remembered this place. Monrovia, Liberia. On the west coast of Africa. His first contract for the Agency had brought him here. The spook he was here to protect had been a stupid little shit that had ruined his own operation and gotten them into a gunfight. He'd met Drake here, as well. The younger man's bright pink hair had stood out to Gary, a massive cross-section on his gaydar.
He remembered being holed up in a run-down hovel following the fight. Everybody was injured, but nobody had died. Gary was down to two mags, one of them in his rifle and the other half-empty in a pouch on his chest. Drake had offered him a blowjob for the half-empty mag, confirming Gary's suspicions about which way he swung. Gary had handed it over without a word, but as they rode away in a beat up minivan driven by one of their assets, he'd leaned over and asked Drake to pay up, half jokingly.
Well, maybe a quarter jokingly.
That had been a bad day, but far from the worst he'd seen. And not someplace he would find the bugbear.
"Where the fuck are you, ya foggy little goblin?" Gary muttered. This place felt wrong. He remembered what Inanna had said, somewhere else.
"...They're not intelligent, though they can speak."
Gary glanced around. This place... This was not a place of fear. This was a place of a curious, entertaining memory. Frustrating, at the time, and painful as well. But not frightening. Not like those fields where he'd killed the boys.
The bugbear wasn't here, he realized. It hadn't been any of the places he'd been. Instead, it had been sending him away from it. Sending him to places where he'd hunt the thing, while it...
Gary knew where to go.
He pictured the park and began to walk.
He tried to work it out. He was in his own head. He needed to get out, to get back to the real world. He reached out with his magical senses, feeling the world around him. It felt... Delicate. As if it would fall apart at a simple touch. Experimentally, he reached out with a bit of magic. The buildings on one side of the street crumbled.
He pushed out harder, reaching out all around him, tearing the world apart with magic, until he floated in a deep void. From here, he could feel the real world. It was up. He turned his face in that direction and flew.
----
Inanna Williams, Fucking Shit Balls, Motherfucking Cock Sucker
She would not call Jerry. Or Yarm, or Sookie, or anyone else who might be awake right now. But she was getting pretty fucking disgusted with this thing. Suzanne crouched below one of the picnic tables as Inanna held her sword in her hands and kept herself between the bugbear and the girl.
Her sword blazed with fire, of course. Drawing flame from metal was one of the simplest acts of magic, an effect easily imbued into any artifact. And the weapons forged by Grandfather were works of art, pristinely forged and crafted and eager to soak up any enchantments they could. The flames were good, they helped. They weren't the problem.
Keeping magic suffused through her body was the problem.
She'd already moved around more magic today than she had in the last week. The effort had exhausted her. She barely had the strength to hoist her sword. And she was making a continuing effort to keep enough magic in her body to actually hurt the bugbear.
She didn't know how long she could keep this up.
The bugbear lunged again and she whipped her blade up, tip menacing the thing. It growled and hissed and spat, but it had already learned what pain that weapon could inflict.
Inanna glanced over to where Gary had collapsed, only to realize he was not there. His sword and shield lay on the ground, but Gary was gone. She carefully flicked her eyes from the bugbear to different areas of the park, searching for him. She saw no sign of him whatsoever. Gary had vanished.
A grin split her features.
"You are in for a world of hurt, you ugly motherfucker," she said menacingly. The bugbear ignored her, of course. It was a beast, after all.
----
Gary Johnson, Fucking Pissed
He didn't even bother with his weapons. He remembered Inanna's words, and the effect Percy's punches had on the thing. He pulled in his shield, burying it just below his skin. He poured more magic into it, thickening it, strengthening it.
He could feel the tension of the shield as he crept off into the shadows. The bugbear was menacing Inanna, who menaced it right back with her big ass sword. She looked exhausted, like she might fall over at any minute. Too much magic use, Gary thought. The rituals had each taken a toll on her, and he knew from experience how difficult teleporting someone who wasn't touching him was.
He snuck around behind the thing as Inanna said something he didn't catch. He idly wondered why she hadn't called Jerry, but the answer presented itself before the question had even been formed. It was pride, of course. She could not bring herself to ask for assistance defeating something she'd dismissed as 'not particularly tough'.
Gary got to within tackling distance and then brought his wet blanket back up and threw it over the monster. Its blurry form solidified, the pale white face and dark body coming into focus. Its limbs were long, with long claws on each finger. Its elbows and shoulders were bulbous, its chest sunken, its hips protruding. It noticed, of course. It snarled at Inanna, but before it could strike, Gary rushed it, his temper cheering at the thought of getting his hands on the thing.
It spun at the sound of his feet pounding on the grass, so Gary swung a textbook perfect punch right between its eyes. The blow clotheslined the beast, flipping its feet forward, tossing it on its own head and neck with a sickening crack that would have killed any mortal.
Razor sharp claws lashed out at him as he threw himself on top of the thrashing monster. They scratched at the top layers of his skin, but the wounds closed and they couldn't penetrate past his shield.
He used his left hand to interfere with the claws, getting his forearm onto the bugbear's and pressing down. With his right hand, he pounded at the beast's face, over and over. Each blow crunched into the thing with the force of a freight train, the unfocused magic in his body turning itself into raw physical power.
The bugbear roared in pain and rage, so Gary opened his mouth and roared right back. The beast slipped its arms free and jammed them into Gary's sides, but he ignored them and got his left hook working the thing as well.
Snarling in rage, he snatched his knife off his chest and brought it down into the thing's throat. Its roars turned into a wet, gurgling sound. Gary pulled the knife out, then thrust it into its belly and ripping up, the force of the move shattering ribs and spraying Gary with a black ichor.
He growled deep in his chest, pulling the knife back out and slamming it into the bugbear's neck again, this time from the side. He left it there and resumed punching it, slamming his fists down with enough force to shatter the bones in his hands, leaving them just enough time to heal between blows.
He struck the beast over and over and over, ignoring the pain in his hands, focused only on hurting the thing. He kept going long after it stopped fighting back, stopping only when he felt a small hand on his back. He spun, his eyes wild and angry, but it was only Inanna there.
"You got him, Yarm," she said wryly. Gary stared, uncomprehending at her for a moment. Then it clicked. He barked a short laugh out and rolled off the thing, sitting on the grass next to the unmoving body.
"Is it dead?" he asked, his chest heaving from the exertion.
Inanna held a hand out towards the bugbear. "Yeah, it's dead."
"Good," Gary said. They sat in silence for a moment.
"The girl all right?" he asked.
Inanna nodded. "Yup." She looked over her shoulder and called out, "It's okay, hun. You can come out, now." A tiny figure moved hesitatingly towards them, stopping at the dead body of the bugbear and looking down at it.
"It's dead, darlin'," Gary said. "Nothing but a bag o ectoplasm, or whatever that black stuff is."
"Ectoplasm," the girl said quietly. Gary nodded and looked back at Inanna.
"Did you just call me Yarm?" he asked. She chuckled. "You reminded me of him just then. You were fighting like him."
"Heh," Gary said. "Balls to the wall, unchecked aggression."
"Yup," Inanna agreed.
"Don't tell nobody, but I gave a bit of thought to dropping trou and squeezing out a stink pickle on the thing's face. Just for a second, mind."
Inanna laughed. "Why didn't you?" she asked. Gary shrugged. "No point. It's long past caring what I do to it."
"Now there's the Gary I know," she said. Then she looked at Suzanne and frowned. "The Washingtons are dead. She's got nowhere to go."
"I might have a lead on that," Gary said. "In the meantime, she can come stay with me."
Inanna scoffed. "You'll adopt her within a month," she said. Gary just shrugged. "Maybe. Like I said, I got a lead."
----
Liam MacReady, On His Day Off
Liam answered the door to reveal an older guy standing there. He had a big, bushy beard that was mostly gray, a leathery face, and a figure that suggested a lot of time in the gym. He had a veteran's air about him, too, Liam noticed. It was in the insouciant sloop of his shoulders, the stiffness of his lower back, the way he stood with his hands on his hips.
"Can I help you?" he rumbled.
"Liam MacReady?" the man asked, his voice tinged with a backwoods twang. Liam nodded, so the man held out a leather mitt. "My name's Gary Johnson. I'm with the Divine Crisis Management Group. I have some records here that say you applied to become a foster parent about two years ago, is that right?"
Liam frowned even as he shook the man's hand. He had a firm grip, but he didn't try to crush Liam's hand. Which was good, because Liam had mastered that particular show of dominance long ago.
Still, he didn't like this. "Why you looking into me, bro?" he asked.
"There's a little girl, goes by the name of Suzanne," Johnson said. Liam's hard look evaporated at the mention of the little girl he'd tried to take in.
"I know that look," Johnson said in a softer voice. "I got a daughter of my own. Can I come in?"
Liam thought about it. A cop would ask him to step out, not ask to come in. Unless he wanted to search for something. But Liam could kick him out if he started poking around. He pushed the door open wider and stood to the side.
Johnson walked in. He didn't poke around, but went straight to the living room and waited for Liam to join him. Liam closed the door and walked into the room, taking his favorite chair and gesturing at the couch for Johnson to sit. He did.
"So what's this about Suzanne?" Liam asked.
"Can you tell me how you know her?" Johnson asked.
Liam threw up his hands. "Brother, can we just get to the point?"
"This is the point, Mister MacReady," Johnson said. "I need to ask you some questions about her."
"When'd you serve?" Liam asked.
"Eighty-seven to oh-seven," Johnson answered without hesitation. "You?"
"Oh three to twenty-ten," Liam answered. "Second Ranger Battalion."
"Fifth Group," Johnson said. Liam quirked an eyebrow. "Green berets. Choice gig, that."
"Kinda sucked, to be honest." Lian chuckled at his answer.
"So how did you meet Suzanne?"
Liam rubbed his chin, thinking. After organizing his thoughts a bit, he spoke.
"Dated a girl a couple years ago. Suzanne's mom. She was a train wreck, but it took me a while to realize it. The girl..." Liam chuckled again.
"She was scared of me at first. I got these burns," he gestured to the side of his face, "In Kandahar. Don't do a lot to make me pretty, you know? But she warmed up to me in time. Sweetest little thing, she was. I never really thought of myself as a parent, you know? Always had too much going on, what with work and the club. But I loved spending time with that girl.
"I'd have dumped her mom's druggie ass much sooner, if not for her. When I finally had enough of her shit, I called CPH. Left an anonymous tip. I put in my application to be a foster parent, knowing that they'd rather her go with someone she knows. But they denied me. The club, me being single... I guess I can't blame them."
Johnson had been carefully watching Liam's face as he spoke, and Liam felt a strange sensation in the air. The temperature had dropped, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.
"You gotta good heart, Mister MacReady," Johnson said.
"Uh, thanks, I guess," Liam responded. Johnson pointed at Liam's kutte. "What's the missing rocker?" he asked.
Liam looked down, noticing the threads still hanging out. "Master-at-arms," he said, touching it with one blunt finger. "I stepped down back when I was trying to become a foster parent. Freed up more of my time, you know?"
"Would you like to see Suzanne? Spend the afternoon with her?"
Liam leaned forward, his interest thoroughly captured. "Yeah. You can make that happen?"
Johnson raised a finger. A few seconds later, Liam heard a knock on the front door. He stood and answered it to find a bookish-looking man in a suit and bowtie standing there. He was flanked by two more figures. One was a short, brunette knockout. She had a middle-eastern cast about her, curves like a scenic railroad track and tits that could stop all conversations within a dozen yards. But she wasn't the one who caught his eye.
"Mister Liam?" Suzanne asked. Liam's face lit up in a wide grin as he knelt down and threw his arms out.
"Hey punkin!" he cried as she rushed into them. He hugged her carefully for a long moment.
"Mister MacReady," the nerdy guy said. "I know about the troubles you had applying to become a foster parent. There's nothing we can really do about that, it's a state matter. But we have lawyers in all specialties, including family law. I'm confident we can arrange a private adoption. We've already contacted her mother at the MCI women's facility, and she's agreed to relinquish custody."
Liam stood, still clinging to Suzanne, who gripped him tightly.
"Why?" he asked.
"We want her to be with someone who loves her. And Gary is quite sure that's you."
"Uh..." Liam wasn't good with this kind of stuff. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's me." Johnson stepped past him and all three of them stepped off the stoop.
"I'll be back around nine," Johnson said. He handed Liam a pair of cards, which he took and carefully examined over Suzanne's shoulder. Both were for the same company he'd mentioned earlier. One had his name on it, and the other had a woman's name.
"Call the woman, Astrid, when you're ready to move forward on the adoption," Johnson said.
"And the other?" Liam asked.
"Call me if you ever find yourself willing to give up the outlaw life and work a steady, good paying job," Johnson told him. He met Liam's eyes and then nodded.
"I missed you so much," Suzanne said as Johnson followed the other two out to a black Humvee parked by the curb. Liam grinned so wide his face hurt.
"I missed you too, punkin," he said.
The End.
submitted by MjolnirPants to JerryandtheGoddesses [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 16:41 Proletlariet Bill & Ted Saved

"Be excellent to each other... and party on dudes!"

He is Bill S. Preston, Esq.! And he is Ted "Theodore" Logan! And together, they are Wyld Stallyns!
To everyone else in late-80s/early-90s San Dimas, California, Wyld Stallyns may look like the impossible dream of two slackers with no skill in anything else. But in truth, the music of Wyld Stallyns is so bodacious, so non-heinous, so excellent that it brings about an era of prosperity, both across the earth and to the stars beyond, and technological advancement so advanced that even time can be accessed as freely as a 10-digit phone number from the nearest payphone. Because of this, agents from the future utopia have sent back a time-travelling phone booth as well as information about the future to make sure that Bill and Ted are able to continue having most excellent adventures and fulfill the destiny of Wyld Stallyns.

Key

Movies:
EA = Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure
BJ = Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey
FtM - Bill & Ted Face the Music
Shows:
CSxEy = Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventures (DiC Animated Series); Season X Episode Y
LAEx = Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventures (Fox Live Action Series); Episode X
Comics:
M#X = Bill & Ted's Excellent Comic Book (Marvel Comics) Issue #X
BVx#y = Boom! Studios Comics; Volume X, Issue #Y
Vol. 1 = Bill & Ted's Triumphant Return
Vol. 2 = Bill & Ted Go To Hell
Vol. 3 = Bill & Ted Save the Universe
BV1#xS = Boom! Studios Comics; Side Story
DH#X = Dark Horse Comics (Face the Music Compliant) Issue #X
Games:
AL = Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Atari Lynx)
NES = Bill & Ted's Excellent Video Game Adventure (NES)
WS = Wyld Stallyns (Mobile Game)
Live Show:
EHAyy = Bill & Ted's Excellent Halloween Adventure; 19YY/20YY

Bill and Ted

Strength
Speed/Agility
Durability
Skill
Intelligence
Yes, really.
Rockitude
Skill
Power
Ghost Bill and Ted
Other

Bill

Strength
Speed/Agility
Durability
Skill
Other

Ted

Strength
Speed/Agility
Durability
Skill
Other

Good Robot Bill and Ted

Robots created by the most brilliant mind in the universe, Station, to combat the powerful Evil Robot Bill and Ted. BJ
Strength
Durability
They Run On Car Batteries
Other

Mecha Bill & Ted

Mobile Suit Bill & Giganto-Ted

The Time Booth

Time Travel
The Squint System
An upgraded directory that allows the booth to travel to fictional settings, including books, CDs, movies, and games. CS2E2
Durability
Landing Strength
Other
"Catch ya later Bill and Ted!"
submitted by Proletlariet to u/Proletlariet [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 06:38 Pap2017 Score at my local Savers

I don’t normally go to Savers as their prices tend to be high for donated goods, usually hit my local Salvation Army or pawn shops. Been looking for SVU seasons, haven’t been successful in over a year of looking until today. Was going to Harbor Freight and next door is Savers, I thought why not drop in and check out what they have. Got excited when I saw the Law & Order font, turned out it was L & A Criminal Intent got bummed for a moment. But then I saw the original Law & Order TV show and I knew I had to keep looking. I found brand new still sealed Law & Order SVU seasons 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. I was hoping to find more but I was happy to find what I did. Each season for $5.99.
submitted by Pap2017 to SVU [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 05:08 maedayborowski Living with my best friend is making me hate him

Edit: TLDR my flatmate is a grown man and he can’t wake up without me, can’t go to sleep without me, can’t clean, throws away my food because he thinks I’m too fat, rarely pays his bills and owes me over a grand which I doubt I’ll ever see, and once nearly set our flat on fire.
Things have been tense between my flatmate and me for a while. (He’s 24M, I’m 25F. We’ve been best friends since aged 11, and we moved in together nearly 2 years ago).
I work shifts in a 24/7 hotel bar, so I have an odd schedule where sometimes I have to wake up at 4am for work for an early shift and other times I’m still awake at 4am after a late shift. Management sucks so I often work 9/10 days in a row (usually 10-12 hour shifts) before I get a day off, and I’m on my feet that entire time. My flatmate on the other hand (no hate towards him, just facts) works 8 hours per week for extra money because his side of the rent and bills are paid for by his parents who are wealthy. (It’s maybe worth noting his parents are not happy about this and he argues with them on FaceTime every night, which I hear, because our walls are very thin).
He doesn’t understand how it is to work shifts, and he wakes me up at 7am every morning regardless and says I can’t sleep the day away. No amount of telling him to go away or covering my head with my pillow or even literally crying and yelling will make him go away. I have literally walked him outside and closed the door in his face and he just came back in. (Also we aren’t allowed locks, we don’t even have a lock on the toilet door). Not only does he wake me up after late shifts, he also keeps me awake before early shifts until after 1am with loud music and constantly coming into my room to tell me random things after I’ve said I’m going to sleep. Plus even if he goes to sleep at 1am I’m then so angry I can’t sleep at all and I end up going to work on nothing. One time I was so tired after I’d worked a 20 hour shift (double shift 7pm-7am, then a 7-3pm shift because someone called in sick), I told him to please not bother me unless the place is literally on fire, and he woke me up to get me to watch a midnight drug raid across our street (bare in mind we live in a shitty area so I’ve seen it all before as he knows, and I wasn’t in the mood for neighbourhood drama).
He also has an eating disorder, which isn’t his fault at all. However he projects a lot of his issues into me. I actually used to be obese and I am still overweight but I’ve lost significant weight. He is very skinny and always has been. I eat home cooked meals every day that I make for myself (unless I’m eating socially). He eats cereal and nothing else and even then he often skips his cereal dinner. I’m just glad he’s eating something and not nothing. The reason I’m mad is he throws away my food and when I ask where it went he says I don’t need it and he’s helping with my diet (I am not on a diet, I am changing my habits, I never said I was on a diet). It’s a huge waste of my money and it’s also so upsetting to come home after a 12 hour day especially when I didn’t get time to eat at work all day, and all I want is a hot meal, a blanket, and some mindless scrolling until I’m ready to pass out and sleep, and I can’t even have that because I’ve no food left and everywhere is closed, so I have to have a glass of water for dinner. For context he’s not throwing away chocolate and sweeties he’s throwing away things like broccoli and peas which I was gonna use for a healthy meal. He even once threw away my lentil and carrot soup which I put in the freezer. I don’t even care if I’m fat I still deserve a warm bowl of soup after 12 hours of Karens and and managers and stress (also this incident was in January and we live in the north of Scotland btw, so I was literally so cold and just wanted to warm up and I had to have water for dinner again because he threw out my food that I’d made specifically to warm me up after work).
Speaking of money he spends a lot of his parents cash on stuff for himself (usually Pokémon games or merch), so I often cover for him which I know I shouldn’t but we have one of those electricity sticks that you manually pay for, so if I don’t pay for it then and there we straight up don’t have electricity which affects me too. I also clean for him, not because he asks me to, but because when he does his own dishes he’s so awful at it I worry about him. He washes his dishes and leaves whole bits of food stuck to the plate and just soaps it up and carries on. So obviously I later have to take it and re-clean his dishes. He drinks a lot of tea and he literally scrubs the mug with the teabag still inside, then sticks it on the drying rack and seems to think it’s clean.
He is also dangerous around the flat, for example the worst thing he’s done is he once he left his washing in the machine too long so it smelled a bit when it came out. Rather than washing it again like a sensible person he decides to hang it up on the clothes horse, light a few candles underneath his clothes to “get the smell of the candles on the clothes”, then leave the house and go to lidl for an hour or so (our local shop). He also didn’t use candle holders. I got back from work to discover this and quickly blew out the candles which thankfully only burned a hole in the carpet, which I also paid for.
He’s still my best friend and I know I’m probably not a perfect flatmate either but I’m so tired of being his mummy he’s 24 ffs.
submitted by maedayborowski to TrueOffMyChest [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 04:25 Tireless_AlphaFox I am working on my next short story in my superhero series. I don't know if people like my style of writing

It is heavily based on action, so I wonder if my current style of writing action scenes fits the general taste of RR readers. Here is an action scene of my style as an example. (Please tell me if you like them or not)
(Tireless is a superhero wearing green, and Sky passerby is another superhero with a special gun)
Sky Passerby drew out his pistol from the belt. It looked like a long golden revolver, but the cylinder was replaced by a long glass barrel full of light blue compressed air, and the hammer was replaced with a socket and a battery cassette. The glass barrel replaced both the cylinder and most of the metal barrel.
Compressed air and mana gushed out from the 1.6-inch metal barrel when Sky pressed the trigger. A light royal blue gust pounced toward that thin man and knocked him down like a car smashing into a pencil-thin timber. He lay on the floor and lost his consciousness. Sky Passerby and Tireless quickly sprinted through the narrow path. Sky even stepped on him accidentally. He kept running, and Tireless stayed.
The closest two men went into the alley, too. Fat man number one stroked his metal rod toward Tireless. His rod was caught and taken by Tireless’ left hand, and his head got pressed onto the wall by Tireless’ right hand while Tireless kicked man number two’s knee at his left rear. Another stick swung toward Tireless’ head from the rear of man number one. Tireless quickly strode back and fought the stick back with the reverse gripped rod in his hand. Man number one fell to the ground, and man number three, who was holding a dagger, jumped up from the back of the half-kneeling man number two.
Tireless’ left foot bounced from the ground. He rushed and collided with man number three before the man could ever use the dagger in his hand. Man number three hit the corner of the alley wall and got elbowed again on the head to the corner. Tireless kept stepping at man number two to keep him on the floor and roughly pitched the rod to man number four, standing at the rear of man number one’s body, to block his move for a second. He wished to stride back and keep a distance from his last two enemies to prepare for the final fight. However, man number five dashed and outstretched the knife in his right hand before Tireless could do anything else. Tireless quickly drew back his left hand and pushed man number five’s arm away before reaching his stomach.
He squatted down and let his right elbow, which had just knocked off man number three, hit man number five’s nape. With a tread on man number two’s head and picking up the knife on the floor, Tireless sighed and leisurely rotated his body in the direction of the last man standing.
submitted by Tireless_AlphaFox to royalroad [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 01:36 Formal-Protection687 Hunted Apartment

This is my first time sharing this as an adult (33) I never considered sharing this story because it happened so many years ago.
My family used to live in a apartment complex as a child. We moved out when I was 7 because that was when my parents bought their first house.
I must have been 5 or 6 at the time. I can back date it to those years because before that. I used to sleep in my parents bed with them. Then one day my parents decided to buy a bed separate from their's and placed it next to their bed.
The apartment was on the lower floor. It had four rooms, it had a kitchen and a living room. We had 8 people living there. My mom, dad, grandma, and 4 brothers. Two brothers would sleep in two of the rooms each. My brothers are alot older than me. The youngest one next to me was 7 years older. My oldest brother is 10 years older. Every brother is one year apart (I know right? Lol.) My grandma had her own room. My parents had their own room.
My parents room was south right of the door which was in the north left. Of this room, my parents bed faced the door which faces a hallway. Down the hallway at toward the front of the apartment on the left and right were the rooms my brothers stayed.
When my parents bought the separate bed, my bed faced a bathroom. Behind my bed and my parents bed there's a thin rectangle slit window towards the top of the wall. The details are important I'll explain later.
One night, I couldn't sleep. My parents are sleeping already. The room was dark but, the window of the room, ambient light from the moon shined through. I see a figure with a blueish glow. It was a women in a long white dress and long black hair, the face wasn't visible. She didn't look at me. She was floating and in front of my bed and hung a left to the bathroom that faced my bed. I remember covering my head with the blanket and breathed, it was hot. And I fell asleep. I always told myself until adulthood that it was a nightmare and it was pushed out of my memory.
After we moved out of the apartment to our house. I never really thought about it for years until I was an adult. Maybe in my twenties.
My brothers (2nd and 4th) one day some how talked about the apartment (my family kind of split up because two brothers were out of state.). My 2nd oldest brother who slept down the hall. He used to get bad grades and had focus issues and coming from an Asian immigrant family that was a no no. My dad used to make him stay up till late at night to study to improve his grades. He said that late at night, he heard foot steps on the walls of the hallway as if someone was walking on it. Next mornings he would have scratches on his back. My brothers were saying how some lady committed suicide in that apartment
I've only confirmed it months ago with my mom. We chatted about purchasing a home. Then I asked out of curiosity. She said yeah a lady committed suicide in that apartment before we moved in. That's when I told her the story.
Side note, this apartment complex faces a middle school. My brothers used to go there and said that one of the school bathroom is hunted because a girl committed suicide there or something. The students would avoid that bathroom.
Also my 1st brother could see spirits/ghosts. He was talking to my other there and he just tells them to leave him the fuck alone now. We never really sit down to talk about ghosts. Like it's not a thing, only if it comes up.
This story has always lingered with me. Even for most of my adult life I don't really believe in or am interested in ghost stories. I don't think it's believable but, it don't really like scary/horror stories even if it is.
submitted by Formal-Protection687 to Paranormal [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 00:37 normancrane Don Whitman's Masterpiece

It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”
They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.
You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.
Once you see, it’s forever.
Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.
Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”
The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.
Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—
“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”
Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:
“Anything.”
Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.
I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.
“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”
I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”
Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:
“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”
I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward without losing his balance.
I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.
“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”
His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.
Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”
And I ran out.
Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.
At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.
I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.
I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.
It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.
That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.
And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.
I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.
Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.
I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.
In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:
His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.
For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.
I gripped the rifle tight.
But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.
He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—
Two words: Don Whitman.
He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.
Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.
I bit down on my teeth.
I hadn’t fired yet.
He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.
He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:
“Don Whitman!”
He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?
But he didn’t step forward.
He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.
Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.
As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…
I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.
I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—
That’s when I knew.
The geography of it hit me.
The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.
I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.
He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.
As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:
I walked away.
submitted by normancrane to DarkTales [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 00:36 normancrane Don Whitman's Masterpiece

Don Whitman's Masterpiece
It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”
They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.
You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.
Once you see, it’s forever.
Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.
Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”
The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.
Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—
“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”
Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:
“Anything.”
Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.
I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.
“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”
I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”
Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:
“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”
I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward without losing his balance.
I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.
“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”
His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.
Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”
And I ran out.
Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.
At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.
I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.
I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.
It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.
That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.
And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.
I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.
Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.
I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.
In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:
His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.
For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.
I gripped the rifle tight.
But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.
He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—
Two words: Don Whitman.
He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.
Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.
I bit down on my teeth.
I hadn’t fired yet.
He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.
He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:
“Don Whitman!”
He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?
But he didn’t step forward.
He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.
Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.
As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…
I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.
I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—
That’s when I knew.
The geography of it hit me.
The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.
I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.
He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.
As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:
I walked away.
submitted by normancrane to scaryshortstories [link] [comments]


2023.06.03 00:34 normancrane Don Whitman's Masterpiece

Don Whitman's Masterpiece
It was Danvers who finally pushed him in. We’d been feeding the fire with hardwood since the afternoon and it had gotten big as the wind picked up by nightfall, flickering cross our faces and warming our cheeks better than a gas heater. He didn’t even scream when he fell. The flames just swallowed him up—sparks shooting out like hot vomit. He knew what he’d done. He knew it was wrong. When he lifted himself up and came out of the fire he stood dead still, staring at us, smiling like we’d done him a favour. Maybe he thought he deserved to turn into ash. Maybe he did deserve it. I know I kept my fingers tight round the handle of the axe just the same till he keeled over and Cauley had touched the corpse with his foot and we knew he was dead. The three of us, we kept silent for a long while after that. There was just the sound of wood burning and it was better that way. None of us touched the body but none of us looked away, either: you could still make out his face, unmistakable, when the rest of him was dark and formless. He was a face on a pile. Then the wind started taking bits and pieces and carrying them away. Like I told the police, he didn’t touch me, but I knew some of the kids he’d done it to. He’d done it to Danvers. I remember once when all the other kids were gone, I’d stayed after class, Mr Gregor bent himself close to my ear and told me the real story. “You’re a wicked one,” he said when he was done, “just like Don Whitman.”
They used to scare us with Don Whitman, the adults: the other teachers, our parents, the priest. But no one ever explained it. They’d just say, “You better do what we want or else Don Whitman will come back and get you.” Mr Gregor was the only one ever to tell it to me with details. He told it different, too. He said he remembered because he was the same age as Don Whitman and they went to the same school. He said that what the others say they remember is like Cain and Abel or Little Red Riding Hood. Even the landscape tells the fairy tale. After it happened, Don Whitman’s school got torn down, then his house. And the bells in the Church got changed: the ones they rang after Elizabeth Cartwell had come back hysterical with the news.
You can’t tear down or change a man’s memory, Mr Gregor told me.
Once you see, it’s forever.
Elizabeth Cartwell’s parents moved away as soon as the police investigation finished. A lot of people moved away. But Mr Gregor showed me a newspaper from Hill City, North Dakota from some years later. The paper was yellow but you could read the black print fine. The story was about a girl who’d killed herself. The photo was of Elizabeth Cartwell. As he held it out for me to see, his hand shook and I felt his breath grow warmer against the skin around my neck. Nothing made him shake as much as what happened to Elizabeth Cartwell, not even the details.
Don Whitman was seventeen when he did it. He was handsome, with wide shoulders and played football. All the girls liked him. He was going to go to college. Maybe that’s why they thought he was ready: they thought he was a man. They thought he’d be with them. It was a school night when they woke him and drove out to the old pumping station, so that he could see everything for himself. They wanted to make him a part of it just like they were. If he saw, he would want it just like they did. I was always told that he drove out there by himself, but Mr Gregor told me that’s part of the lie. He said Don Whitman’s father was in the car with the mayor and the chief of police. He said, “How would he have found the place by himself—why would he have gone looking?”
The place is in a wood not far from the border. Of course, the whole underground is filled with cement now, but you can still see where the opening used to be: a fat tube sticking out of the ground, just big enough for a man to crawl down into. There was a hatch on it then, and thick locks. The hatch was sound-proof. If you stood right beside it, you couldn’t hear a thing, but as soon as you opened the hatch you could smell the insides and hear the moans start to drift upwards into the world. A steel ladder led down. Mr Gregor says they all knew about it, everyone: all the adults. They’d all been down that ladder. All of them had seen it.
Don Whitman went down the ladder, too. He must have smelled the insides grow stronger and heard the moaning echo louder with every rung but he kept going. On the ground above, his father spoke to the mayor and they both felt proud. Don Whitman must have been more scared of coming up and disappointing them than of not going down to the limit. But when he reached the bottom, the very bottom, and put his feet to the hard concrete and saw it before his own eyes, something inside of him must have broken—
“They sugarcoat it and they make a child’s game of it because they’re too scared to remember the truth,” Mr Gregor told me. “They can’t forget it, but it’s a stain to them, so they cover it up and pretend that everything’s clean.”
Don Whitman saw the vastness of the interlocking chambers and, within them, the writhing, ecstatic, swollen no-people of the underground, human-like but non-human, cross-bred mammals draped in plaster-white skin pinned to numb faces, men, women and children, male and female, naked, scared, dirty, with humans—humans Don Whitman knew and recognized—among them, on them and under them, hitting them, squeezing them, making them hurt, making monstrous sounds with them, all under slowly rotating heat lamps, all open and together, one before another, and then someone, someone Don Whitman knew, must have put a hand on Don Whitman’s shoulder and Don Whitman would have asked, “But what now, what am I supposed to do?” and then, from somewhere deep within the chambers, from a place not even Don Whitman would ever see, a voice answered:
“Anything.”
Mr Gregor pulled away from me and I felt my body turn cold. Icy sweat crawled under my collar and below my thighs.
I’d been told Don Whitman had found the old pumping station and lured the police to it, that they’d called others—including Don Whitman’s father—to talk him out of any violence, but that he’d snapped and murdered them all without firing a single shot, with his bare hands, and dumped the bodies into the metal pipe sticking out of the ground, the one just wide enough for a man to fit through. Then he’d disappeared. It wasn’t until days later that Elizabeth Cartwell found the bodies and there was never any sign of Don Whitman after that. The manhunt failed. So the church bells rang, the school was torn down, the pipe was filled in and, ever since, the adults scare their children with the story of the high school boy who’d done a terrible, sinful thing and vanished into thin air.
“And why would she decide to go out there?” Mr Gregor asked—meaning Elizabeth Cartwell—his eyes dead-set through a window at the raining world outside. “It’s as transparent as a sheet of the Bible, every word of it. They all pretend to believe because they’ve all made it up together. But the police reports, the testimony, the news stories, the court records, the verdict: a sham, a falsification made truth because a thousand people and a judge repeat it, word-for-word, every night before bed.”
I tried to stand but couldn’t. My heart was pounding me back into the chair. I was thinking about my mother and father. I had only enough courage for one question, so I asked, “What happened to the no-people?”
Mr Gregor turned suddenly and laughed so fierce the rain lashed the windows even harder. He came toward me. He put a delicate hand on each of my shoulders. He bent forward until his lips were almost touching mine and, his eyes staring at me like one stares at the Devil, said:
“Buried in the concrete. Buried alive, buried dead—”
I pushed him away.
He stumbled backward without losing his balance.
I forced myself off the chair, praying that my legs would keep. My knees shook but held. In front of me, Mr Gregor rasped for air. A few long strands of his thin hair had fallen across his forehead. He was sweating.
“He was a coward, that little boy, Don Whitman. Without him, we wouldn’t need to live under the whip of elaborate lies designed by weaker people turned away and shamed by the power of the natural order of things. They trusted him, and he betrayed us all. The fools! The weakling! Imagine,” Mr Gregor hissed, “just imagine what we could have had, what we could have experienced down there, at the very bottom, in the chambers...”
His eyes spun and his chest heaved as he grew excited, but soon he lost his venom and his voice returned to normal.
Finally, he said without any nastiness, “You’re a wicked one, just like Don Whitman.”
And I ran out.
Danvers prodded me awake. I must have fallen asleep during the night because when I opened my eyes it was morning already. The sun was up and the flames gone, but the fire was still warm. Mr Gregor’s dead face still rested atop a pile of ashes. Cauley was asleep on the dirt across from us. I could tell Danvers hadn’t slept at all. He said he’d been to a farmhouse and called the police. We woke up Cauley and talked over what we’d say when they got here. We decided on something close to the truth: Mr Gregor had taken the three of us camping and, when he tried to do a bad thing, we put up a fight and knocked him into the flames. Cauley said it might be suspicious because of how easily Mr Gregor had burned, but Danvers said that some people were like that—they burned quick and whole—so we needn’t say a word about the gasoline. When the police came, they were professional and treated us fair, but when they took me aside to talk to me about the accident, every time I tried to tell them about the bad things Mr Gregor had done, they wouldn’t hear it, they just said it was a shame there’d been an accident and someone had died.
At home, I asked my parents whether Mr Gregor was a bad person for what he’d done to Danvers and others. My mother didn’t say anything. My father looked at me like he was looking at the Devil himself and said morality was not so simple and that people had differing points of view and that, in the end, much depended not on what you did, but who you did it to—like during the war, for example. There were some who deserved to be done-to and others whose privilege it was to do. Then he picked up his magazine and told me it was best not to think about such things at all.
I did keep thinking about them, and about Don Whitman, too. When I got to high school, I was too old to scare with monsters, but once in a while I’d hear one of the adults tell a kid he better do as he’d been told or Don Whitman would come back and get him. I wondered if maybe people scare others with monsters they’re most scared of themselves. I even thought about investigating: taking a pick-axe to the pumping station and cracking through concrete or investigating records of how much of it had been poured in there. But I figured the records could have been fixed and one person with a pick-axe wouldn’t get far before the police came and I didn’t trust them anymore. I also had homework to worry about and I started seeing a girl.
I’d almost forgotten about Don Whitman by the time my mother sent me out one evening with my dad’s rifle to hunt down a coyote she said had been attacking her hens. I took a bike, because it was quiet, and was roaming just beyond town when I saw something kick up dust in a field. I shot at it, missed and it scurried off. I pedaled after it until it seemingly disappeared into nowhere. I kept my eye firm on the spot I saw it last and when I got close enough, I saw there was a small hole in the ground there. I stuck the rifle in and the hole felt bigger on the inside, so I stomped all around till the hole caved and where there’d been a mouse-sized hole now there was an opening a grown man could fit through. It seemed deep, which made me curious, because there aren’t many caves around here, so I stuck my feet in but still couldn’t feel the bottom. I slid in a little further, and further still, and soon the opening was above my head and I was inside with my whole body.
It was dark but I could feel the ground sloping. When my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw enough to tell there was a tunnel leading into the depths and that it was big enough for me to crawl through. I didn’t have a light but I knew it was important to try the hole. Maybe there were no-people at the bottom. Mostly, though, I didn’t think—I expected: that every time I poked ahead with the rifle, I’d hit earth and the tunnel would be done.
That never happened. I descended for hours. The tunnel grew narrower and the slope sharpened. Fear tightened around my chest. I lost track of time. There wasn’t enough space to turn my body around and I’d been descending for so long it was foolish to backtrack. Surely, the tunnel led somewhere. It was not a natural tunnel, I told myself, it must lead somewhere. I should continue until I reached the end, turn around and return to the surface. The trick was to keep calm and keep moving forward.
And I was right. Several hours later the tunnel ended and I crawled out through a hollow in the wall of a huge grotto.
I stood, stretched my limbs and squinted through the dimness. I couldn’t see the other end of the grotto but the wall curved so I thought that maybe if I went along I might get to the other end. My plan of an immediate return to the surface was on hold. I had to see what lived here. Images of no-people raced through my head. I readied my rifle and proceeded, slowly at first. Where the tunnel had been packed dirt and clay, the walls and floor of the grotto were solid rock. There was moisture, too. It flowed down the walls and gathered in depressions on the floor.
Although at first the wall felt smooth, soon I began to feel a texture to it—like a washboard. The ceiling faded into view. The grotto was getting smaller. And the texture was becoming rougher, more violent. I was thinking about the texture and Mr Gregor’s burnt body when a sound sent me sprawling. My elbow banged against the rock and I nearly cried out. My heart was beating like it had beaten me into my chair in the classroom. The sound was real: faint but clear and echoing. It was the sound of continuous and rhythmic scratching.
I crawled forward, holding the rifle in front. The scratching grew louder. I thought about calling out, but suddenly felt foolish to believe in no-people or anything of that kind. It seemed more sensible to believe in large rodents or coyotes with sharp teeth. I could have turned back, but the only thing more frightening than a monster in front is a monster behind, so I pulled myself on.
In fact, I was crawling up a small hill and, when I had reached the top, I looked down and there it was:
His was a human body. Though hunched, he stood on human legs and scratched with human hands. His movements were also clearly a man’s movements. There was nothing feminine about them. His half-translucent skin was grey, almost white, and taut; and if he had any hair, I didn’t see it. His naked body was completely smooth. I looked at him for a long time with dread and disgust. His arms didn’t stop moving. Whatever they were scratching, they kept scratching. Even when he turned and his head looked at me, even as I—stunned—frozen in terror, recoiled against the wall, still his arms kept moving and his hands clawing.
For a few seconds, I thought he’d seen me, that I was done for.
I gripped the rifle tight.
But as I focused on his face, I realized he hadn’t seen me at all. He couldn’t see me. His face, so much like a colourless swollen skull, was punctuated by two black and empty eye sockets.
He turned back to face the wall he was scratching. I turned my face, too. The texture on the wall was his. The deeper the grooves, the newer the work. I put down the rifle and put my hand on the wall, letting my fingers trace the contours of the texture. It wasn’t simple lines. The scratching wasn’t meaningless. These were two words repeated over and over, sometimes on top of each other, sometimes backwards, sometimes small, sometimes each letter as big as a person, and they were all around this vast underground lair, everywhere you looked—
Two words: Don Whitman.
He’d made this grotto. I felt feverish. The sheer greatness, the determination needed to scratch out such a place with one’s bare hands. Or perhaps the insanity—the punishment. If I hadn’t been sitting, a wave of empathy would have knocked me to the wet, rocky floor. I picked up the rifle. I could put Don Whitman out of his misery. I lifted the rifle and pointed it at the distant figure writing his name pointlessly into the wall. With one pull of the trigger, I could show him infinite mercy. I steadied myself. I said a prayer.
Don Whitman stopped scratching and wailed.
I bit down on my teeth.
I hadn’t fired yet.
He grabbed his head and fell to his knees. The high-pitched sound coming from his throat was unbearable. I felt like my mind was being ripped apart. I dropped the rifle and covered my ears. Again, Don Whitman turned. This time with his entire body. He crawled a few steps toward me—still wailing—before stopping and falling silent. He raised his head. Where before had been just eye sockets now there were eyes. White, with irises. Somehow, they’d grown.
He got to his feet and I was sure that he could see me now. He was staring at me. I called his name:
“Don Whitman!”
He didn’t react. Thoughts raced through my mind: what should I do once he comes toward me? Should I defend myself or should I embrace him?
But he didn’t step forward.
He took one step back and lifted his long fingers to his face. His nails, I now saw, were thick and curved as a bird’s talons. He moved them softly from his forehead, down his cheeks and up to his eyes, into which, without warning, he pressed them so painfully that I felt my own eyes burn. When he brought his fingers back out, in each hand he held a mashed and bleeding eyeball. These he put almost greedily into his mouth, one after the other, then chewed, and swallowed.
Having nourished his body, he returned to the wall and began scratching again.
As I watched the movements of his arms, able to follow the pattern of the letters they were carving, I no longer felt like killing him. If he wanted to die, he could die: he could forego water, he could refuse to eat. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to keep scratching his name into the walls of this grotto: Don Whitman, Don Whitman, Don Whitman…
I watched him for a long time before I realized that I would have to get to the surface soon. People would begin to worry. They might start looking for me. And as much as I needed to know the logic behind Don Whitman’s grotto, I also needed food. I couldn’t live down here. I couldn’t eat my own eyes and expect them to grow back. Eventually, I would either have to return to the world above or die.
I put my hand on the grotto wall and began to mentally retrace my steps. A return would not be difficult. All I would need to do was follow—
That’s when I knew.
The geography of it hit me.
The hole I’d entered was on the outskirts of town. The tunnel sloped toward the town. That meant this grotto was below the town. The town hall, the bank, the police station, the school—all of it was lying unknowingly on top of a giant expanding cavity. One day, this cavity would be too large, the town would be too heavy, and everything would collapse into a deep and permanent handmade abyss. Don Whitman would bury the town just as the town had buried the no-people. Everything would be destroyed. Everyone would die. That was Don Whitman’s genius. That was his life’s work.
I picked up the rifle and faced Don Whitman for the final time.
He must have known that I was there. He’d heard me and had probably seen me before he pulled out his eyes, yet he just continued to scratch. Faced with death, he kept working.
As I stood there, I had no doubt that, left in peace, Don Whitman would finish his project. His will was too powerful. The result would be catastrophic. It was under these assumptions that I made the most moral and important decision of my life:
I walked away.
submitted by normancrane to normancrane [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:39 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to Belltown [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:38 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to udub [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:37 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to Washington [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:36 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to seattlewomen [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:35 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to SeattleEvents [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:30 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to WestSeattleWA [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:28 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to SeattleWA [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:26 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to seattlehobos [link] [comments]


2023.06.02 23:24 Ok-Supermarket4492 Introducing Seattle City Council Newsletter

Hi Reddit! My name is Sharon, and I am a college student interested in civic engagement and politics. I have been working on a project with some other students to make the Seattle City Council meetings more accessible by putting them into short summaries. I have put an example from last week below, though the real thing has a bit more formatting that doesn't translate into Reddit.
This project is relatively new, so we would really appreciate any feedback you may have and hope to make it as informative and accessible as possible! If you're interested in getting these newsletters every week, please click here: https://forms.gle/Yxo5fevVhVWmwcB78.
Example newsletter:
Seattle City Council Meeting Summaries - Week of May 22
Council Briefing 5/22/2023 (Duration: 1h50min)
Council Meeting 5/23/2023 (Duration: 2h56min)
Councilmember Updates
Legislation Updates
State Legislation Update: The Office of Intergovernmental Relations (OIR) director Gael Tarleton, State Relations Director Samir Junejo, and State Legislative Liaison Anna Johnson gave a presentation on legislation regarding climate and environment, healthcare and behavioral health, housing and homelessness, labor and commerce, public safety, drug possession and treatment, social programs and education, the capital budget, transportation.
Proclamations:
Public Comments:
Resources:
submitted by Ok-Supermarket4492 to SeattleUncensored [link] [comments]