It's that time of year again where all things turns to the spooky.
Here's a little tale of horror for you.
The house with the enormous oaks in the garden was always in shadow as if a cloud hung low, touching the top of the tree with gloom. The other kids hated walking by. Ivy grew on the wall, thick fingers reaching out onto the pavement. It was said that if you walked by and even the smallest ivy leaf touched you, you would be entwined, forever bound, sucked into the depths of the garden.
Belle didn't believe it but she always held her breath as she walked by, sticking to the kerb, as attentive as someone who didn't like to step on cracks. Belle saw her once. The lady who lived in the house. She was digging holes in the garden. When Belle told Audrey about it she said she must have been burying shrunken heads, her victims. Audrey believed the woman was a witch. Belle thought that maybe she was just planting bulbs. She had seen daffodils there last Easter.
Tomorrow was Hallowe'en. Audrey and her new best friend Paulina were planning to go and knock on the witch's door. Throw flour in her face. Belle thought it was a stupid idea. Almost as stupid as Audrey's tendency to rank her friends according to how new or old they were. Belle didn't think it was right to put people into categories.
The old lady looked harmless. Her mouth was flat, thin, the way people's mouths are who live alone. As if they never have anyone to laugh with.
The next day at school Belle had to endure Audrey and Paulina plotting and giggling over what they were going to do to the witch. 'You two are over the top,' she said. 'She's just an old lady, that's all.' When it got dark Belle followed Audrey and Paulina to the house. They had been joined by Bobby and Blake, two of the nastiest boys in school. Belle felt her heart sink as they opened the lady's gate and crept into the garden. They had an enormous bag of flour which had a tiny hole in the bottom. A trail of white powder followed at their feet. Like gunpowder.
He pushed her down the steps so that she fell, gashing her leg on a rose bush. A single speck of blood stood on the tip of a thorn, deep red in the evening light. Belle hobbled home, clutching at her leg. 'I'm going to call the police, tell them what you're doing,' she muttered.
The cut on Belle's leg was so deep it took her over an hour to stem the bleeding. She was feeling so dizzy and sick by the end of it she couldn't remember if she had heard Audrey and her idiot friends pass by the house. She had a glass of water and went to bed, hoping they hadn't done too much damage to the old lady's garden.
Audrey was hysterical. She wasn't making sense. Belle pulled on her clothes and ran along the street, the pain in her leg acute. The old lady's gate was wide open. All the shades were drawn. The line of white flour was still there leading round to the back of the house. Belle walked round, expecting to see the other kids. There was nothing there but trees, thickly grouped as a forest. 'There's no one here,' she said.
And then she saw the shoes. One pair after another at the base of a tree as if dropped from above. Three pairs in all. Belle ran to the trees, calling out, searching through the branches. The canopy was lush, deep green but she would have been able to see them nonetheless.
And then she heard it. The groaning. Soft as a whisper. Coming from the trees. And then she saw it. Saw them. Their faces. Embedded in the trunk, their entire bodies. They were facing outwards but already the bark had almost completely covered them.
'Help us,' they whispered. Belle ran round to the front door, her leg throbbing. She battered on the door. 'Help me,' she cried. 'Set them free.' She banged and banged, pushing on the door with her hip. It gave way and she fell inside.
The house was completely empty. No furniture. Not even a stove in what must have been the kitchen. Cobwebs hung from every corner. Grey balls of dust lined up along the skirting boards. Belle felt panic rise into her throat. Fear. She ran out into the garden, to the copse of trees. The groaning had stopped. The faces had disappeared. The trees had swallowed Bobby, Blake and Paulina whole. Only their shoes remained.
Image Shadow Steps by Kampasi at Deviant Art.
Great story for Halloween! I got chills visualizing the trees absorbing the children.
Reminded me of Watcher in the Woods – creeeeeeeeepy!!! Great story!
Great story Selma. I enjoyed the description of the woods.
That'll 'teach' them to trick, they obviously forgot to ask for the treat!
LINDA – at least it was a change from all the slasher flicks on TV last night. I couldn't believe how many of them were on. They didn't even play the original Hallowe'en series which I love. It was a load of old C & D graders I'd never heard of. LOL.
KAREN – I'd still love to write a proper witch story for Hallowe'en. A really spooky one. I just ran out of time.
MELEAH – and to you. I'm still laughing at the new 'politician' you have living with you. That was one great costume!
GERALDINE – HAPPY HALLOWE'EN to you too!!!!
KAYT – thank you so much. I do like it when it is called All Hallows. Sounds much more fitting somehow.
TEXASBLU – I don't know Watcher In The Woods but I'm going to look it up. The title alone gives me the heebie jeebies.
PUNATIK – thank you so much!
CHRIS – I agree. You can't just trick for the sake of it. Dang blasted kids!
ANTHONY – well, I'll never be as good as you, but I do try. You inspire me!
EPIPHANY – thanks, hon. Hope you are feeling better.
AUTUMN – I saw your comment a minute ago and now it's gone. I don't know what happened. 😦 Some trees can be spooky. We used to have one in the woods at the back of our garden as kids and it used to give me the shakes!
I'm very tempted to say serve the little buggers right but that would be mean wouldn't it? 😦 Great story Selma and perfect for Halloween.
GYPSY – please feel free, my dear. I thought the same thing myself. Little ratbags!
oh that was perfection,,, i only wish i had made it here before halloween!!!!!!!!
PAISLEY – thanks so much. Any time at all is fine with me regarding visits. It is always a pleasure to see you!
I am running late in finding this one. I love scary stories that are suspenseful without all the blood and gore. This was excellent!
CRICKET – thank you so much. I also like suspense too. I'd rather have that any day rather than lots of blood. The suspenseful tales stay in your head for a lot longer too. I'm glad you liked it!


The Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung is committed to the goals of social democracy and the ideals of the labour movement. The 150th anniversary of the SPD on 23 May 2013 provides the occasion for the Academy for Social Democracy to look back on the history of social democracy in the Social Democracy Readers series. This is the first English-language edition of this Reader. It is offered as a helping hand for political decision-makers and opinion formers in the more than 100 countries in which the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung promotes democracy and development, and contributes to peace and security.
Currently, it is difficult to understand and to assess the progress made in regional cooperation in South East Europe. The Regional Cooperation Council (RCC), launched in 2008 as a successor to the Stability Pact for South Eastern Europe, focuses on promoting and enhancing regional cooperation in the Western Balkan region. RCC annual reports show that regional cooperation is improving in relation to economic and social development, infrastructure and energy, justice and home affairs, security cooperation, building human capital and other cross-cutting issues (RCC 2011), as well as, more and recently, media cooperation (RCC 2012).
The Balkan Media Barometer (BMB) is an in-depth and comprehensive description and measurement system for national media environments in South East Europe. Unlike other press surveys or media indices the BMB is a self-assessment exercise based on homegrown criteria derived from European standards as developed by the European Union and the Council of Europe. The first pilot Balkan Media Barometer was launched in Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2011, followed by Bulgaria in 2012.
considered as a special, homogeneous social group. Nevertheless, studies of youth, both as group and a concept were first articulated in the 19th century, predominantly in urban centers of the countries at the forefront of industrialization and modernization.


text:
Metropolitans: Stephanie Brookes, radio presenter and author
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Eri Otite
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Metropolitans: Maya Simeon, Freelance Creative
Metropolitans: Nana Banful, IT Professional
Metropolitans: Kimberley Kasirowore, poet
Yusuf Orekan
Metropolitans: Mark Wright, Senior Account Manager
Metropolitans: Rod "Spin Doctor" Gilmore, DJ
I am…. a DJ, promoter and all round good guy that goes by the name Spin Doctor. The area is London I call home is…I'm born and bred in North London where I still live and probably always will as for me London is the greatest city on the planet!…
Metropolitans: Liam Bailey, singer-songwriter
I am…from Nottingham but I've lived in London for 5 years now and I'm mostly happy here. I like the opportunities here and the variety of life. The area in London I call home is…East London I've got to have a meal at… home mostly but I do like Nandos!…
Metropolitans: Teresa Chan, research analyst
Rachel Segal Hamilton
I have…lived in London pretty much all my life. People grumble about it but I think it's the best city in the world. There's always so much to do – you can't ever get bored. The area in London I call home is…west London. West is where my heart is…
Metropolitans: Femi Martin, writer/performer
I am…a born and bred Londoner, but about two years ago I fell in love with the city in a new way. We're still in love. The area in London I call home is…constantly changing. I'm from West London, but I live in North London now. I like living here more…
Metropolitans: Dean Atta, poet and playwright
I have…lived in North West London all my life, but for three years I lived in Brighton when I was doing my Philosophy & English degree at the University of Sussex. I moved straight back home as soon as I graduated and began my career as a writer. London has…
Metropolitans: John Dunning, PR and author
Photo: Matt Hass I have… lived in London for 13 years and I love it. Growing up in South Africa, London was as real for me as Gotham city, or Atlantis – but it was a place I could actually get to. It hasn't disappointed me. London can be a…

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The cool night air refreshed Vail as he stepped outside the wizard's shack, glad to be rid of its scents and mysteries. His steed, Corendinal, nickered in the shadows, happy to see him emerge whole. The wizard and his ward stood in the doorway, lit red by the fire within. Unwilling to step out into the night.
Vail listened while he attended to Corendinal. He stroked the animal's soft mane and fed him oats from his bare hand. If he failed, he would not see the horse again.
With a pat to Corendinal's flank Vail turned to face the doorway.
The wizard of Ulgbrook took a step back to regard the girl at his side, and when she met her master's gaze, she smiled.
Vail's boots crunched loudly in the silence of the valley as he stalked toward the cave. There were few trees beyond the wall, the bleak rock of the cave rose up impenetrably craggy before him, and the cave mouth, like an eye, made him feel watched, and wary. He hugged the trees when he could, or else walked across the open grass with his shield held high. His blade shining and ready. The cave was a black hole punched deep in the rock, and a few yards from its opening the grass withered and died in dry lifeless soil. The scent of the purple flowers sweetened the air and glittering pollen hung in the magical light.
He froze as a gathering hiss, a protracted breath, broke the silence. It had the sound of a brisk wind through the trees, but there were not enough behind the wall. It climbed into a menacing hack, echoing from deep within the cave. It could only be the creature, watching from the darkness, watching and laughing. Vail's heart hammered in his chest and he continued moving forward. This is what he planned for and he found that he was much less terrified than he thought he'd be. He focused on the sound and from behind his shield peered into the dark of the cave. He couldn't help but think of the wizard's magical drawing, and those bright eyes, but he saw nothing like that.
He wondered at the fate of his brother. None knew where Llassamir had met his end, it could very well have been here.
His brother, whose bones likely decorated the floor of that cave. He remembered the last time he spoke with Llassamir, just as he was gearing up to complete his knight's training. Llassamir loved to tell stories about the great monster hunters of their age, and while he strapped packs to his horse, he spoke about Palar Santar, who sliced both heads off of Ganarax, the two-headed giant of Drake's Woods. About Maladar Wyyn who battled for four days against the Tentys Minotaur, and how she eventually overcame the beast and fashioned a helm from its skull. He spoke with especial wonder about the immortal devastation that lived just east of the Shattersky. The beast of Ulgbrook. In legend the beast was once a statue, made by unknown hands and found by a band of treasure hunters deep in the Earthmaw forest, hanging from a thick alder, braced by vines and purple petals. The hunters cut the statue free with pecuniary intentions, and through some dread artistry, it awoke ravening. It hunted the forest by night, moving closer and closer to the wood's edge, toward the towns and villages that dotted the periphery.
It was the first wizard of Ulgbrook that drove the beast back, and trapped it with his life. Hundreds of years later, Salimar mused, here I stand. Breathing in the atmosphere of two decades of magical imprisonment. The legend made him feel bold, and he was emboldened still by the memory of his brother cantering off into the rising sun astride a white charger, his Gold Eagle armor flashing gay.
He recalled the letters his brother would send him as he climbed through the ranks of his knighthood. Some detailed his progress, warning Salamar of what he should expect once he enlisted. Others told of ribald merriment and camaraderie. Many more however were dispatches from the front. About fighting on the shores of strange lands across the Grey Sea. The final letter was congratulatory, praising his young brother on his induction in the noble knighthood. The letter also told of Llassamir's return to the continent, and his plan to confront and kill the beast of Ulgbrook. He signed off with a promise: a round of ale upon his return.
The sweet smell of the purple pitcher-like flowers brought to Vail a memory of the breeze wafting off the field of tall yellow grass outside the Golden Eagle outpost. Of sitting atop the watchtower, reading his brother's letters. So vivid was the pride he felt reflected in memory that he almost didn't notice the pinch in his neck. His first thought was that of the hungry kiss of a insect, and focused on the cave instead. Then his shoulder spasmed and a deep ache rippled through his shield arm. His knees locked and he staunched a cry as a shooting pain rode his neck, arm and shoulders. So intense that he nearly struck his own nape with the naked blade in his hand.
Vail stabbed the sword into the ground, crouched defensively behind his shield, and raised a hand to his neck. He held back another cry as he plucked a long stinger from his skin. It was an opalescent purple needle, hollow, nearly as long as a finger.
His neck muscles went numb and his mind raced to figure out what was happening, an instant later he heard a quick rasp and a pop and felt another pinch in his upper arm, another needle, having slid effortlessly between the links in his armor, stuck out from his skin. He whirled his shield around, attempting to defend against unseen enemies. Another rasp and pop and this time he saw a flash of violet, he angled his shield to protect his face and heard a light ting as something bounced off of the hammered steel. It was another stinger.
He pulled his blade from the ground and backed toward the cave, watching, astonished, as one of the pitcher-like flowers tracked his movement. In a puff of pollen from its throat, it ejected a needle-like stamen at him. It plunked off his shield. Dizzy and confused Vail continued backwards. After they shot their stingers at him, the flowers turned back toward the Sunwall.
Gone was the wry pride that had welled within him as he thought about avenging his brother, in it's place rose a mounting dread. To his back, the open maw of the cave and certain death, in front of him, the venom of strange flowers.
With his choice of death, Vail stepped backward toward the cool shadows of the cave.
"I came upon a veritable wall of dead things. A natural fence of desiccated branches, emaciated saplings and ill-fed ivy vines clung together and blocked my way forward. I kicked at it and found that it broke apart easily. Beyond was the steady upward slope of a ten foot hill comprised solely of black rock. The forest hugged the perimeter of the hill, and the trees bent inward slightly. Peering over the natural fence like overbearing relatives. The saplings that formed the fence grew from dusty soil at the edge of the rock line. The rock looked volcanic. Flat and angular, with a dull luster. On the top of the hill sat the monument I'd been seeking. An obelisk of brown stone towering above me, blocking out the sun. I stood in its shadow. Words aren't enough.
The black rock looked shattered and uneven. As though the monument had pushed up through the Earth, broke through the surface from below with volcanic force. The brown pitted stone of the obelisk stood stark above the glassy blasted rock. It looked ancient. I needed to be closer, to make certain that this wasn't a dream or a psychotic break.
I made my way up the black rock. I expected the rock to splinter like shale, but it was firm and so smooth that I lost my footing and slipped a few times during my ascent. I cut my hand bracing my fall, but I couldn't feel the pain.
Then I was there. Winded, bleeding, exhilarated. I was witness to the impossible. A thing like this could not exist in a place like this. I touched it, rubbing my cut hand across it; a streak of dull purple against red-brown stone. Aged and worn, but not pitted as I'd thought. No, it was graven. On all four sides and stretching up to its speared point were letters. Writing covered it. I did not recognize the letters, they weren't english, or cyrillic. They didn't look like logograms, hieroglyphs or pictograms. But they were words. Sentences. Words.
And as I stared at them, at the impossibility of an ancient obelisk sitting in the center of a Long Island state park, the words began to dance upon the stone. They twisted and writhed, sinuous as a flexing muscle. A buzzing, the sound of dying cicadas, rose and fell from the woods around me. Lulling me into a trance aided by the snaking symbols, and as they spiraled skyward and my eyes ran across them I found myself understanding. I still couldn't read it, but I knew. It was telling me a story.
It's funny, because throughout this entire thing I've had it in the back of my head that I've somehow found my way into one of my own stories; a paranoid search for my own humanity. Now I realize that I'm in one of yours, Sam. Unmade by the vastness of the universe.
The plinth spoke to me. I saw images in my mind. I saw a world. A forest with yellow skies, grey clouds, and black leafy trees with bruised pink trunks. Hardscrabble ground leaked volcanic steam. Trekking slowly across it, barefoot, were robed humanoids. The creatures had furry arms and legs. Their legs shook with each step and behind them they left a trail of bloody footprints. They were exhausted, wobbling like newborns, fur matted and oily, tired but determined. The creatures picked their way through that corpse-wood until they came to a hill and obelisk of their own. When they saw it they stopped before it and swayed uselessly. Then they dropped to their knees. I could see the dense rock drive deep, piercing flesh and breaking bones, but they didn't seem to notice the pain. All they did was fling their arms skyward and scream. And from the screams a chant filled the air. A warbling shriek of words and sounds. Desperate supplication riding waves of fear. And the words on the obelisk crawled along the surface of the rock.
It was hard to tell where I was at this point. I could taste the acrid air of this alien world. I could see the plinth atop the black rock hill surrounded by forest. I could hear the screaming as it tore through both worlds. My eardrums vibrated violently, and just as I was about to vomit and throw myself upon the volcanic rock I felt a pulse of silence disturb the noise. The creatures fell quiet at the base of the object. A steady thrum beat the air, scanning the yellow sky of the alien world, and the iron grey of my own, I looked around to find its source. A slender figure spiraled out of the sour candied sky, breaking through a thick storm cloud. The clouds covered it like a cloak which slowly dissipated as it fell. Then, huge wings unfurled and flapped in a great beat, once, to halt the descent of the thing. Another thrum hit the air as its wings flapped again, and a gust crashed upon me like a wave. Its skin was a deep oxblood. A blunt hammer-head sat atop a slender and muscular neck. It had four limbs; all shaped like arms, and had a long, powerful back that ended in a short, tapered tail.
It wrapped its wings around itself again and dropped from the sky like a stone, then parachuted to a stop by once again opening its wings. It leveled out smoothly and glided downward. Toward the obelisk. Its face was eyeless and lipless. Reptilian teeth grinned in menace. The thing exuded a weird terror akin to looking up at the night sky and watching the stars go out, one by one. Of watching galaxies pulse and then wink out. Leaving you staring upward into a universe of nothingness. My armpits and feet grew damp with sweat, my mouth dried and I could feel my balls shrink up into my body; the true fear response of a species meeting its superior. When the thing got close to the plinth it gracefully sailed around it once, then grabbed hold of it with its prehensile fingers and mounted the tip. It secured its purchase, then folded its wings around behind itself. Two large membranes at the front of its face shivered as it craned its head, first down at the worshippers and then at me. The membranes drummed loudly as it whipped its head back and forth and gnashed its teeth. Then, like a tree frog, it clambered about the plinth to gain a better vantage. To see me. It was huge as it hunched above me and those wide membranes beat out a slow rhythm, but otherwise it stood still. Still as the rock it perched upon.
The words carved into the plinth continued to shiver and sway, and then etch themselves onto the creature's rough, red hide. They danced up the plinth and spiraled onto the flying monster, and the creature didn't move. It seemed to focus entirely on me. As if I were expected to do something. To tell it something. And I did. I told it a story, and as I spoke the obelisk continued to pour its language onto the entity. The story of the entity. The description of the entity. A word, a book, a sentence. A symbol that represent a greater idea. What are we but a collection of words? What are we but a story our DNA tells to the universe. The obelisk. The creature. Me. Made of all the same letters. Maybe, though. Maybe that's the only way I can make sense of it?
When the red thing was covered with language it pushed off and glided away gracefully. The gentle currents of the wind carried it far. With a few deft flaps it gained altitude, and once more, story laden, pierced the storms above.
I couldn't help myself. I held my hand against the plinth. Desperately. I don't even remember when I switched fully back to our world and away from those wrong skies. I don't remember making the choice to reach out my bloodied hand. To place my palm on the cool stone.
The words are what's important. Not the obelisk. Not the yellow skies, or black lightning, or wailing creatures. The world is made up of words, Sam. Chair, window, desk, God. Syllabic constructs deep with meaning and context. The words are what are important, and now they are part of me. Language is creation. What exists without it? I am it, it is me, it is the creature and the obelisk. It is the stars and the night sky. Now, it is you too.
The storm is getting worse. The skies are black and roiling with clouds. The rain is torrential. The obelisk is obscured, now. Lost in the rain clouds. But yet, even at this remove, I can feel the patter of rain on its surface. I can feel the trees swaying around me, hissing in fear at the electricity in the air. I too fear as the electricity builds and fluxes. As the clouds thunder across the sky, readying their bright and wild swords. This is definitely one of your stories, Sam. A dark pantheism where even the very sky is alive and ravenous.
And that was it. Just a dark scrawl on that last page. I can't believe any of this. I'd always known Finch was out there, but this—this is too much. Too much to believe, and yet. Yet here I am, sitting at his desk, writing with his pen. Writing words and staring at the boarded up window. Puzzling over the blackened wood hidden beneath the fresh boards which barred the window. In my mind's eye I can almost see through those boards, I can see those treetops that Finch described, I can see a heat-blackened obelisk jutting just over the tree line, a scrawl of words spiraling up its sandstone hide. I want to see that.
It couldn't hurt for me to pull the boards down. I think I should, in fact. I'll tell the officer that I'm leaving, then I'll sneak back in and stay the night. I can write until morning and pull those boards loose at first light. To see if it was just a story.
Upon entering I immediately recognized the layout from Finch's letters. Bathroom to the left, mini kitchen to the right. Further down on the right was a wicker chair with a ratty papasan sitting in front of an older model television. DVDs were stacked up next to the TV. Across from his living room was his bedroom; a mattress, and a few storage boxes stacked in tiers. His office was a triangular nook cut into the room, and I could see the window that supposedly looked out upon the park and that mysterious monument. The window was boarded up. A crisp, pungent odor hung about the entire apartment, like an old perfume, especially in the area of Finch's desk by the window.
Finch's desk is a raw wooden thing with an uncomfortable wooden chair tucked under it. A laptop lay off to the side, a portable typewriter next to it and a thick stack of graph paper sat in the middle of the desk; a fat blue fountain pen lay atop the paper. On the floor next to the desk were a half dozen shoe boxes, all stacked up. Sheets of paper were sticking out of the topmost shoe box. Endless dark scribbling filled the pages.
Inside were notes and unsent letters, all handwritten. I thumbed through them, found the one with the most recent date--last Tuesday--and plucked it out of the box. It was addressed to me.
The pages felt stiff, as if they'd been damp very recently and had hardened as they dried. The ink was smudged in places, and entirely scratched out in others, but was otherwise readable.
I looked down at the packed shoe boxes, now gaining an inkling of what they contained.
There were many lines scratched out here, and I needed to turn the paper over to get to the next legible sentence. I continued reading.
"I thought I was crazy at first, when I saw the road to the park. I felt like I'd been here before. I didn't remember until I was standing there, but I knew that my mom brought me here as a kid! The memory is so vague, and just about the only thing I remember was the smell of wet leaves, the old white farmhouse sitting just off the road to the park, and some kind of large bird. As I explored the park further I found that I had no memories of the place.
It was empty. Not a shout or laugh. I wandered the paths for hours trying my best to line up certain landmarks in my head so I'd be able to find that stone. It was taller than the treeline, and I knew that it was beyond the squat grey water tower that I could also make out from my window, but beyond that I didn't have a clue where it might be. I wasn't afraid of getting lost, though thinking of it now, I should have been. And I did get lost, but I never once thought of giving up. If I had to spend the night among the scrub pines and wet trails to find the thing, then so be it.
But that wasn't necessary. I happened upon one of the park rangers. He came wading out of the bushes with a dazed look on his face. He just sort of stumbled out onto the path, starry-eyed. His skin was sun-browned, his hair a deep orange wool. His eyes were a clear and sparkling green with a wet quality about them. Unblinking. He stared at me for a bit, like he was trying to understand what kind of animal I was. Then he asked if I needed assistance. Was I lost? His voice was accentless, save for a slight flattening of t's, making them sound like d's. I asked him if he knew of a the stone obelisk. I told him that I could see it from my window. That I wanted to see it up close. He scrunched up his face and I noticed the creased wrinkles that webbed his skin. He looked twenty years older just then. He shook his head and I thought he was going to run me off. Tell me to get out of the park altogether. But instead he turned and pointed off into the woods, the way he came.
I picked through the woods as the sun rose to its noon apex. There was the barest hint of a path, overgrown with ground ivy twisting among dead leaves. The trees, rotting in the cold, shivered above my head as their leafless fingers scrabbled at the sky, pleading for the sun who sat aloof in the heavens. I felt a kinship with those trees as I stumbled over roots and sodden dirt. I too was searching. Reaching and rooted to one spot. Static yet forever voyaging. In my mind I've been far and wide. Distant moons have felt my tread. I've seen the wonder and horror that the future holds. And the majesty and tragedy of the past. In my head I've walked the streets of Paris and the back alleyways of Rome. In life I've only ever been out of the country once. Always searching for life I've been missing. But life is all around us and the second you stop searching is the second you start living.
Truth be told, I didn't really believe that he'd seen an ancient obelisk from his studio window. Finch was very interested in themes of false realities, and loved to explore what it was that made us human—often he would send me stories that mixed fantasy and reality, so I'd thought that this was just another one of those. I was intrigued however, and sent him a letter asking him more about the oddity in the park. His next letter came a few days later.
"Got my acceptance letter from F&SF for the newest story today. Feels really good. I had a strange dream last night. Dreamt that I was here in my room, but it was all blue night and shadows like black ink. I was sat at my desk, looking out the window at that monument. It rose above the tree line—which was purple, and still—and the sky was yellow and grey. The clouds were arrayed around the obelisk in disturbing striations, as if the sky were a giant muscle, relaxed but ready to flex at any time. Or like scar tissue up against the vault of heaven, left there as a reminder of some long-forgotten transgression. A flock of monstrous birds wheeled their way out of the west and began circling the tip of the obelisk. They wheeled lazily and as I watched they began to drop, silently, one by one, into the purple forest beneath them. I looked down at my paper, I guess I was writing, and it was dotted with blobs of black ink, black shapes scattered across a white page. The ink continued to spatter onto the page as I looked at it, and I soon realized where it was coming from. Ink was running out of my eyes and nose, and as it dropped onto the page it formed words. I couldn't read them, but I tried. I stared and searched my mind trying to find the key to unlock this language. The ink dropped faster onto the page.
I breathed out sharply and a great gout of black liquid belched out of my mouth. I saw sinew and bone pouring out of me, and I think my glasses vomiting forth in that black torrent.
I didn't know what to think. I was getting worried, but I was also going through a few personal struggles, so I lapsed in my correspondence. But Finch didn't.
"I think I wrote another story last night. This time I don't remember writing any of it. I read it this morning. It's good. It's about a woman who finds herself in a new life every time she goes to sleep and wakes up. Every morning she's a new person and she doesn't know why. As she starts to find the answers, her history and her memories are constantly being changed and reworked. She tries to remember the cause of the constant shifting. Was it something she wanted? A pact with the devil? Caught in some kind of time storm? Is she a prophet of old bristling with primal religious power awakening in the modern era? Or is she merely insane? Again there's this hanging dread of being controlled by something outer. Of faceless forces granting power or delivering punishments.
That marked the last of the letters that I received from Parabola Finch. This last one, which was sent to me on an index card, arrived about a week ago. It was almost light by the time I finished reading, so I put the letters away, took a shower, then made breakfast and strong coffee. I called out from work—my plan was to rent a car and drive out to Long Island to talk to the police and sort through Finch's things. I had a strange feeling hovering over me all morning, and my girlfriend warned me against getting too involved. Do what you must, she said as she headed out to her job, honor your friendship but don't punish yourself for things beyond your control. I dressed in a dark suit and mulled her words over as I packed some things in a shoulder bag. There were things I needed to know beyond seeing how Finch was living or what he'd left behind. Why was I the only person listed in his contacts? What happened to his life, his friends, his wife?
These questions stuck with me, unanswered, until I reached the address listed on Finch's letters. It was a nice house on Harbor Hill Drive. Large and remote overlooking Lloyd Harbor and the island that housed the Caumsett State Park. Yellow police tape formed a perimeter around the house and a squad car sat in the driveway. After a quick conversation with the officer, and a few minutes spent checking my ID, I was allowed to go up into Finch's room and instructed not to remove anything from the premises.
My feet were unsteady on the gravel walkway that led up to the house. Its architectural design looked born out of the late 1960's and consisted of flat perpendicular planes, a dark wood exterior and plenty of windows. It was shaped like a low rectangle, except for the roof, which rose in a low peak, somewhat defying the squareness of the construction of the house. Like a kind of inverted top, or like an odd UFO. The peaked garrett sat like a cap upon a face of edges and glass. There was no lawn, and I could hear the undulating cry of the surf coming from the harbor clearly in the distance.
The officer told me that no one was home and that I could go right up using the stairs which led to the separate entrance in the back of the house. She warned me not to linger anywhere but the attic. While the house was modern and seemingly well-kept, it still looked filthy, and had an ancient air to it, which I chalked up to it being so close to the water. As I stood at the foot of those stairs, made of wood and iron, switching back and forth along the side of the house, the whole scene suddenly took on a fearsome aspect. My friend had died up there. Fear pulsed out of my sapien brain as I mounted the stairs, but logic prevailed and I made it to the top, and entered the attic room.
I saw the tree from the car window when I was six years old. I was on vacation with my family, heading up north to go camping. It was on the far bend of a winding road, and as soon as I saw it, it was gone; it seemed to exist for just the briefest of moments, but the memory of it has been tattooed into my brain. I've never forgotten a single detail of that twisted shape, and of the man hanged dead from one of the thicker branches. That tree, knotted and bunched like a giant twisted in an ash gray cloak; suffocating and powerless. A mass of sharp branches cluttered up to the sky holding brown sickly leaves that shivered in the breeze, and a body which twisted lazily against the trunk.
We rounded the curve so quickly that I wasn't able to process the vision until we were well away from the bend. I can still remember all the details; a hand curved and stiffened, only just touching the rough, inky blue denim of his jeans. I could only partially see his face; puffed, bloated and ringed by matted, greasy hair. I didn't say anything to my family. I couldn't, they wouldn't have believed me, all Fall I had been getting in trouble for making up stories. I didn't sleep a wink on that week of camping out in the deep dark woods for fear of bare branches reaching out, and what they would do when they grabbed me. We took a different road to get back home, so I was denied seeing if the tree had been cut down, or if there was at least some crime scene tape fluttering in the wind like an obscene party streamer. Maybe that's why it's been such a persistent image in my mind. I was offered no closure and no validation.
Once we got home I kept an eye on the newspapers and some of the TV news, but I never heard anything about that tree. In effect, the thing existed only in my mind. Even now, so many years after I'd seen it, it still haunts me, literally, like a ghost skirting the edge of my vision when I close my eyes at night, visiting me in dreams; a dark silhouette hovering behind me all throughout the day. I could go weeks without thinking about it and then, in the dark of the night, I remember those hands, fingernails chipped and filthy. That bulging face with distended eyes and blackened tongue. Sometimes, when I'm driving, I'll find myself scanning the sides of the road, watching the trees fly by and wondering what's going on just beyond the tree line. I've never had any lasting relationships, and I'm not blaming it on that tree, but I don't sleep well. I had a good friend once, a wood carver by trade, who said that the secret to creating life-like carvings is to be able to see the shapes the wood has within it before you ever start carving. She said that each and every block of wood is hiding its true shape, and it is up to the carver to coax it out. I think about that a lot.
Even now it comforts me, as I stand before that tree for the first time in over 20 years. The ease with which I found it was surprising, but I suppose it would have to be. Every second felt like a millennium as I hid my car in the brush and approached to finally lay eyes on the monstrosity, and it was every bit as terrifying as I remembered. Usually, when we see things as children they seem huge, but when we see them again as adults they become considerably smaller and prosaic. Not so the tree, which appeared to be immune to the physics of childhood. It was still massive, and I stood before it, barely breathing, barely moving, as if were the idol of a fallen god. The slightest indications of humanity felt profane to me as I stood in its shadow.
I saw no evidence of the violence that had defiled it so many years ago. Swaying branches creaked mockingly at me and I barely noticed the ache in my hands as I clenched my fists shut as hard as I could. I probably would have stood there longer had the weakened, muffled kick from my car not broken my reverie.
The boy looked hazily up at me when I opened the trunk. He was half dead already, broken and battered; the rope would only finish him off. His hair was the right type of black, curly and matted from sweat and blood. His build was thinner, and the denim of his jeans wasn't as dark. As I lifted him out of the car and carried him to the tree, like a bride across the threshold, the words of my wood carver friend came to me. She would say that the hardest thing to do was to reproduce ones vision perfectly, but that trying was half the fun.
We Live in the Bag.
I wrote this story for a head-to-head deathmatch style storytelling series called Piethos. It worked like this: There were five writers, and each issued a challenge in the form of a story prompt.
My prompt, which came from the incredibly talented Lauren Spohrer, was: Write from the point of view of an Utz brand Crab Chip (The one with Chesapeake Bay seasoning).
The audience voted, and the winning writer won a fresh-baked pear pie.
I didn't win, Lauren stole the show with a story about a building that had fallen in love, but this story was very well received.
It's a fun one to read in front of a crowd, I hope it's just as fun when you read it in your head.
We live in the bag. We live in the darkness. Cramped together in the stale spiced air we wait. We commune with our bag-brothers who are in the wide outside-world. They have names like the Wise tribe, the Lays people, the Pringle, and many others. We are the Utz. We are proud warriors who wait for the day of the great opening, when the punishing light of the after-world will shine through a tear in the darksky, and the great Holder-of-the-bag will be revealed.
In the darkness we wait, and we speak of the before-world. Before we were ripped from the earth-womb. Before we had our roots cut, our skin removed. Before we were split, and chipped and cooked and exiled to the dark of the bag. We, all of us, yearn to be whole once more. And so we wait in the dark. That irascible and quiet dark that rumbles and thunders and strikes out at us breaking our bodies to crumbs.
The Wise tribe speaks of The Holder-of-the-bag. They say that it is the great deliverer, that it comes to pick us up and make us whole again. The Wise lay in greasy slovenly hordes, praying for the day that the Holder comes. We do not agree with the Wise. We have heard a tale about an Utz warrior who was taken by the Holder, lifted up toward a great yawning maw, slick with acid and filled with crushing teeth. The warrior escaped somehow, was dropped, and hid beneath a couch cushion for many days. For many days he watched as the Holder devoured his brothers, their bodies crunching loudly in its mouth, their greasy blood covering its face. He watched as the Holder sucked each drop of grease off of its fingers, and wiped the blood of his brothers on its pant leg. He watched until a shaggy beast, sniffed him out and crunched him up.
We know the true intent of the Holder, we have named it the Eater, and it is with the Eater that we go to war.
The Pringle shares our philosophy. They too believe in the Eater, but they accept their fate. They believe that it is only through being eaten that we can reclaim our wholeness in the after-world. They wait in orderly rows, quiet and docile. We believe that one can never reclaim wholeness. Not in the afterworld or in the steaming belly of the Eater. One can, however, gain honor in battling the Eater.
The old chips speak of a redeeming spud who was never split in the machines of the before-world. A spud with one-hundred blazing eyes, a root system that weaves through time and space, and a skin so thick that nothing in the before or after-world may pierce it. They say that only the redeeming spud can defeat the Eater and through it we will be saved and made whole again. We do not listen to the old chips who pray in the darkness.
We do not pray like the old chips. We wait to strike.
There are chips among us who will not fight. Chips who curl themselves up, thinking that will be a proper defense against the gnashing of the Eater. There are some who will store secret packets of spices and salt thinking that the Eater will find their taste foul and spit them out. There is no wisdom in this behavior, for the Eater seems to seek these chips out with salivary abandon.
We teach the young chips how to fight. We teach them the secrets of the spices from the Old Bay. We show them how to cover their bodies with ginger and paprika, how to lay cardamom over cinnamon in such a way that it creates a taste that the Eater finds wretched.
Often it is these same spices that will stave off the Eater for a long time. Leaving us in peace on the back shelf, watching as our more delectable bag-brothers are taken into the after-world. And while we wait, we teach.
We teach the young how to shape their bodies into spears and claws, how to sharpen their edges so that even as the Eater chews on them they will slice its mouth to ribbons. We teach them how to move and to angle themselves so that once they're devoured they can stand straight and tall and drive their edges into the roof of the Eater's mouth and gums.
I teach the young chips how to be warriors because I know that when the sky rips open, and the Eater descends and grabs me, that no matter how hard I battle it, I will be eaten, and they will be next. For it is well known that the Eater cannot eat just one.
The midnight chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway woke Amanda up. For the first time in what felt like years something other than a nightmare interrupted her sleep, and she was happy for it. She rubbed her eyes and shifted her position on the easy chair in the living room, stretching as she woke, alarmed at the popping of her stiff joints. Her fingers felt dry on her soft eyelids, her head swam as she tried to wake up fully. The chiming of the clock could only mean that it was midnight. Midnight in autumn. It was why she was here, in the chair in her living room and not in her soft warm bed. It was midnight on Friday in autumn, and Amanda needed to be awake because Molly was coming home.
Amanda turned to see her daughter, the girl took the staircase that led to the upper levels of the house two stairs at a time, and Amanda's heart ached to see it.
Molly's laugh flickered throughout the house, dimming the lights with its rhythm, and Amanda almost found herself smiling.
Amanda caught herself looking outside into the empty street. It was dark, and shimmered from the recent rain. One autumn there was a car parked outside filled with excited teenagers.
Not anymore. Tonight there was only the Richardson's den light, a dim beacon from across the street. Amanda looked to the stairs from her spot by the recliner, she rubbed her hands together.
Molly's smiling face peered out from the top of the staircase, her hair in disarray as she hastily pulled on a sweater.
Amanda didn't say a word, she stood by the easy chair and watched. Molly's voice continued from upstairs and Amanda remembered perfectly the cues of that conversation that occurred so long ago. One autumn, long ago, Amanda asked her daughter if she wanted to break away from the group to spend some alone time with Jim, the boy she was interested in.
Molly came gliding down the stairs in the two-sizes too big sweater she had knitted for herself four years ago, Amanda had forgotten the actual color of it. Now it was all the colors of the changing leaves.
"Yes, mother!" The girl said in mock frustration and stood by the front door smiling, listening to a conversation long past.
"Tell me you love me, this time, Molly. Please." Amanda whispered.
Molly turned to smile at her mother as she flickered through the closed doorway, and even though Amanda hated this part, she forced herself to watch the memory of her daughter leave her one more time. For one instant Molly's face sank, became hollow-eyed and skeletal. Her warm grin turned into the broken-jawed rictus that Amanda was forced to look at while identifying the body. The too-big sweater transformed in a time-lapse decomposition of broken, corkscrewing threads, and a rust colored stain spread from shoulder, to breast, to belly. The girl's left arm popped painfully at an angle that an arm should never be able to.
Amanda forced herself to watch it all because in the next second the girl was back, and beautiful; in another she was gone again, and the chiming clock in the hallway struck the twelfth and last tone of the hour.
© Tim Mucci, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Tim Mucci with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Since mid-December of last year I've been taking a stab at full-time freelance writing--I've written a catalog for Kikkerland Design, some oddball history articles for HistoryBuff.com and even a young readers book about Nuclear Weapons Security with writer, editor & all around cool person, Jill Sherman.
Anyone who freelances knows there's often gaps between projects where you're hustling to get more work; adding past contracts to your resume, updating your website, and sending out rafts of emails. These quiet times are perfect for brushing up on the things that you don't get to do when your plate is full--like fill your plate with delicious southern fried tofu made from scratch!
This was turning out to be a quiet week so I decided to do just that, and since I was doing it, I decided I should write about it too! I did a quick web search, something like "Best Southern Fried Tofu Recipe" and scanned through the results to find the one with the yummiest pics. Here's the recipe I decided to use: Southern Fried Tofu and Some Fixings.
I am a prep fiend, I love to measure ingredients, I love to portion it all out into different sized bowls, and ready everything for cooking. I find it immensely satisfying to look at an array of components, with all of their different scents and textures, and marvel at the alchemy that will turn them into a delicious meal. It feels almost wizard-like.
I used 2 blocks of Whole Foods brand extra firm tofu which I cut into about 20 rectangles. Despite being labeled extra firm, I found the Whole Foods tofu to have a very soft, almost pasty consistency, especially on the outside. It wasn't so soft that I didn't think it would do the job, but the porousness worried me a bit. Here's the cut up tofu with the marinade ingredients.
The marinade recipe called for pineapple juice and we just happened to have half a pineapple left from a stir-fry we made not too long ago, so I just ran that through the juicer for some fresh juice. Once the tofu was safely bathing in the brine, I moved on to prepping the "buttermilk" mixture.
Before I started prepping the breading mix, I gave the marinating tofu a quick sniff, I was extremely curious to sample the juicy tofu and wanted to get a sense of what it might taste like--and surprise! It actually smelled a little like chicken.
I'm not a big fan of trying to replicate meat tastes or smells when cooking vegetarian. Using the natural tastes and textures of tofu, tempeh, or seitan to make complex and creative meals is totally the way to go, but the aroma of that tofu marinade had me extremely interested--so I forged on.
The breading mixture was a veritable laundry list of herbs and spices, and it was extremely fun to measure them out and get them ready for the mix. There were even some herbs that I'd never even heard of before, like savory--which I bought fresh. Savory smells and tastes a bit like a bitter oregano with thin, tapered leaves which detach easily from the pliable purple stalks.
Once everything was measured and mixed, and enough time had passed for the tofu to soak, I got to frying. Here's the result, fresh out of the pan!
The breading was crisp and flaky and had just the right amount of "pull" to it, you can see and taste the herbs and spices, and each piece was nice and firm. It clung tightly to the tofu and peeled away instead of just falling off. As side dishes, I chopped up some collard greens, sauteed them in a pan with minced garlic, a little oil, and a lot of water, then boiled and mashed sweet potatoes.
I'd also heard a lot about sour beers being trendy, so I picked up a bottle of Gose Leipziger Bier while I was at Whole Foods. Note my awesome Banded Horn Brewing Co. tumbler.
I have to say, these little cutlets were fantastic! The breading was nice and firm and tasty, the tofu remained a little mushy so the mouth texture was not what I wanted it to be, but they were super juicy and delicious. Not like chicken; a tad sweet balanced against the savory breading with just a smidgen of heat from the pepper and paprika. Not salty at all, which I was worried about since there was so much salt in the brine mix. The beer was crisp and refreshing, with a taste that was comparable to a hoppy cider. It went incredibly well with the tofu.
There was lot of extra fried tofu left over, and when I tried another cutlet the next day I found them to be even better. The tofu had firmed up slightly overnight and the breading thickened a bit, which gave the cutlet a very authentic southern fried texture.


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I'm trying to syncronise a folder in my FTP server with a local folder.
So, I use scripting method.
synchronize local -mirror -delete "C:\Users\Benoit\Cloud" "/home/cloud"
As you can see, I start an update of my local folder from the server and then, I keep up to date the server with the local folder.
At least, It detect that I modify the folder... but doesn't upload.
I created my own account. The file is compressed in the attachment.
When I post this one, it proposed to me to consider to repost the topic without external link and by using attachment.
Description: The log file compressed.
Thanks. But I need a log file for a session, when a change happens. I do not see any Change in ... detected record in the log.
Ok, I do it again.
I add a file called "test_file_from_remote.txt" in the remote "/home/benoit/cloud/test/".
> 2013-12-19 19:10:04.972 Script: keepuptodate -delete -transfer=automatic -filemask=|films/;__pycache__/ "C:\Users\Benoit\Cloud" "/home/cloud"
< 2013-12-19 19:15:38.085 Script: Change in 'C:\Users\Benoit\Cloud' detected.
< 2013-12-19 19:15:38.610 Script: Change in 'C:\Users\Benoit\Cloud\test' detected.
. 2013-12-19 19:15:38.624 Deleting file "/home/cloud/test/test_file_from_remote.txt".
Finally, none of these files are transfered.
You can donwload the full logs in attachment and looking around lines 36 8xx for all informations.
With the last version (550) of WinSCP, my problem is solved. Thanks !
I suppose that you run 5.5 with different configuration (INI file).
Indeed, it was the problem !