My girlfriend Lia usually sleeps on her side, giving me perfect access to her ears.

Carefully I squeezed in two drops of the poison- no more, because I want the process of hearing loss to be very gradual, over months.

The poison is working. I know by how loud she is turning up the music she adores so much. She mentioned needing to see a doctor today- she has been having to ask her colleagues to repeat themselves louder and louder.

There is nothing the doctors can do at this stage, her hearing loss is unsalvageable, and my clever poison undetectable. Within a few of weeks at most, she will be completely deaf.

I go back to learning sign language. Amazing what you can learn online, for free. I need to be ready to support my darling Lia like the good boyfriend I am.

Is it so wrong to want to be main source of joy in your partner’s life? When I look at her face, grimacing in time with the shite she calls music, it feels like a dagger twisting in my heart.

And honestly, if Lia’s taste in music is so low, better she lose her goddamn hearing.

God knows I tried to elevate her- I didn’t arrive lightly at this decision. I put on Moonlight Sonata, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, easy gateways into classical.

She waited patiently for me to explain why they were so great. Then she said “Claude, you’re such a snob! the great thing about music- people enjoy what they do, I don’t get why it bothers you so much- I mean it’s not like I’m listening to Ed Sheeran or Katy Perry- classic rock is great- everyone knows that! - the music of the nineties – it was everywhere, didn’t you listen to Gun ‘N’ Roses back in the day?”

I felt furious but I controlled it. I laughed light-heartedly “Axl Rose? Oh Lia, don’t tell me you carry a torch for that fat freak! He’s a violent asshole- all those rock gods were just a bunch of violent pedos - I thought you were a feminist?”

She frowned. “I don’t have a crush on Axl Rose, and it’s actually quite un-feminist to fat-shame. And I never said I approve of their lifestyle, I just like their songs.”

“Um- I think that puts you in a a hypocritical position!” I tried to keep my bantering tone.

“Let’s not fight over music, Claude, it’s so silly, and thankfully the good lord gave us headphones so we don’t need to make each other miserable.”

And yet despite headphones, it bothered me, watching her work out, prance around the kitchen, paint her nails knowing she was listening to that music, watching her move her lips and throw her head back and sway from side to side to music that I was not part of.

If she won’t listen to music with me, insisting on being so uncultured, obviously she doesn’t deserve to have hearing at all. 

Catness stretched out her pretty paw through the crack of the bathroom door, nudging it a bit wider, and then pushed her head through, followed by the rest of her sinuous body.

It was dark and damp in the bathroom, but of course Catness was not bothered by that. She wanted to be with Angie, who was sitting quietly in the bathtub where her mom had put her about 20 minutes ago, with strict instructions not to get out.

Angie moved her duckie in the warm foamy bathwater. She heard Catness come in and could see her beautiful silhouette close the floor. She was very glad Catness was there, because she got so lonely and sometimes scared when mom had an uncle visiting, and Catness helped her not feel like that.

Angie wanted to call out to Catness, but she knew she couldn’t make a noise. Once she had, and it had been awful.

Catness meowed softly.   

Angie moved in the water agitatedly. “Shhhh” she whispered.

Catness blinked at Angie, her eyes glowing gold in the soft dark of the bathroom.

The voices came closer. The man’s voice was suddenly very loud “Jesus woman- what the fuck is the matter with you- just need to piss-”

And then her mom’s voice “I told you- use the bottle- you can’t go in there-”

“I’m not pissing in a bottle- what you got in there anyway- stop grabbing me-” There was a thumpy sound and mom’s voice cried out, from close to the floor. Angie took a deep breath and slid under the water. The bathroom door swung wide open and a harsh oblong of electric light fell on the floor.

“No!” Mom was scrambling dizzily back to her feet but the man was already stepping into the bathroom.

Catness hissed and launched herself at the man’s face from the toilet seat where she had been perched.

The man cried out in pain as Catness dug her claws in the rough flabby skin of his face and neck, her demon face twisted up at him. He stumbled backwards out of the bathroom, and Angie came up for a breath. The man couldn’t see her - couldn’t see anything as blood from his ripped skin veiled his eyes. He grasped at Catness, trying to pry her off him, staggering towards the front door of the small motel room, all while shouting.

Mom closed the bathroom door. The man peeled Catness off his face and flung her away, where she landed unharmed on the rumpled stained bed.

The man paused an instant and looked around the room. Through the veil of blood, he took in everything- the bed, the woman standing by the closed bathroom door, the cat arching her back and glaring at him from the bed.

He swore one more time, turned and left.

Catness curled up in a perfect circle on the bed. The woman bolted the door behind him and went to fetch Angie from the bathroom.

So I'm on a quest to better myself, as we all should be, and part of that is trying not to scroll through reels before I sleep. I realised I'm spending up to an hour or more each evening, lying in bed, lights on, scrolling. And then of course I complain about poor sleep.

But reels are such fun! I've discovered a bunch of music that I had forgotten I loved, I learned new recipes, I watched some excellent stand-up comedians- I learned about art!- And how to make some cool doodles! It's all wonderful! How can I give this habit up, which according to the beautiful people in my reels is the very thing that is destroying my sleep?

Anyway, I have resolved to leave my phone in the living room, and go to bed phoneless.

But I need an alarm clock! Weekdays I need to be up at 6 for work. A few years ago, we finally cleaned out the dust-gathering old digital alarm clocks lingering from the 90s from our storage- but now I needed one. I galloped to Amazon, where there were plenty of beautiful alarm clocks for me to buy.

I didn't buy one from Amazon. Instead, today, Saturday morning I went to the nearest thrift store, and bought a quite pretty Sony digital radio-alarm clock, shaped like a cube, which seems to be in perfect working condition.

(I also went to free clothing swap at a church called St Margaret of Scotland- first I had heard of her and caused me to fall down an internet rabbit hole- one of the most lacklustre saints ever- She was literally sainted because she was an apparently a fairly harmless aristocrat who built a ferry)

I am now actually quite excited for Monday morning, now, because I get to use my new-to-me Sony clock and I will go to bed basically not quite short of the goodness of St Margaret of Scotland herself. Somebody give me my sainthood.

A rugged star actor with doey blue eyes chooses to take his long-suffering dog Odin on a suicidal, one-man camping mission in the heartland of Alaska - the beast of the title.

As the character acknowledges himself at the end, the dog showed him nothing but loyalty and trust, while the owner only showed him war and violence. Poor Odin, who never had a choice in where he had to go and what he had to do in order to be fed and loved.

Have you heard the joke- America attacks countries and then makes movies about how sad it makes their soldiers? This is one of those movies- about how the American war machine chews up and spits out broken men and dogs alike, except the dogs are even more innocent than the men.

The exchange around Odin’s missing leg and teeth is especially infuriating. Odin attacked an enemy, who fought back with a brick- a brick- getting his teeth. The man- he’s called Brad or James or something- shoots the enemy in the head. And then does the same to the enemy who got Odin in the leg. They’re just assholes, see. They deserved to be shot in the head for trying to fight Odin off with a brick. That’s a good thing, that James did, shooting the enemy (they’re just called “the enemy” by the way) in the head.

Except it’s really not, and everyone knows it.

Anyway, Mother Earth, as symbolized by a warm smiley heavily-made up Indigenous woman will heal.

The wrongs of these terrible men will be righted. And Odin won’t have to fight anymore.

The Cat and the Baby could sense him, scampering around all maimed and bloody from the trap that finally got him, but the others couldn’t, and they couldn’t kill him twice. 

It was a blazing July day. Sunlight poured into the garden, shrivelling the grass. The Baby was hot and fretful, and its Mother frustrated and tired. She picked up a pink blanket decorated with merry-go-round ponies and laid it in the shade, and plonked the Baby on it, with its yellow teething ring. The Baby whimpered. Its Mother wanted a drink- there was no breeze, and the shade wasn’t cool. She was going to be alone with the Baby for another six hours. She went indoors to get herself something.             

The Baby was alone, seated in that chunky soft way of babies on the pink pony blanket. Gustavo limped through the grass towards it. The Baby coo’ed- a maimed mouse looked more fun to play with than a stupid teething ring. It reached its dimpled hand towards Gustavo. Chewing on Gustavo would ease the sore itchiness of its gums. The ring was useless, and Gustavo looked fun to chew on. It leaned closer, and coo’ed again, and Gustavo moved closer, a trembling whisker touching the edge of the blanket.

The ponies looked on with their painted black eyes, and the Cat looked on with her real green ones. The heat shimmered on the yellowing grass, which moved even though there was no breeze. It was Gustavo, inching towards the Baby. Baby, in its eagerness to reach out to Gustavo, fell over on its tummy, its soft baby face landing among the ponies. The heat settled over it. 

Although the Cat could see Gustavo looking at Baby who was now struggling for its life, face down on the blanket, she hadn't decided that she wanted to do anything about it. A magpie who owned the sky over the garden flapped lazily.

Mother came out onto the deck, and saw the shape of her Baby and Cat on the pony blanket, but the shimmering heat and sunlight blinded her. The Cat would keep foxes and crows away, she guarded the garden ruthlessly. Mother felt her Baby was in safe hands. She really, really, really didn’t want to go out in the garden. 

Bravely, Gustavo stepped onto the blanket. His work was almost done anyway, as the Baby’s movements were lessening. The magpie flapped closer too, uninterested in the ghost mouse but very much interested in the warm chewy Baby. Irritably, Cat raised a paw to bat him away. The Baby belonged to Cat after all, not to the magpie or to Gustavo. Squawking, the magpie rose, and Mother watched it loop her Baby. The Cat brought her other paw squarely down on Gustavo’s back, killing him for a second time, very effectively, for his ghost never came back. The Baby was almost still now. Cat nudged it, flipping it over. 

Mother moved very slowly towards them.  

The black cat pounced precisely on the mouse, who had just emerged from the looming building.

Normally, there would have been no struggle.

But this wasn’t normal. The mouse turned and twisted, and its thin paw batted fiercely at Black.

Black fell back in surprise, but gathered himself for a counter-attack sharply. After all, he was a descendants of tigers, and more than a match for mouse, however fortified. Plus, it was more fun like this. Fur on edge, spitting green sparks from his eyes, he gave a piercing yowl and jumped straight onto the mouse’s back.

The mouse chattered shrilly for one split second, before going completely limp.

Black felt the rush of victory as he snapped its head off. It would make a nice little present for Jenny.

He licked a few drops of the mouse’s blood daintily from his whiskers. The blood tasted different.

Black paused for a moment, contemplating the headless corpse before him.

It was glowing.

A scuffly noise came from the dark building. Black looked up and saw more glowing mice streaming out from the same crack in the darkness that had led the first one onto this quiet back street.

Tiger or not, Black knew prudence. Still holding the head between his teeth, he turned and smartly trotted away.

Not before he noticed the tail on the headless corpse starting to twitch. But he pretended to ignore it. That was the right thing to do. Jenny was waiting.

Black could feel more mouse blood trickling down its throat. It actually tasted so good. For a moment he thought to stay and fight the new mice, but then remembered Jenney was waiting for her present. Also, he realised the corpse had got up and was following him. It probably wanted its head back.

Obviously Black was not going to give it up.

Black broke into a run. He could run much, much faster than ever before. He ran through a man carelessly standing in his way, exploding him into a shower of pulverised bone, flesh and blood. The mice, all of them, followed him easily, their eyes and teeth glowing, blood splattering on their glowing fur.

Black was at Jenny’s house in the blink of an eye. She was going to be so happy to see them all.

Tomcat came across the body of the elderly woman in the early hours of the morning. She was lying on her front in her driveway, her hands outstretched towards the street, her gray hair spread in the bloody mess of her back. Her ghost hovered anxiously over her corpse.

 

Tomcat sniffed delicately at the blood, and then looked up at her ghost. He had just meant to pee in the lawn, and was not expecting this. The ghost started communicating with him. 

 

"He's in there- but I don't know for how much longer. He's going to go after her. You have to go warn her. There's no point me going by myself. Oh my poor son, he doesn't understand what he's doing- I'm sure he wouldn't have hurt me if she had been a bit more understanding- please- I don't want her dead- it will just make things so much worse for him. Please - go to her- tell her to hide, he's coming for her-"

 

Tomcat blinked at the ghost, and his tail twitched. The ghost continued. "I'll show you where she lives- not far. We don’t have much time- he's in the basement now, always in the basement, - never knew what he was doing there- he's going to come out though and go after her. there isn't much time we have to go- we can go straight as the crow flies" The ghost detached from the corpse and was floating towards the street. From the back, the horrible bloody mess was clearly visible. 

 

Tomcat really wanted to pee and scrounge snacks. But he had a memory of this woman feeding him, petting him. He started trotting after the ghost. The grey dawn lightened, and the light in the basement went off. 

 

Straight as an arrow through backyards and driveways, Tomcat and the ghost arrived at a door. "She lives here. Yowl loudly- make her leave-"

 

Tomcat did as requested, perching under the bedroom window and released the most fearsome demon yowl. And another one. 

 

The lights went on. A shaft of pink light touched the window. A young woman poked her head out. "What the-" 

The ghost hovered uselessly -"Tell her to leave- he's on his way- I can feel it- we can't let him do this to her-"

Tomcat looked at the ghost. Then he turned to the young woman in the window, and yowled, as urgently as he could.

The young woman looked down at the big street cat, perched beneath her window. 

"Leave leave leave" whispered the ghost through the cat. 

The young woman's eyes widened. She left the window and in two minutes appeared at the door, a coat over her nightgown holding her purse. Without a word, she slipped into her car and drove out. 

Barely a minute later, a young armed man ran into the street, panting and began hammering at the door, calling the woman's name.

Tomcat peed on the lawn, while the mother's ghost tried to pet him. 

 

Fanny Price is a deeply relatable character, and the amount of hate she and her relationship with Edmund get is wildly baffling. The most recent one I saw on this sub was that it would have been a better ending for her if she had ended up housekeeping for her brother, since obviously she has deeper feelings for her brother than she does for Edmund, as her relationship with Edmund is very "passionless".

??!!

It shouldn't need to be said, although of course it does and so I'll go ahead and say it, that any interpretation supported by the text is valid, and readers are entitled to their own opinions which are obviously wrong if they are not the same as mine lol. But to read Fanny and her feelings for Edmund as insipid or passionless, and to suggest that a more fitting ending for her would be to live out her days housekeeping for her brother shows that the Gentle Reader has not only wholly failed to understand Fanny, but also have no understanding of the deeper impact of constant emotional abuse and bullying throughout childhood, how different personalities show love and strong emotions in general, and of course, no understanding whatsoever of the literary traditions and social norms which informed Jane Austen's world. In this essay I shall.

Marriage was the goal and success for women- and a marriage to a personable, safe, financially independent, kind man of "good" family like Edmund was basically hitting the jackpot. Suggesting that Fanny would have been better off housekeeping for her brother is like- what? Do you even Austen? In what world?

And that's even before we analyse Fanny's deep feelings- which Austen portrays with a lot of nuance and subtlety, yes, but also with a lot of clarity and unmistakable-ness.

Fanny was shy and introverted - sure. I challenge the most high-spirited and extrovert Lizzie Bennet or Emma Woodhouse to be raised in Fanny's circumstances and not have it leave a mark on their character. I know modern (Western) readers have an almost fetishistic view of the individual- the individual should rise above social and familial conditioning- the individual shall pull himself up by his bootstrings- the individual shall loudly express his preference and seek his heart's desire and needs as boisturously as he pleases- but yeah- life doesn't work like that. We are all deeply formed by our childhood years- but that doesn't mean we don't have emotions. It just means we express ourselves and channel ourselves differently. Just because Fanny wasn't jumping around proclaiming what she was feeling -including her love for Edmund- running though muddy fields with shining eyes and glowing cheeks doesn't mean she felt any less. There are many instances throughout the book which show quite clearly how deeply in fact she is feeling- the one which stuck with me is her deeply uncomfortable exchange with Sir T, where he is bullying her to accept Henry- her cheeks are flaming- she is in so much visible distress and emotion that Sir T almost guesses her love for another man, but dismisses the thought it due to her innocence and shyness.

As a shy withdrawn person like Fanny, albeit not the poor cousin, I was always able to relate to her -unlike say, the sparkling dazzling larger-than-life Miss Bennet who would have intimidated the crap out of me if I had come across her and legion of scary sisters at a social event.

Fanny Price is a great fictional character, who deserves much better than ending up as her brother's housekeeper. I have no doubt of her feelings for Edmund, and suggest anyone who does, should go back and engage in a closer reading.

This is just for a character, guys, calm down. I don't have twenty male-looking fragile dolls arranged neatly in my living room, all of whom are crying out for names.

Like literally, with open mouths, their finely-carved chests heaving up and and down slightly.

They need names. They are begging me. Please send help.

https://www.reddit.com/r/namenerds/comments/1we9tja/male_names_related_to_doll/

The crows flapped outside the dentist’s office, where something nasty was happening to Johnny.

One of the crows glanced inside. The blinds were up, and the crow could see the dentist hunched over the child. Johnny’s narrow pale legs poked out from beneath the broad back of the dentist, shod in scruffy blue sneakers. They weren’t moving.

The crow cawed. The dentist straightened from his self-imposed task inside Johnny’s face, turned to the window, and said “Be patient.” He might have been talking to Johnny, but he wasn’t.

The crow joined the rest of its murder. It knew the dentist often left them food, while mumbling, but it looked like today wasn’t a food day. It was one of the other days.

The dentist was soon done, removing a child’s healthy teeth being easy. Sometimes he didn’t give enough anesthesia so the child could feel the tooth removal- he felt the crows appreciated that. But he couldn’t risk doing that too often. Last week he had removed three healthy teeth from a girl with barely ten percent of the numbing agent needed. The girl had sobbed, tears running sideways into her ears as his assistant held her tightly, and the dad had threatened to sue. He gave them a big discount, explaining that their daughter was resistant to the numbing agent. They calmed down and the dentist was delighted to leave the treasures later in the little shrine he had set up for the crows, placed on the edge of windowsill. It was beautifully designed, with little shelves for teeth and food. The crows seemed to like it too, at least the food. They sometimes didn’t take the teeth, but sometimes they did.

They always took the food.

Johnny was one of the lucky ones who had been properly numbed. He hadn’t felt anything after the first twinge of the needle. The dentist told himself the pain of the needle was enough but he knew it wasn’t really, the crows wanted the pure pain of tooth extraction. He hoped he wouldn’t be punished afterwards, their terrible black feathers brushing against him, their sharp beaks stabbing.

They had never actually done that, but the dentist was always afraid they would, ever since a dead crow had been lying by his bike one early fall morning. He had kicked it away, and then immediately became overwhelmed with fear that the other crows, who had been cawing since dawn outside his window, would think it was him. Ever since, he had made it life’s purpose to leave little gifts for the crows, so they wouldn’t harm him. The crows didn’t mind.

He explained to Johnny’s mom he couldn’t give them infected tooth he had just extracted. As soon as they left his office, he ran to the window, and carefully deposited the child’s bloody tooth in the proper shelf in the shrine. He bowed his head in prayer, then went back for his next patient.

The howls penetrated the walls of our mansion. 

I paused, my brush heavy with Phthalo Blue hovering over the Van Goghian landscape before me. The howls had been drawing nearer over the past few days, and now they sounded as if they were right on our acres of manicured lawn surrounding our gorgeous home.  

All bought with fruits of my art. I am so proud of what I have accomplished over these years.  

“Honey, do you hear that?” I called. 

He didn’t respond. I put another dab of paint on my canvas, then the mad barking broke out, under our bedroom window. I dropped the brush, and rushed out of my studio.  

“Honey?” 

I climbed up the sweeping marble staircase with growing urgency. The barking was getting louder. I entered our bedroom. “Geoff- what-” 

Geoff was sitting on the floor, right in the middle of our magnificent Persian silk-weave rug, surrounded by a wobbly circle of thick white powder.  

My mind leapt. We had had issues since twenty years ago, when I first made it big and my paintings started selling like hot cakes. Then, as age began to creep up on us, we had laid it aside. But this looked like a scene gone wrong in Scarface.  

“What the fuck?” I inquired pleasantly.  

Geoff’s eyes were stretched open, the whites gleaming and his hands shaking. I noticed the white box of table salt lying next to him.  

Something inside me jerked. The baying grew impossibly loud.  

He started speaking, very rapidly. “I’m so sorry, I had to do it- you were so miserable- it was worth it. I don’t regret anything- not really” 

“What are you talking about?” I asked, raising my voice to make myself heard above the barks.   

Geoff fell silent. We listened to the barking. Now it seemed to come from the studio.  

“It was a good deal-” mumbled Geoff. “Normally you can’t do it for someone else’s success, only your own. But they understood- I loved you, and you were so miserable, no-one was buying your paintings, I wanted to make you happy- I love you so much- I wasn’t even thinking about all this-” he gestured around our artfully-decorated bedroom, as large as our first apartment when we got together, so many years ago.  

“So- so you sold-” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the words. My heart kept jerking.  

Geoff nodded. The barking dropped to a low whisper right outside the door.  

“My paintings- it was you? Because of you and a deal?” I knew the answer.

He nodded again.  

I stared at one of my paintings on the wall.

I could see it now, the wobbly lines, the muddy colours. How was I ever fooled, to think my meteoric rise was due to my own talent! 

I stretched out my foot and casually swiped away some salt, breaking the circle. Immediately, the door burst open and the giant hell hounds bounded in. Geoff screamed as they grabbed him with their sharp bright teeth and dragged him off.  

I stood very still.  

 

Beel was mad. He couldn’t believe they just took Goldie. How dare they. Goldie was his, beautiful Goldie with her coat of orange cream. His!

Nobody ever wanted to take Beel, and he gotten used to it. His coat was completely black, none of that “adorable white socks and a tuxedo” shite. Deep black with not a speck. And his ears were torn from his earlier vagaries. And he was big and muscly, standing on his hind legs he was taller than children. Humans get so fussy about big black cats with evil squinty eyes next to their precious children.

So Beel was always overlooked, and he got used to seeing the others come and go.

Except Goldie. He would not get used to her going. Goldie was his companion, his friend, his, his, his. He would get her back. Stupid human, thinking she owned them, swanning into the shelter where they lived, and picking out Goldie, carrying Goldie away. He would show her, and he would get Goldie back.

He jumped lightly over the garden wall which divided the shelter from the open world- he only stayed there because the food was good and he was over foraging- and eyed the human’s car. They had left the window open a crack, and just as they turned out of the driveway, he jumped, flattening himself to a pancake, and slithered into the car, where Goldie was already seated in a zipped up sort of cage. She looked at him with her beautiful green eyes, and meowed softly. Beel glowed at her.

Then he glanced at the stupid smelly human. Her vulnerable throat was exposed, fully naked, but they out on the open highway now and Beel was experienced enough in the ways of humans not to incapacitate her while driving. So he hid under the back seat and waited.

The drive wasn’t that long. She stopped the car and waited for the garage door to open. Beel attacked.

It was over very quickly. With the element of surprise on his side, the cat lady didn’t stand a chance against the furious big strong cat. Within seconds, she was motionless, covered in blood. She barely had time to scream and she never knew what it was.

 His claws dripping with blood, he tore open the cloth carrier trapping Goldie. She meowed at him and they nuzzled together.

Then, they jumped out of car, and began the long trek back to the shelter, where it was warm and the food was nice and regular. Beel would take care of Goldie, and never let her be taken.

"A socialite marries a prominent novelist, which spurs a violent, obsessive, and dangerous jealousy in her."

This movie is so, so good, and so much more than that line.

It was my first Gene Tierney movie- I had heard of her vaguely. but somehow -unbelievably so now that I've seen her in action- she never made it to the Katharine Hepburn/Marilyn Monroe/ Greta Garbo levels of fame. She is just so incredibly beautiful and watchable, impossible not to be riveted by her in any scene she's in.

The story is set in the universe of: a strong woman who knows what she wants and goes after it must be an evil, murderous, psychotic woman. Despite Gene Tierney's Ellen character being clearly Evil- she's spoilt! She's Daddy's princess! She's outspoken! She wins swimming races! She dumps her fiance and chooses to marry another man! Oh how dare she- she wants some privacy in her home with her new husband! (arguably, the lack of sex has driven her mad) Oh what a bitch- she doesn't want to listen to that godawful singing from early morning to late at night- which may drive anybody to murder (joking!) Oh she's not thrilled that she's surprised by having a houseful of guests to host! And clearly shows her irritation! Oh dear she "pressed her father to death" - whatever that means! Oh no she's not sympathetic to her husband's clear and obvious flirtation with her cousin- and she's jealous that he dedicated his novel to her! It's hard not to feel a sneaking sympathy with her- but I'm willing to concede that I was simply blinded by her beauty and style, not to mention the breathtaking house(s) and scenery. I have no idea where "Jacinta, New Mexico" or "Warm Springs, Georgia" is - I just know that they are very lovely places where terrible things happen.

Anyway- this is a beautiful movie about a beautiful woman who despite her willingness to commit terrible deeds never quite manages to bend her surroundings to her needs, and eventually succumbs to her own terribleness. A tall glowering young Vincent Price get some screen time, and there are some other people as well. Watch it- you won't ask for your time back.

I guess "made" is a very generous stretch- I opened a tin of fava beans that I had picked up from the "Foreign" section of our local supermarket, I dumped it in a bowl, mashed it a bit with the back of the fork, squeezed fresh lemon juice over it, along with olive oil, red chili flakes and cumin. I heated it in the microwave. Breakfast. So, so tasty, protein-rich, and a welcome change from everlasting egg.

Many, many years ago, on a warm springish morning, I walked into a building somewhere in the Middle East. I was pregnant at the time. The smell of boiling fava beans hit me full and square in the face. Wet socks- wet, two-day old socks, warm and sweaty. I ran to washroom, barfing my guts out. Someone made a joke about "socks and rice" for lunch.

Now that squirming, vomit-inducing mass has become a young adult and I have had fava beans a couple of times since- in elaborate Middle-Eastern parties, piles of green fragrant rice, with dill and lamb. I understand it is a very popular bean, you can get mounds of it as street food, steaming hot, spiced with what google tells me is called "hogweed" in English.

Hogweed.

Anyway, I don't have hogweed at hand, here where I live now in Canada, and I don't see it in the "Foreign" section of the supermarket. I was reminded of fava beans when I came across a reel "healthy breakfasts across the world", featuring Foules mesdames. I got an instant craving as strong as the aversion from twenty plus years ago. And I have to say, the craving paid off. It is really, really good. It doesn't smell of wet socks, but a rich meaty goodness that is incredibly satisfying.

I drifted out of a pleasant dream and felt surprised the room was still so dark. My brain was expecting cool morning light filtering through the curtains.

Then it hit me: it was so dark because my eyes were closed. I was wide awake, but I couldn’t open my eyes. A bolt of fear so hard I cried out shook my body. I rubbed my eyes- nothing felt unusual or different. I just physically couldn’t open my eyelids.

A few minutes passed while I lay back, still. As the immediate terror subsided, I thought back to the night and day before. Nothing in my routine, drab life had changed. What terrible, sudden illness was this? I knew I was in my own bed, I could feel my own duvet and pillow. I tried again to and again to open my eyes, but I couldn’t, and the strain was starting to hurt the tiny little muscles around my eyeballs.

I needed help. Where was my cell phone? I groped towards the nightstand, and spilled my glass of water. I found my cellphone, sopping wet. Fumbling with smooth wet screen, I gave up in despair very soon, as I realised I could not turn it on. I couldn’t even remember how much charge it had. I remembered I could talk to it, and feeling foolish, I asked it to call my mother. She is a retired pharmacist and she could help me with whatever paralysis afflicted my eyelids.

Nothing happened. It remained dead, as useless as brick. Annoyingly, my mom’s words flitted round my brain- how worried she’s been that I live alone. “What if something happens, and you need help Mary?” she kept wailing.

WeIl, here I was. Something had happened, and I needed help. I guess mothers are always right, after all.

I knew to get help, I needed to leave the bedroom, go downstairs and leave my house. Sightless.

I swung my legs around and down, stood up, and then I heard it.

A short, soft suppressed cough.

To say I screamed would be an understatement. I am forever amazed at how on earth the neighbours didn’t hear my shrieks of terror and come barging in. Granted, I am not living in the best neighbourhood, but I had not realised terrified screams are such a common unremarkable occurrence.

Eventually I stopped screaming. Everywhere was silent.

“Hello?” I quavered.

Dead silence.

“Please”, I whimpered. “What do you want?”

I took a shaky step away from my bed, and felt to my disgust the hot wet liquid running down my legs. I hadn’t even realised I had done that when screaming.

I began to think I must have imagined the soft cough. The silent was so loud, and I could hear my ears ringing. I began to grope my way towards my bedroom door, my arms reached madly out in front of me.

Despite my better judgement, in the rush of victory of finding the door, I called out “I know you’re watching me you sick fuck. I know you’re enjoying this.”

Did I imagine that whoever was watching me shook their head?

I fell to my hands and knees and began groping my way to the stairs. I was terrified my observer would push me down the stairs- I felt certain that was going through their brain, and that they were debating it. I heard another breath, imagined or not, but this time I kept quiet. I needed all my concentration.

I found the stairs, gripped the banisters, and started going down, keeping my body low. My face was aching from the strain of not being able to open my eyelids.

Eventually I was downstairs.

And as I opened my front door, I felt a lightening in my face muscles, and the blackness flickered. The morning sun poured in on me, and I found I could open my eyes as usual. I stood on my front step blinking, my face scrunched up, unsure what to do next. There was no one in my house.

***

A few days later, I was at my mother’s place. I had kept my little adventure to myself, for what was the use of adding to her anxieties? And what was the use of reporting something like this? No matter how convinced I was that someone had done that to me, and had been in my house watching me struggle with temporary loss of vision, there was no point in wasting time and energy trying to report it, with no evidence. The only thing I did for myself was to book an appointment with a local optometrist. But even before the appointment, I knew my eyes were perfectly fine.

It must have been mother’s instinct then, for she would not let up on her worries for me that night. I was about to suggest she get counselling – she sounded more relentless than ever. And then she laid out her big proposal- with my father now comfortably passed. I should move back in with her. “What’s the point Mary,” she cried “You and I both alone, me rattling around in this old house, you paying a fortune in rent in that terrible area- I can’t sleep a wink at night knowing you are there all by yourself- I saw an episode of SVU the other night- oh my god if something like happened to you- no way of preventing-“ she paused to catch her breath, turned her face and coughed softly into her arm sleeve.

And the sound spiralled me back into that terrible black morning, that soft suppressed cough.

She lifted her face, looked at me, and I stared back.

“What?” she asked innocently. But I knew.

I have not visited her since. It has been the hardest thing that I have had to do in my life. But every time I waiver, I remember that morning, and stay firm.

I will never go near her again.

We (partner and I) just finished the four seasons, and we LOVED it. We have a massive From-shaped hole in our hearts. I can't remember the last time I was so captivated by a show and its characters. On weekends we were binging 3 episodes a day, and even on weekday evenings we managed to get in a couple of episodes.

We found the characters very charming and charismatic, yet quite relatable. They reacted in ways which were understandable and very human. There was some really funny exchanges. The plotting was tight, and it made sense. I found it much more watchable than Dark, and on par with early Supernatural.

It was also - oddly relaxing? A wet Sunday, piles of snacks, three episodes to binge on... I'm not sure why I found a horror show so relaxing? Perhaps a touch of schadenfraude- like, well, whatever I'm dealing with in the workplace/family/globally etc at least it's not as horrible as what these poor mfs have to deal with.

I have to say, after it was over, I rushed to this sub and I was quite surprised -not to mention disappointed- at all the criticism of how "poor" the characters' planning and decision-making skills were (like, yeah right, Redditor, surely you could have come up with better plans)- I had no idea Ellis and Fatima seemed to be so disliked? They were nice characters, weren't they? Several times I felt like asking- were the monsters forcing you to watch the show?

Anyway. From is Awesome!

After I smashed Peter's head against the lab counter and slurped out his brains from his skull in front of a petrified audience of graduate students and colleagues, the University agreed to pay me a generous stipend to keep quiet about the accident that befell me right there, in the lab.

I circled my tongue thoughtfully in my mouth, digging out bits of Peter’s bones lodged behind my gums, while they huddled around their stupid spreadsheets. I wasn't sorry for Peter- he was an arrogant, asshole prof who had made everyone's life a misery with his bullying, plagiarizing ways, and it was his fault the formula went the way it did, so rushed he was for fame and glory- or grant funding- same thing.

I, however, was not motivated by greed. It takes a lot of make-up, particularly foundation, to make a zombie look human. And good make-up is not cheap.

It will happen sooner or later anyway, I told myself as I carefully patted in concealer under my ripped eyelids. If our shitty little University lab figured out how humans turn into zombies, even by accident, then anybody can, and will.

The zombie apocalypse is not just titillating fiction.

Bloody Peter- bloody, hehe. He made that lab toxic. Well, many academic places are, all that narrow-minded arrogance and competition, and he was awful. If he hadn’t made Fionela hate him so much, she wouldn’t have messed up the formula and I wouldn’t have inhaled the zombiefication vapour. She was so distraught by Peter’s treatment of her. Women in the lab, am I right. And now this damn vapour is on our hands.

“Neel?”

I gave an unmanly shriek, and jumped around. Fionela was at the door.

“How- what- what do you want?” I stammered.

I could smash her skull and eat her brains - and everything else- right there. Why this bottomless pit of fear suddenly opening up in my rotting belly?

“You didn’t get the wound on the back of your neck- let me. Turn around.”

I did as she asked.

I felt her press the silky foundation over my ripped flesh. Its scent filled the bathroom, transporting me back to my childhood, watching my mother put on her make-up.

“You’ve done a great job! How did you learn to do make-up like this?”

“My mom” I began and then broke off “no- Fionela what are you doing here?”

She smiled. “It wasn’t an accident, Neel.”

“What?”

“Not what you did to fucking Peter- that was amazing! Good for you! But the vapour? Yes, I wanted a zombie. And then when you killed Peter like that, I knew you would be my captain.”

“Fionela, what the fuck are you talking about?”

She inserted her long sharp nail above her eye, popping it out. Greenish slime oozed from the dank hole.

“You and I- Neel- I have loved you for so long- but it wasn’t enough to date you - I wasn't interested in a stupid lab romance. I want us to rule the world together!” Her good eye glowed green. She opened up her bag, and I saw the lab contraptions for making the zombification vapour packed neatly.

She looped her broken arms around my neck “Yes? You and I, and our army of zombies! You’re ready?”

Helplessly, I nodded.

I am in a better place now. I have learned sign language- I can communicate quite well. And fortunately I couldn’t be fired from my job for losing my hearing – thank god for accommodations. Now I can tell my story, as a warning. If even one person can learn from it, learn to spot the signs and walk away before they are hurt, then it’s worth it.

I can’t listen to music anymore. So in that sense, Claude won.

I miss listening to music so much. I’m trying not to let myself be consumed with hatred for him for what he did to my hearing but it’s hard. I could only work out to my favourite songs, so now it’s really hard to remain motivated to exercise now. I try watching my favourite shows, but it’s not the same as racing on the elliptical to the beats of Nicki Minaj, the growls of James Hetfield, the howls of Greta Van Fleet or the wails of Kate Bush. Yes, I have, well, had quite an eclectic taste in music, but Claude automatically hated any song I liked.

Claude was so sophisticated. He only listened to classical music, and he despised pop. He said he didn’t, he was just trying to make me understand how classical music works, so we could share our love of music. I still don’t get why it was such a big deal for him. I didn’t want him to listen to Plain Jane! But I wasn’t going to act ashamed of loving it either.

The closest I got to classical music was “Rock me Amadeus” by Falco. God how I love that song- perfect workout song. Now I just watch the music video. It’s pretty awesome. The scene with the bikers bringing their metal studded arms up to the camera. I just can’t get enough of it. I play the song in my head, I know it by heart.

Even though Falco raps with a pretty strong German accent, Claude still hated it. The song, the music video - all of it.

Claude tried to make me love Mozart and Beethoven they way he loves them. “Lia, can’t you get it- just listen to this-“ and he would play some incredibly boring stretch of music with no words that made my eyes glaze over.

“Why do you care?” I’d reply. “This is why the good lord invented headphones!” I’d laugh.

Now I remember how Claude wouldn’t laugh back with me. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t remember him laughing.

“Music without words is like books without dialogue, or photos without people in them!” I’d tell him, borrowing from Alice in Wonderland. I am not completely uncultured after all. For some reason, that seemed to drive him insane.

“Lia- you can’t tell me with a straight face you prefer that fat freak Axl Rose to what I am playing for you! Wasn’t he a violent pedophile anyway? All these stars you worship so much- they’re all violent freaks!”

I tried to make him understand- “It’s the music Claude- I don’t care about them as people! I’m not going to date Axl Rose for gods’ sake!”

“How very Death of the Author of you!” he’d respond lightly. “So you wouldn’t date Axl Rose if you could?” He stared at me with his pale eyes, and I think it was then I realised something might be wrong, but everything else was so great, and Claude was so educated and smart- such fun to be with, and so gentle and careful. He was so unlike my other boyfriends, he knew stuff, he wanted to do things with me, he’d plan stuff without me asking to, he was just fun.

“What is Death of the Author anyway?” I asked, curious enough to ignore the childish jab about Gun N Roses. “And besides- everyone listens to that music- classic rock- you know- on the radio- we just grew up with it everywhere- you did too!”

He shook his head and started explaining Death of the Author. I have to say, it’s a pretty neat concept.

I think it was shortly after that- I kept having to ask people to repeat themselves. At work, in the store. I remember staring at my boss, both of us becoming more and more frustrated as it became evident I couldn’t understand the stream of gibberish flowing from her mouth. “What?” “Excuse me?” I was always cocking my head sideways, “Can you please repeat that? I didn’t catch it”

And the itching. The itching deep inside my brain. I scratched the side of my scalp in my sleep so much blood flowed. I woke up to bloody pillow.

Claude was so loving and supportive. “Babe- it’s probably just a mosquito bite. You’re fine. Please stop. And maybe you shouldn’t listen to your music so loud!”

He was so sweet.

Everything happened over the course of months, but now it feels like seconds. I didn’t understand. I just know, it was getting harder and harder to understand what people were saying. I started at their lips desperately, I felt I was going mad.

“Maybe it’s just wax build up sweetheart” said Claude. He bought me a ear wax removal kit from the pharmacy, read the instructions and carefully helped me follow them step my step. Some fragments of gunk washed out of my ear. Claude hugged me. “You’re going to be all better now! We should celebrate- where do you want to go out?”

See- that’s what I meant. So generous, so spontaneous. And he was so close to me, I could hear him quite well.

It was that night. That part I remember quite well. After our dinner date. I could barely hear the waiter, and Claude ended up ordering for me “I know what my sweetie likes!” I felt grateful and relieved- I knew then something was wrong with my hearing, but Claude would be at my side and support me through whatever it was. He told me so himself.

That evening, the itching was worse than ever. I shook my head from side to side, trying to break free of it. But eventually I fell asleep, an uneasy sleep full of dreams of green worms burying inside my brain.

A skinny shining green worm was slithering towards my ear, and began sliding into my brain. I felt its cool moistness around my ear and neck. My eyes were wide open, and I was lying on my side. The worm breathed heavily, and even though it was skinny, it weighed heaviy on my neck and round my exposed ear.

I jerked out of the nightmare. Claude was bent over me, his hand gently pressing on my ear.

I screamed, sat up and grabbed his wrist. A dropper full of liquid fell from his hand, loudly on the bedroom floor.

We stared at each other in the dim night light.

Thankfully all the working out had left me quite stronger than him. He tried to twist away but I gripped on tightly. Then I picked up the dropper.

“Lia- no- I’m just trying to help you- your hearing- “

I shoved him away from me, quite hard, and holding on to the dropper I ran.

I ran out, only pausing to grab my jacket and phone.

Later it was confirmed the dropper was full of poison he had manufactured himself, and he had been slowly poisoning my ears over the months.

I will never get my hearing back.

Bringing my evening stroll to an end due to a haze of early summer rain, I turned the corner into my street.

She was waiting for me, right outside my front yard. I thought it was a new neighbour dropping round to complain about something. Something about her tense stance made me realise that she was not good news.

Her eyes widened when she saw me. “You’re Adder_at_Night999?”

I frowned. “How do you know my reddit username?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter- listen- I’m not here to hurt you-“

What? I looked around- my street set in a greater London borough that still had a quaint village feel was quiet in the early wet evening lull.

She was still talking “-I just want to know why. I just came to talk to you- Why do you always downvote my stories? Everyone loves my stories- everyone- you know that – you know that! but you always downvote them- you’re always the first downvote, sometimes the only one - I just had to know why-“ She was babbling at me in a strong accent I can only describe as “typical American”.

“Please- let’s go to a coffee shop and talk- I came a long way to visit you, just to know why-, to understand- “ She reached out and gripped my sleeve.

I stood stock still. None of the few people I knew real life knew my reddit account, or my fondness for the scary stories that people post on Reddit. I stared at the middle-aged woman confronting me. She was wearing a glossy new-looking cream-colored mac and lipstick.

Her other hand moved in her pocket. In an instant, the fright that had been gathering since she said my Reddit username broke over me like a splash of cold water from a bucket. I ripped my hand loose, turned and ran to my front door, frantically scrabbling for my keys.

She followed me, reached out, opened the door that was unlocked, and somehow pushed me in. I am not a large strong woman, simply a retired Eng Lit teacher with a weakness for Reddit, and no match for this agitated American Redditor.  

We both stood in the dark hallway, her back to the front door. Hands slippery from sweat, I tried to pull out my mobile.

She repeated, “I only want to talk to you. Please. I know you have time- you spend all your time on Reddit!” her voice rose slightly, now audibly tinged with madness.

She must have heard it too. She gulped hard, and then said calmly “Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea? That’s what you British folk do, right? I travelled a long way to see you! Where’s those famous British manners?” she aimed for a jokey tone.

 “Let me put the kettle on.” I said, trying to sound soothing, although my voice came out rather mechanically.

Her hand moved in her pocket again.  “Okay”.

I went to the kitchen, filled the kettle and turned it on. She stood in the doorway, watching me get out two mugs.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she repeated. I nodded, staring at the kettle.

“It’s just, I had to find out who you were, why you downvote my stories. You don’t look anything like I imagined- I thought you were some neckbeard basement troll and you were downvoting me because most my stories are about women’s issues. But then I did some digging, and found out- you’re just an old woman, just a few years older than me- that kinda makes it worse - don’t you have any female solidarity? I just had to come and speak to you, see what the problem was-”

The kettle was still cold and silent.

“It doesn’t work like that, you know.” I said cautiously, willing the kettle to boil.

“And you have this nice place”, she said, looking around appreciatively “Looks like a house right from Midsomer Murders!” The jokey tone again. The kettle began making very tiny noises.

“What’s your Reddit name?” I asked, hoping I sounded friendly.

“Oh come on hun, you must know me. I’m WitchSea1994!” She said it quite proudly.

I remembered her stories. It was beyond me how anyone could upvote her cliché jumble of gory fantasy. But there was no doubt she was very popular. I nodded. “I quite like your stories” I said. The noises from the kettle were becoming a tiny bit louder.

She frowned. “Then why do you always downvote them?” she snapped, and took a step towards me. "Always!"

I took a step back. The kettle was now boiling. “I don’t always downvote them” I muttered.

Her eyes sparked. “Every one! Every single one, you downvote. And you’re often the first. I monitor all my stories- I chart the upvotes and downvotes in excel- and you’re always dragging me down! I even know you make fake accounts just to downvote stories!!” she was howling now, and she lunged towards me.

I grabbed the kettle and splashed the boiling water right into her distorted face. She screamed in agony, and I was able to push past, run through the open door into the street, dialling 999. I have never felt so comforted by hearing the sirens and then seeing the blue flashing lights only moments later.

I haven’t been on Reddit since. But I know I need a new hobby, one that doesn't involve cyberspace and scary stories as much.

 

 

Susie knew her town wasn’t like other towns. It looked like other towns, had a Main Street lined with little stores and restaurants. It had a charming brick school for little kids, and a bigger one further away for teens. Susie’s town looked like other towns, but it wasn’t. Children disappeared in her town. Children go missing in other towns too. But in her town it was because of monsters. She tried telling her parents and teachers, but the grown-ups can’t see them and don’t believe her. Susie warned other children, but many don’t believe her, until it’s too late.  

Most monsters are easy to avoid, they are where most people would expect to find monsters, if they believed in them, coming out at night in the forest, or lurking in abandoned houses waiting for anyone foolish to venture down into the basement. Susie knew she could avoid those monsters. 

Susie spent the afternoon at her friend Gemma’s house. Gemma told Susie she heard that evening their classmates Billy, Tommy, and Elliot were all going to the autumn festival at the other end of town. Even though they weren’t going, Susie lifted Gemma’s mood by letting her pick the games they played. The sun had nearly set when Susie noticed how late it was. Gemma’s house was not far from hers, but Susie still hurried.

Suddenly, she heard a drum and off-key shrieks of flutes. She flung herself into the nearby bush. The light breeze stilled, everything seemed to stop moving. Peering through the leaves, she looked at the path she had been on and saw the tops of two banners appear. Each banner was topped with a skull and had bones tied to them.

In moments, figures holding the banners and instruments appeared, marching down. From a distance they looked like children, as they neared Susie could see their heads and hands were wrapped in filthy bandages. The sickening smell of rot and delayed way they moved and turned showed they were not children.

There were six of them, the first banged the drum around its neck, two more played flutes, last were two carrying the banners walking on either side of one pulling a rusted toy wagon. In the wagon sat a crude effigy of a boy made of sticks and rags. The drum banged sharply as the flutes rang out off-key notes. Susie looked at the dirt, barely letting herself breath as they shambled past her hiding spot.

Susie had seen this procession twice before, always just before a child’s death. As the wagon passed she glanced up quietly praying she wouldn’t recognize anything. Atop the effigy’s head was a blue ball cap emblazoned with the red “A”,. Susie knew that was Tommy’s cap. Snapping her eyes back to the ground, she knew tomorrow her teacher would tell the class Tommy had died or went missing.