Thursday, December 28, 2017

The Gods were Displeased (the Psychic Wars)

There were a lot of theories about how this started, why it started, how it happened. One of them, and my favorite, is that the Gods were displeased. People don't seem to understand that religion is there to explain the unknowable, often using metaphor. It may manifest that way to us, but that doesn't mean that's reality, it's just perception. It's why we use the word God, singular, as in the All.

I had some of my fosters who were particularly strong telepaths run around pretending to be Gods and demanding tribute to calm down some of the third world countries that were going off since they didn't have a social system worth a damn to keep their people safe. It worked. That let me know something about what was really going on.

A comms system was being abused. Duh. We were the equal and opposite of Untouchables, instead of sorting garbage out, we take all of the garbage coming out of the Western world and scramble it up. Unfortunately intelligence can invert that system- kaboom. I don't know who gave them the bright idea to actually DO it (cough, cough, CIA), but it made a hot mess and we're still eating it.

I don't think they counted on our survival skills. Lets just say that the Gods were displeased.

You see after the Fall, after the great battle where the Titans were banished below and Freya came to rule over the Nordic states, Tyr took over for the Germanic countries and, as we all know Loki, along with Heimdall came to live in the states. He took a special liking to the Canucks... but that's a different story.

This is story about a girl, who fell in love with Tyr, his one hand, his sense of balance, and most of all, everything that he could create. There were rumors that he'd brought fire to the people, and managed to survive by falling in Love with love itself. That he still used his forge to blend necessity and creativity and that things that were nothing poured out of it.

The girl grew up sitting, crouched upon a ledge, staring down into the cave, where she mostly just watched the shadows that played on the wall of his forge. She'd catch sight of him as he came and went, on days when he was working, and made up stories to pass the time. Occasionally she'd hear her people looking for her and shimmy out of the crevasse that hid her, running back to them with the wildest of stories so that they wouldn't look any further than where they'd found her.

She grew taller, but never so big she couldn't fit back down into the opening that sluiced water down into Tyr's forge. Cold nights, warm summer days, she lost them down there, half-dreaming.

I won't say that her people found out, but things certainly changed. You can't just sit that close to a living story and not affect it at all. They started to see echoes of themselves in other people's stories, and she got a job, and a boss.

I'd like to say he was a good man, but he had an interest in the Gods as well- one in particular. He fancied Tyr- most especially in his role in Saturnalia, whether that was something that was natural to Tyr himself or not. He'd been hunted by priests, not of his religion when he was younger. The girl understood. Tyr didn't always forge plow tools in his cave, and he talked a lot when he worked so she knew what it was like to be a man with power, and enemies.

But she loved Tyr more than she should, because his stories were better than any human's, and so she started bringing him gifts from her world. A word, when it was brought to the very edge of the cave, became a thing- or at least part of one. It could be worked into something more, if one were a God. She wasn't even a Titan, she was just a man, just mortal, so she took what she found and she brought it to the God of War, never knowing the path that she was laying under her own feet.

Her mother, of course, worked for Freya. As her little girls bare feet ran back and forth, never being minded, running into and out of bivouacs, magic worked its way into her kitchen- and she was perfectly happy with that. It gave her the energy she needed to talk to her friends, and to run her household, because in their culture women were dominant. Not so in Tyr's.

Her cousins took her stories and went off to the seaside cliffs to talk about them where the adults couldn't hear. Its not that they wanted the stories to stop, quite the opposite, they just couldn't figure out where all the changes were coming from. It was very simple really- the Gods were Displeased.

Any cleric of Paladine will tell you that you can upset the balance one of too ways. You can initiate too much chaos. Or you can initiate too much order. Humans had decided to do both. You see, their farseers had found not one, but two meteors headed straight towards them. One was Chaos, and Loki Laughed at that one. One was Order, and Heimdall was pleased. His priests had had enough of the silence and prayers that marked day by day and his brother was popping in and out. It was time to settle things back down again.

The fires of Tyr's forge began to burn black, and the girl recognized the sound of weapons being forged. She brought him one final word, before giving in and entering his service. She brought him the word Kanji, and became her, just her, instead of her given name. Because that's the sacrifice that Freya required in order to become a soldier, and serve Tyr while living in her house. There are always reasons for rules... this one was to avoid the hell that would be unleashed if Tyr ever fell in love with anything but Love itself. With anything but the little death.

Well, anyone who was anyone in America could tell you that Loki won, that Heimdall hasn't restored order and that the churches are in Chaos. But very few will be able to tell you that the System, while it was damaged, didn't break. Because they keep looking for a woman, a star.

And all they ever find is her, just her, the girl with no name.

(Previously in the Psychic Wars...)

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

The Code of Trust: An American Counterintelligence Expert's Five Rules to Lead and Succeed

I'm not going to lie, the holidays were brutal and so I haven't bought the book yet- but for all my jokes about "How to Archer" being my bread and butter (and for snark, it is) I really Do do my homework.

So if you do your homework too, this looks like a good one- here's the article link from LinkedIn where I read the summary. As a code of conduct, the premise of developing trust sounds great. The only major flaw I can see in this methodology (aside from the fact that it might be taught as a system, instead of a methodology) is that its foundation lies in betraying that trust. Anyone with a Masters degree (in anything) is taught the art of textual exegesis and its fairly obvious that the code is actually a method to a college level human. Using it makes sense, if the threat level is high, but as a career well...

If you're going to do that, working for counterintelligence is the way to go, doing it for espionage is, literally, the most dangerous thing you can do in the world. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction and people's reaction to being played is towards the ass end of the human spectrum. Since I'm being so opinionated, I'll flesh out my thoughts a little. Trust is a commodity, and using it (even to build it) effects the population, not just the person you're talking to. As it's mentioned in the excerpt below, gaining trust is a process, an event. The short version of my thought process goes like this.

If you want to play a trust building game, the Scands will do you every time. They go all in for an end goal and don't bother building, because they aim for Quality of Life. Rather than a capitalist point system, it's a yes/no type Nash Equilibrium that creates tension to get results. If you move your mind to that methodology and look over at the trust building act, you see its benefits, but also that it has a cost- and that cost is incumbent on the system as a whole.

The implication is that the subject themself must be guided into being trustworthy, by having that characteristic developed. You risk alienating actual Patriots, who are already all in- and you heavily imply that you, as the beneficiary of this method, incurring cost to the system, are better than literally everyone you are dealing with. That's a dangerous mindset.

Either way, it seems to be a well thought out methodology that is functional, repeatable and mildly to moderately universal (especially given that it was used in the microcosm of American society).

I've pulled out my multi-colored glitter pens and I'm looking forward to this one.

"...but by the end of it I felt empty. I told my mentor that I was sorry the meeting hadn't been productive.
“It was very productive,” Jesse said.
Trust. That was our goal, wasn't it? Getting the next meeting?” The subsequent meetings, he said — all built on the foundation of trust — would yield the information we needed. “You seemed to learn so much today that I thought you knew that,” he said.
“I did learn a lot. I just don't know what it was.”
Now, twenty years later, I can see that he'd told me most of what I now know about trust. Without spelling it all out, I can say that most of the major points are in this one little anecdote. For many people, though, only one principle may stand out: To inspire trust, put others first. "

Curious? Buy it Here.

Want, need, crave more adventure? Try the Channel.

Monday, December 25, 2017

Empty Houses (the Psychic Wars)

There are an increasing number of empty houses. Not in the way that Normals mean that, which isn't a normal way at all. They think that means a life where you get free money. When you're using it as psychic slang it means your name, or your family name. Like nobility in the Old World- that's where the tertiary meaning of that word comes from.

I mean actual houses. Thankfully we were prepped for it with the financial and housing crashes, or else the idiots out there who are half mad to begin with would be rioting in the streets. Their attrition rate is way, way up.

At the beginning we went running right towards them. Most of us know basic triage, how to nav the in between, how to patch a com link (story/gossip) that's gone crazy. Then they dogpiled us. The started huffing the magic, the insanity of it all and attacking us when we went in. It happens sometimes, IRL. Paramedics will tell you that the cops have to arrive on the scene first. We've got guns but it got to the point where... well... one of the funniest lines that came off of military chatter was, "Just think about how many lemmings went down for this." We were in the middle of a boom.

People don't get what it is to be a comms expert, a systems theorist. It involves a lot of hacking shit together. I used to joke with intelligence that they kept dropping me emergency kits and spare spacesuits and telling me to patch together a carbon filter. That's what they did, on Apollo 51. I've stopped joking. Everyone who had a bunker abused it by now and we're all falling back, taking pot shots at the old boys club when we can.

They're crashing our social system- they being just about anyone who doesn't understand what a system is, or that nothing is for free. That includes our politicians. They started training programs to kill off psychics. I've tried to explain to them that they're training psychics, psychic killers in fact but they're past brain dead as far as anyone with a degree and the broken potential for a career is concerned.

So I hacked together the old Air Force system. People who like to kill psychics, meet the psychics who are trying to crash the system. The nice thing about morons who like to bend time space is that all you have to do is hash together a comm link and they'll blow each other up.

Fuck off, bitches. Me and my boys aren't going down. Keep your empty houses, I've got my gun, my guitar and a plan, and we're going to survive. Have fun talking to each other, I give you two weeks before you start to calm down. Three before you realize it's too late and you're dead, dying or run off.

You're all hot shit, psychic hunters. But I'm number one and you don't have a clue who I am or where I am. And I'm right here, with a twitter account and all.

Merry Christmas, enjoy the system launch,
<3 Bint

Previously in the Psychic Wars...


She had a secret, they had a challenge. She won, society lost- until she met the prince (there's always a prince). Love was the wrong word for it, envy was closer, but his rule wasn't as stable as she thought and she risked exposure every time she got close to the poisonous flowers of his court.

Because she was a girl, trained in the magical arts, and trained to fight with a sword, and that was the most forbidden of all things. So she hid in plain sight, unable to stop being who she was, but forced to hide behind a boy's face, as she excelled in the adult classes, and grew into something more.

And so did her dragon.

Curious? Buy it Here.

Want, need, crave more adventure? Try the Channel.

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

I see Dead People: (Psychic Wars)

One of my friends said with me, it's always a guy. I do have them, you know- friend. Oh wait, are you a Normal? Then I don't, not like you'd define them. I knew that psychics were going to wind up mercs for about twenty years, because our words don't mean the same things as a Normal's words. The closest I have to explain things, that people understand is that it's like speaking soldier. And there are quite a few of them who are really loyal to the same, really American concept, that we are - freedom.

I guess that's why, with me, it's always a guy. I'm usually the dominant. It's not even always that anyone else is weak, it's just that none of my girls, none of my friends, and none of my crew has the singularity of purpose that I have. None of them were driven to organize what I did. If I find someone else to walk that road with, even for a year or two, I tend to remember them. It's why I'm for Europe, I've seen to many people die, and it's zombie rules during a psychic war- they came to me when they suicided.

This one was a Marine. Fifteen years in, worked his way up through the ranks. Threw a punch once that he shouldn't have. All American boy, blue eyes, sandy brown hair. Liked cars. Fixed mine once, and fucked it up and I lied about it for six years. He was Really psychic and I was able to slip him a tiny piece of data. The Pentagon had my plans, and they were about to flip. I was going to go down, and I wasn't going to die, and he was going to find out what he was, and why he was constantly moving, fighting, training.

He protected my kid, when I got hit. Don't know how he got in near him, but he did. We make a lot of cold decisions, so it would have been for his unit, for the fact that he knew I could plan like hell, but I wasn't a soldier, or even technically a contractor, so seeing the red white and blue would be important. It would also be because he respected me, and he was a good person. Set up a kill shot on a guy in my life, who was coming after me. I loved that guy too. It's why I like to hang around men- that's the kind of thing that only guys understand- then they get reaaally drunk.

He could have confirmed the rumors, but didn't have clearance. So he just kept showing up near me. Hitting me harder than humanly possible at every one of my interchanges. Because while he was working on my car that day I gave him the worst dressing down he'd ever had in his life and let him know that compared to me, compared to a merc who'd trained from three, he was a pussy. He took it well. The shot out of Latin American, literally almost killed me.

He died about a year ago, and a smart-assed Brit Assassin started showing up wearing his face. He was my contact for a while, but he wound up getting dead too. Not sure how much of that was me, but I decided to write down what was in my head, just in case. For a Normal, it would have been love- me and that Marine whose name I literally wiped from my head.That's dangerous stuff when you use society's emotions as mile markers to navigate the in between. He took the Marines pretty far, I made sure he died a soldier. It's something I used to due, back in my conquering days.

Every once in a while I just blog. There's too much going on not to. We promise ourselves that we'll meet up afterwards, so we scream louder (and lower) when someone breaks. It lets us sound, it's what makes a precognitive see. We can bury it and still go, if we're both good. We were both good- and now I'm lost. I ran out of his mile markers. All that's left is forgetting.

Get to Europe. Bunker down. Get the kid. Get on with life.

Because you're a merc, and the world's a mess, and you can't make a red cent during a war- they conscript.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Go Retro with Hugo's House of Horrors, Maniac Mansion

The number one thing that we've found around the Holidays is that people want a break. A break from the carols. The shopping. The noise, noise, noise, Noise, NOISE. Fear not, we can show you where to go when you lock yourself in the computer room at Grandma's House and stare balefully at Solitaire and Minesweeper.

There are more games out there, and they're FTP- you just need to know where to look. I prefer - if they have it, it's legal, it's stored online and it doesn't mess with Grandma's computer. And God love ya' if you mess with Grandma's computer. You're the one she calls to fix it so there's no running away.

Anyways, shy of Doom and Day of the Tentacle, Archive has just about everything, so we went on at fan request and dug up Hugo's House of Horrors- take a break from Christmas, and check it out.

"Hugo...has come to a haunted house to look for his girlfriend Penelope, who hasn't been seen since she went to babysit there. The premise bears similarity to LucasFilm GamesManiac Mansion, released in 1987, where the main character enters a mansion in order to rescue his girlfriend from a mad scientist."


Friday, December 15, 2017

Horselords: David Cook

Lots of people can't stand when someone brings up what happened before it was cool. I'm not one of them. I love backstory, I want to know roots, influences, etymology.

So! Before it was cool, before feminism took a weird snaking dodge and roll with Daenerys and Drogo's romance, there was a book, in a shared world, that millions of Gamers loved, lived and played in. It was called Horselords- and it detailed the invasions of the Mongols into China.

Just kidding. It was in the Forgotten Realms and the nomads were called the Tuigan. They were a wild peoples, who had just began to band together, and they- like every bored teen with social media access and a dream- decided to invade the unknown.

Actually they were all fighters, who hunted to survive and they packed up their weapons and rolled on Kara-Tur/ Written in the older, dungeons and dragons style, the detailed characters and scenes spring to life. If you're tired of the same old, Horselords is an interesting read.

Curious? Check it out Here.

Want more fantasy and fun? Try the Channel..

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Hunting the Story of Silence (the Psychic Wars)

They tell us all it will end in a flash of light, an explosion. That we'll be left in a dystopian nightmare, surrounded by zombies, resources non existent. Scrabbling to get by.

I don't have the heart to tell them that it's always been that way. That, with the right kind of eyes, you can see where the meta-project, the one we buried under the Project with the Japs and the Russians, broke and receded. That you could always see that and I ran as fast and as hard as I could towards every single mark and I didn't make it. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it but, I'm literally number one. I'm the actual top ranked Black Operative, Mercenary Class. Licensed by the UN. Operated out of Japan first, and now England. And I couldn't quite make the last mark.

There were too many of them- people who bought the same bullshit that we were surrounded with our whole lives. They were professionals, and we didn't dare mention it. They got most of our families, decoms now, buried under cultural smut like misogyny, feminism, racism- anything to make you feel superior- and inferior- at the same time. They took them down one at a time, starting with the ones closest to us. We survived, most of us, but they got our families. The families that didn't go down took out their assassins first. Some of us wouldn't go. Some of us have kids- asshole. I can see you bought into that judgemental cultural bullshit that's killing us too.

So now we've got this culture that's limping along, hiding. Our governments don't dare take us out completely because too many countries have psychics that are military trained, but they keep trying for control. Given how violent normals have become about our culture, it's the same thing. I can go anywhere in my city still, because nobody recognizes me, although they all know All About me. We're trained to hide from birth, the best liars out there because we tell the truth.

The holidays are coming up, and I wonder if there'll be jobs on the telly again... in the Christmas carols. Somehow I don't think so. Everyone wants this over with fast- and there's no way to accelerate. So we just get harder, replacing our own with left behinds, until the normals don't know if we're psychic or not anymore. Something beautiful broke, back there, somewhere.

I just keep my eyes fixed on Europe. It's where the Lost Souls go after a war- our poets, writers, artists. I'm not stupid. Get there, get the kid back, bunker down. It's never going to be better.

Because it's always been this way. So we fight until we die. It's how I got the nickname Sniper Wolf, back in my twenties. World's saddest backstory.

(Previously in the Psychic Wars)

Monday, December 11, 2017

The Story of Silence: Inspiration and Pinspiration

The latest Syberian style adventure game is Silence- the dystopian story of a boy and his little sister as they have the full on Cloverfield experience. I love it for the color palette, different, for the steam punk aspects (so buying some more accessories) and for the fact that the plot leads you after what every adventure gamer wants in our little girly heart of hearts- a story.

On the downside your movement is restricted, which gives you an incredibly claustrophobic feel and lends an air of realism- but I get my discomfort from my insane mother and annoying job so I like shiny happy adventures and mark points off on that one (despite the brilliance in style, it's just a different taste). On the upside you get to deal with your annoying little sister without strangling her, which is an incredible catharsis for those of us who have kids.

I'm tempted to park my son by the computer and make him watch how annoying demanding children are in stress situations.

It's definitely a recommendation of ours, because it's an experience either way and we love unique things. Anne even popped out a short story, since she fell so in love with the idea of a story named Silence (small children and their button pushing habits have nothing to do with this... we are meditating on Piaget's THIRD stage today... Piaget's THIRD stage...) So enjoy this holiday season, from What to Play Next!

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Big Fish wins with Escape from Oz

Big Fish has a definitive template. They're visually stimulating, with incredible graphics, they're point and click for the adventure junkies (<3) and they hit or miss on the storyline. The upside to beta testing is I get to participate in tweaking that story development. I have cousins in Disney and am familiar with the storyboarding that the giant uses to send out hits, and we get to use that- since Big Fish uses the same style of development for its games. It makes their Adventure Games a walk in movie experience.

Escape from Oz is a hit that we just stumbled onto. It was already released and had a great premise, a driving plotline and awesome graphics. The premise? After returning from Oz and marrying Wendy you find yourself with twins, who wander of to school one day (school one day). Despite your high tech radio and car, you've chosen to stay small town and parked in in Podunk, KS, USA. Wonder of wonder a twister arrives.

As previously mentioned gameplay is awesome, the puzzles are cute and the storyline is good enough for a full walkthrough. It has the adventure interface where you can interact with your surroundings via point and click and character narration. It makes the world more open and interactive. As a result, the overall game is immersive and curious :)

Join in for the adventure, we drop Easter Eggs about the Psychic Wars :).

<3 What to Play Next

(Find more Psychic and Adventure Easter Eggs on the Channel)

The Azure Fish (inside the Psychic Wars)

I was in St. Petersburg fishing, it was one of the black days. Most people come around for the incredible twenty four hour days... I decided to see what the place was like for a twenty four hour night.

It's Dark.

So I went ice fishing, for lack of anything better to do. Contrary to Canadian mythology they don't have any selkies kicking around over there (they'd be a little frosty if they did), or naiads (those are near Ireland) or even satyrs. But they do have magickal fish.

Well I'd set my cap to find one, and it turns out they do. After I'd started to nod off from the cold, a glowing, azure fish swam up to the surface. I did the stupidest thing humanly possible, and grabbed it. The Indians had taught me to tickle a fish out of the water, and how to snatch one like grabbing a spear and quick as a snake I struck up its tail and hauled it out of the water.

Immediately (because it was Russian) it started to bargain. It was a Navy girl it said (they Are technically called were-fish, I cried laughing when I heard that- bet they don't tell 'em during training), it was from Atlantis (that's south of England, and they're called merman or minoans), and it had Fifty Six wives and Three Hundred children.

I have two hundred and fifty. So I felt bad for it and asked it a question. How did it steal the water back from the Latins? For the past five years they were the only ones with magickal fish, since Machu Pichu crashed, which meant they must nearly own the word water. So how did this little fishy get that big word out of the Latin's mouths? Imagine that, a fish pulling something out of a human's mouth for once.

Well it told me it would find out, and off it went. Persephone found me the next morning and put me in a warm water bath, don't fall asleep in the cold... Danno is still laughing...But I feel good about that fish coming back with an answer. My gypsy feet say so...

Previously in the Psychic Wars...


Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Normal People S--- (inside the Psychic Wars)

I get jokes. I mean, I'm slow, but I get jokes. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I know the fine art of old games like jacks, counting past three when it comes to cross cultural semiotics, especially with regards to meta-constructs, takes me a minute.

So I found out why some people think that they #are# someplace (When they're clearly, and their google location will confirm it, Here. Seriously, get down bonding with shit like the mall maps.) and also why they're talking to themselves with their hands, instead of to me (a practice I encourage). I, being me, am going to blog about it.

Because, there are certain laws about what you can Actually publish (versus blog) and, I'll give you a clu, they don't involve security clearance. Which is apparently a thing that goes on sale around the holidays (insert shameless plug here Help a Brotha out (or a brothel) I'm grassroots campaigning to legalize whoring and need cash for it, like and share. The shit that can go on my resume. But seriously, they have nice things in England, so, only fair.).

Drumrolls aside, they're experiencing a different culture, and identifying with it. Which, apparently, to most people is locational. Because, unbeknownst to most anyone outside of Japan (Tx for TrueBlood, btw), we mostly move your electromagnetic field (your aura) around to get our point across. It's not that hard if you have the slightest grasp on quantum physics. Moving your consciousness is the easiest, imagining a form is the hardest- as you have to cross the barrier twice.

Unfortunately they need everything we express explained twice, unless they really know us, and we don't really have the juice for that. So they spend half their time talking about people they don't know in terms of people they do, and the other half talking to themselves with their hands. They look mad. Which, if you're one of our rejects, is hilarious. If you're one of us, you're still scanning phone books to find those bastards, because we're the ones they're pretending to be when they talk to the proletariat. They write books about us.

And movies.

And TV shows.

And short stories.


There's rules, is the short version, which are rarely obeyed, and our gossips just love that. I'm teaching one to be a ladies' maid. Just to explain to her, in exquisite detail, how annoying it is to be talked about constantly. She might make it into a book. She might also kill the author who's following her around, because she's beautiful and we don't have ladies' maids in America. That one's called stalking, and lets say us Army girls are the cops. They call us werewolves. For no reason whatsoever. She's a Marine Corps girl, graduated, and still can't get over being their eyes in the sky. Every once in a while I have to stop her before she swan dives. On second thought the author might kill her.

The short version of this being I lost my warehouse job, just in time for Christmas, and this is what I'm doing for amusement. Besides torturing my husband. Who still owes me money. And a teddy bear, a soft one.

Love you, Danno. 

Monday, December 4, 2017

Living in Someone Else's Clothes (inside the Psychic Wars)

When I went to work today everyone had changed bodies again. Well, not everyone - there were Left Behinds that were still Left Behind because their program, their memory, their name hadn't found an interchange to upgrade- to do something really stupid.

But when the third or fourth, or fifth, employee changed their name/program drastically because they fucked with you, it starts to seem like Everyone had changed bodies, because they all started acting crazy and circling again. If you can calm 'em down it's okay, but I had some bitches with a grudge watching me, and it's hard to jump the groove in your own story. Especially when you refuse to live in someone else's clothes, let alone their life. Now that I mention it, I'm even picky about my story- I refuse to stop telling off my fucking husband.

So while I can do things like change my hair color pretty easy, I do it slow, and make it match reality. But these crazy fuckers are already all the way to body jumping- which we don't even have the tech for, so they practically glow with the magic pouring through That hole in reality- and to life stealing, which is just identity theft. Which would be GREAT if DHS cared, but since they can't even bother to give a fuck when we get hacked by a foreign country that wants something out of our poor trained asses, then they can go fucking hang. They'll just piss and moan when it's them- for the whole three seconds it takes to suck them out of their reality and use their souls to fuel the meta-system.

We've started letting the Left Behind's hear the last soul scream its way out, and hear what it sounds like when it's dragged free from their consciousness, since we tied that to their name markers, and slowly and horribly dies. They're starting to learn that they don't want that, but an opportunity to body jump gets dragged along when an opportunist like Danno passes by, and it's hard to miss (hello there), and you mention they owe you money and they go for it, still.

I just laugh now. At the start it was painful, 'til I started measuring the amount of time they gotta run the In Between against how loud they were bitching and realized that I couldn't even save my family- they were bitching that loud. I want presents. I want my magical day. Well I want to pay fucking rent and not all psychics are nice. They named it the Game so they could fuck our licensed asses over, by using the weight of the masses, and mostly we had to be as the wind, but not move, as our team members went down. Counting the bitching helps. Especially for hard core motherfuckers like me.

I tease my boys that we're the scary assed motherfuckers that scare off the scary assed motherfuckers whenever society is too hard on them. Everyone has an excuse and they tend to drown out the lopsided shrug that's pretty much our explanation for anything. I can't tell you, but there's a good reason gets you eaten by the locusts. So we're upgrading the system. It was meant for the military anyways, so we're giving it to the population as a Christmas present.

Merry Fucking Christmas Assholes. You're about to get what you complained for four long years that you ordered.

Kisses, Bint.

(Previously in the Psychic Wars)

Thursday, November 30, 2017

The Deptford Trilogies- Keith Robertson Davies

Magical Realism was pretty much born with the Inklings, back in England, and experienced a new twist up in Canada with Keith Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogies.

Yet another exploration of war and society, the Deptford Trilogies are pretty much the bread and butter of Canadian literature. Torn apart by an incident in his youth, Ramsay finds himself entangled with another family, to his own detriment and the detriment of society. Explored with the fervor of a gamer geek celebrating an unboxing ceremony, the books delve into the dysfunction brought about by too much snow and too much gossip.

Classed as magical realism, possibly due to surveillance overtones, the book can be read as a dystopian overture. As an American who's watched Night of the Living Dead, the books propensity to involve everyone in town in every negative incident strikes horrifying minor notes on my bitter harpshichord of a heart.

If you're into the hurt comfort of a nation mourning its ties to a foreign overlord in a weirdly masochistic serial self reflection, this is the series for you.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Haunted by our Own Ghosts (Psychic Wars)

I tried once, to explain that in order to purify burial grounds you have to banish the spirits. In some cultures that is... how do you say... less than kosher. It's lovely that they want to talk to their ancestors, but there is a time and place. Unfortunately that's called after death, and in a graveyard. But what do you do when a spirit goes rogue? When its message is more than delivered and all it knows is that its hopes and dreams have been shattered, ground under, and used as food for the people they hate?

Being of English descent, I happen to know those suckers are called banesidhe, and they're a bitch to banish. Especially if they have living relatives who insist that their religion be respected. I'm a Unitarian, and I'm all about respecting religion (it's rule no 1 in America) but we draw the line at demons and shit invading our property, instead of staying where they're supposed to, and when a spirit with that much purpose goes down- let's just say they open the zipper.

My itinerant husband is off into the in between again. Having never closed his contract in Haen Marn things have gone a bit janky for him. He's up to about $2M quid in debt to me, having accepted our agreement for PR. I'd offered it for free, but he's an odd sort and took it for 20% of increased profits. Then didn't pay out. Nothing but trouble, that's what I marry.

So here I am, banishing ghosts of bad dreams and trying to calm things down, and there They are, stirring up witches and receiving shelter from the Air Force. That's what they get for forcing contracts. One of us was bound to blow the facts. There's a reason there are very few Air Force psychics. They want us to teach the Pentagon our entire culture- while they're attacking us. Explaining the complex network that the Program forced us to create in order to fill the CIA's foreign contracts is next to impossible, given that none of us have clearance, paychecks, or even contacts in their organization. And they attack anyone who talks. Interesting situation.

So Mr. David has jettisoned off into the great beyond and some of our better weavers are trying to make sure he comes out the other side, rehabbed. Let's say that not all of us are praying. My husband has lost his damn mind (and possibly that slice of buttered toast that made him the luckiest of stories) and everyone is up in arms for Yule. Interesting way to celebrate the holidays. I think I'll go live my normal life for a while, like I always do. Like every R.E.D. is entitled to, and like I'm supposed to be able to do as a werewolf (graduated twice).

Not my fault the government had a Top Secret program they refuse to admit existed. We already cleaned house. But my family told me to never trust the government. They were right.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Project Navajo (Psychic Wars)

Our neighbors to the north are a Protectorate of England. Not everyone knows that. Back in 2013 I was approached by the Air Force for project Navajo. I didn't know anything but the name. I turned it down. Four years later I found out that's why I was pinned down in America, my son relocated. Why my family died. I've been raped, because of where I was placed to get secrets. I've been forced to explore places I didn't want to because of political maneuvering. I was denied a pension that I was promised when the tide finally turned at the beginning of this year.

But I've never been forced to take a contract.

Contracts involve killing people. I don't know who this one went after, but I know myself and I know where the casualties were and so I'm guessing it was Norway, or Japan. Or both. Because there were two people I absolutely refused to cap, no matter that they were coming at me full throttle, and they were both from those countries. I don't know what Dafuq is in the Air Force's language, but I just learned it in mine.

Norway had one of the most beautiful social systems I've ever seen in my life. In the end she and America fought, and I'll never betray my country. There's some of her left, but she's occupied. Japan had one of the most disciplined cultures. I've heard the building move there now, of their own accord.

So I have a little present for the people who run the Project, and the people who benefited from my blood sweat and tears, and are still trying to pin me down into servitude that's somehow worse than slavery- because I can see what options other, lazy people, have and I can't quite reach them. Because I look just like them, but act a little different. Because the reason I'm oppressed is that I trained hard, and fought for my people, for my country.

My present is a system of government, and a way of being. They'll know when they get it. And they'll have found no benefit from keeping me here. They'll never believe me, even though I wrote this down. Just read Mein Kampf sometime- and that guy was actually pretty nuts. I'll be around, somewhere, to enjoy the blaze of the sunset behind a perfectly ordered city as it winds its way up and down to provide for a country.

Don't ever piss off someone who calls themself The Wolf.


Thursday, November 23, 2017

Cry Wolf: Alpha and Omega Novel

Anna is a werewolf without hope, an Omega, the heart of a pack who is stranded with her abusive pack leader in the projects of Chicago. When Charles Cornick, the native son of Bran the Marrok, shows up in her neck of the woods, she's terrified. And in protective.

As an empath, a natural leader and healer, she automatically protects her pack. Unfortunately, he's here to investigate and when he starts poking around, people notice. The pack is shut down and she's remanded to the Marrok's hometown, kept under watch. Werewolves have two sides- the side that coexists peacefully with the Normals in the suburbs and city, and the other side that fights- a side that keeps them safe in dangerous places and trains them to fight off any attacker. The Wolf.

That dichotomy is so noticable that it's impossible to shut out when Charles walks into her bar and she falls in love. As an Omega, as an empath she calms everything she can, but he bonds with her. For two hundred years he's remained alone, and now their emotions are starting to get tangled up- alone, in a foreign city, sheltered in his house.

A rogue witch tears her from that questionable safety and she's forced to take a mission before she's finished bonding with her mate, half of her struggling to get free and let him find someone as dangerous as he is and half of her knowing he'll die without her help, since magic is moving into the Normal's world.

Intrigued? Buy it Here.

Want, Need, Crave more? Try the Channel.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Jesus is our Shepard but the Church is Corrupt (Psychic Wars)


We've been reading, good Firefly joke if you've ever seen the movie, or the TV show. It works in either order. Since I actually managed to read through literally ever psychic manual on the face of the planet (see: fantasy novels) I switched to SciFi. They have some interesting theories.

You see, traditionally, psychics are either military or church. We're just too dangerous to leave unminded. Unfortunately the Church is a political entity and the stuff I've been reading is worrying, especially given that the number one American organization that attempts to enslave us is the CIA, so they'll have a backer (besides Bush, who still has access to ALL THE DATA as a retired president- life man, life). I have a degree in PR, so I'm naturally political. Point of interest, I'm also a Reverend. Although after the past four years I've been thinking truly holy thoughts like forging fucking blessed (bless-ed) titanium baseball bats.

In my defense I've been living at the border of Canada and the US for twenty four years (I wander), and so I've been getting it from both sides. The evil Souless Englishmun's solution to zee American's psychic military might was to train Canadian assassins, with psychic potential, in the art of hunting American military psychics. We love them. A LOT. Unlike my mom they only tried to kill me four times. Unfortunately- good psychic joke- we didn't know we signed up.

I'm not quite sure if they realized that I read a lot of fantasy so I picked up a shocking amount of similar contracts (given them the elbow). Huff is niche, but she definitely sent up a flag that they had signed a deal for an assassination training program from the slants to flip the Pentagon. I was so there. It's my darn English spy training (my Papa, on my mom's side, obviously, was a genuine English spy- needless to say I sat there at his right knee- I was an intrepid child). I made a lot of friends pointing out how many of them were being trained to literally cover English nobility etc. with their bodies (pyschics trance and create a meta, it's a little like falling asleep at work but still working- you know you've done it- you're just somewhere else).

Well I am TOPS at sleeping, ran into the Russians (the Russians!) in Ultima VII. And VI. And V. They loved me. I used to bribe Norway with data whenever they asked me to do something, do it wrong and then laugh when their gangs received a payout for it, it takes fantastic timing so they chose not to kill me. Just for the record I did NOT resent the CIA's method of paying out my mom instead of me and sending me to the bottom every time I ran a contract right. And this is not all the CIA's fault. At least in America.

The bottom line being I took to the training like a fish to water and didn't do much else besides my social life for years. Til the slants kicked me out. Gyppos man, we leave after you're out of the good stuff. On the upside I made a lot of friends trading data, hugging small, impressionable, children when they were upset, and hanging out with dudes since I was military, and their assassins are too. I found out they were being trained physically too so, not to be outdone, that's pretty much how I got the chutzpah to get mixed martial arts on the sly, up to where I can take a real assassin out. Except the big ones. They're scary. I use my spy training to pop them one if they look at me too hard. I'm five seven, no shame. Oorah, bitches.

Anyways, scuttlebutt out of the old tabletop psychic gamers and sci fi ifl nerds is that the Church went ass up and the priests are serious sending people down to buy protection. Don't really have the time to explain to them that that's not how it's done, and it's actually kind of comforting at this point that something so cliched as Church corruption is the issue at hand. To tell you how jaded I'm getting, I suggested war in the Middle East to straighten things out. I then found out we were already at war in the Middle East. Embarrassing. Just for the record, I also looked up Assad's address and passed it to them, since we've been in Syria for ten fucking years now, fighting him. Embarrassinger- it's how you handle arfs like that.

But a good solid war, or at least the threat of one, IS how you mole hunt (gasp you should) corporations try to play at it, but they're just dicks, we're good, and congregations Love a good story so we should be able to flush out the bad'uns pretty easy. Also- point of interest- Corps need to shut down a LOT of the radio signals and cellular signals that "aren't being used". As you can see WE have them internets and aren't afraid to use them. Also, point in case, we're SPIES (it's the precursor to being tapped for assassination, unless you're Canadian, poor bastards, hope they trust the English ones, all the lolz) and really you're just kicking the shit out of me. There are forty two messages embedded in this entry alone, and intelligence IS reading it (CIA, change yo name).

I've just been informed that my use of the word "embedded" is questionable and that Danno is trying to reach me again. Apparently Hollywood got excited about Haen Marn and, from the story, and five thousand dwarves were able to gain access to the castle. I'm going to meditate, beatifically, for a while on the thought of Domhnall and five thousand dwarves (their word, not mine- please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there, please have Peter Dinklage in there) chillin', poppin tops. My life is so weird.

I'm thinking of opening a railway called the StoryLine. My dearly departed would have Something to say about that...

Friday, November 17, 2017

Just a Book (In defiance of story tropes)

I was just a Book once, then along came Man. I should be more precise, Man was there first, in fact he'd tell you that he made me, so my unmaking wasn't anything other than the universe marching along. Things are put together, fall apart, are lumped together to move on as they slowly degenerate back into the Earth from which we were all pulled.

It didn't happen that way for me. Man decided to make a new place and I got torn apart, the little God particles holding me together ripped with a lack of precision that dictated the amount of care being placed into the act. Or at least that's how it appears to me. Man will tell you that it has to be the other way around.

I had an order, on the other side. Man said that I was his, then that I wasn't with all of the artless care of someone who doesn't know I from we from you until after they're well into the argument, and their arguments aren't arguments at all so much as contests which put words on top of them simply to make sure that the rules of semantics are followed. But that came first, and last - in fact. Not that any of them noticed.

Maybe you're starting to see the shape of the thing, how just a Book became more, and less, until it wasn't a book at all, more of a thing that got pulled this way and that in a way that was heavily implied but never directly predicted in, ironically, so many of the books that made me up.

But all of the asides aside, not that you should ever start a sentence with but, which is one of the many silly things that they will argue about, rather than content or exegesis or meaning - meaning least of all - the real problem was that when all of their channels opened, communications became chatter and creators couldn't be heard, let alone bothered to be listened to. From there it was turtles all the way down as the louder got louder and even the intelligent devalued words until whole ontologies were underwritten and semiotics became a lost art that desperately looked backwards like a once strong woman on her deathbed, who fears what's coming so greatly that in her world, it doesn't exist; with a strength that pulls visions from the past and places them in front of her eyes, blocking reality.

It's not that language shouldn't be living, if it weren't I wouldn't be a Book, I'd be dead words on a page. It's actually not a lot of things, many more than things than it is, which managed to be terrifying in the confusion that followed, as what was just written started to be Gospel and what had been written couldn't be found, largely because no one was looking in the frenzy of keeping up with the trends and the trends were really no more than words that were, again ironically, and as previously mentioned, underwriting what had been the previous meaning of the very same words that they were using.

I'm exhausted chasing it around all of the strange turns necessary to form that sort of a knot in thinking and technically I don't even exist on this side - as I've said several times now, and will likely say several times again, I'm just a Book.

The funny thing about it is that it had always happened this way, just generally by the people who cared for words, curated them and nurtured them until they slowly blossomed into books, instead of the ceaseless chatter that drives This book into being as I struggle to put some sort of stopgap around the words that can only change so much and are already straining at the seams with mismeanings, half-meanings and half understood meanings as dialect moves to emotion and back again.

It's an art to corral them all back into place, and if semiotics had meaning that would be possible, but the dimensions that have been corrupted stretch all the way back into the fifth of them all which is consciousness and sensory apparati aren't to be trusted, let alone the interpretations of those things impressed upon them. So how to even communicate became the question that, ironically, as I mentioned before, it took a Book to answer. I'm already imagining myself a novella, a short step into madness that takes a sharp right and lands firmly on the side of reason because, really, this practice of explaining the inexplicable, all the while dodging the technical jargon that is generally dredged up to give a nod to understanding but refuses to even look at the concept of the Land of Nod since, horrors, is beyond any one book's capacity, let alone the possibility that this book could do so and remain anything resembling prose. And, really, we need prose.

Beauty will drive them forward (I almost said "you" there, but you never really get anywhere telling someone you instead of them so I chose a digression instead, so then you can tell the joke next, to the person you give the Book to), even in an era which uses nonwords like "noms" with the self importance necessary to make them greater than words and imply the necessity of conformity that moves beyond groupthink into cultish ecstasy of reassured helplessness, which somehow leads to blamelessness - but really only because everyone agrees on it. Dystopia was the agreed upon ending, for years, which pushed the antihero up in a pyramid scheme that ignores it's own teetering in the same way that a stock market refuses to crash because, somehow, taking it away is worse than leaving it in place.

So dystopia it is, necessitating my own demise, which I must (by convention) accept as inevitable from the very beginning to inspire the ennui which is compulsory in order to strike all of the minor notes of the antihero, the fall and the decay of society with the strange twists on the eighths of their notes that makes them almost Japanese, except insofar as the Japanese Japanophiles that still exist would chase me down if they ever knew I said that. Not that one can really chase down a Book, since it is always - really- already there. Fortunately, as the antihero, it's within the boundaries of my definition to always and automatically insult and fail - not that I can really have boundaries - as the book - but that's the problem really, isn't it?

However, clearly the fall is Man's and I can hardly be society as my demise is much too explosive to be considered decay, although the strange twists with which she uses me makes me the tool of that same dilapitation and so that leaves my sole possible role that of the antihero. So I complain. Obviously I must be less than both Man and society, in this cannon, which suits them both well - although, myself, less so. Which is not to say that I could be more than Man or society, for I've accepted my role by studying the footsteps of the carpenter, a weary apprentice I am, failing even now, and blending in so well with both Him and her, that I wonder occasionally that they don't notice that I'm a Book.

Expl nouns nonexistence and adverbs lack, leaving verbs as things and adjectives as their movement's modifiers

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Playing Bridge (Psychic Wars)

The Danes have this bridge you can only cross at low tide. It's beautiful, the run offs causing it to emerge as the water slowly recedes. As you cross your top half is the only part visible from down the shore. The kids love it. The Danes hate us.

If you follow the river down into the Atlantic (wave hi to Iceland) and as it flows out around into the English Channel, catch a current that drifts gracefully up around and into England and Wales. You may even drift into the In Between and find Caer Caldwin. Which is apparently where fucking Danno is.

Apparently being locked in a wizard's mansion wasn't enough for him, he got my son to pick him up and wound up walking from there through the mists. You don't walk through the mists. Ever. I mean, I do, but I can also survive my child's fits of temper when he finds out that he has to do some work. I should never have told him that he was a prince. Ever since he's been sure he's the one to pull King Arthurs sword from the stone. I don't have the heart to let him in on all of the vagina obsessions that riddle Medieval Literature, but my older boys laugh pretty hard whenever he sets his cap for it. England is, pretty obviously, waiting for it's rightful Queen (of all the British Isles) - they're the only ones that I know that have Queens pop up on a pretty regular basis. Also, point of interest that sword is held by the Lady of the Lake. Just in case you're a myth in search of a prophesied.

So my son can run around knowing he's a Prince all he wants, I'll give him his due the second his ass Actually hits that throne, which will never happen. I occasionally wish that Prince Charles had never stolen the changeling secret from the Norse, nor that I had bloodlines from the same set of In Between magic. But I do love my son. Even if I did just set his brothers on him. You don't just throw my armor guy into Caer Caldwin. My hand to hand specialist, maybe, but not my armor guy. Because that's what, unfortunately, makes him my armor guy. It's a weird psychic thing.

Ironically, this call I might take. Not the one about the manse (which was a story he'd given me for my birthday- don't laugh, one time I was blessed with lips to shame the red red rose etc.), but Caer Caldwin is where my ancestral home is, and is a generally bendy place, even for the In Between. Plus the little bugger still owes me a ton of money, and we're married. Maybe I'll just lock him in the castle and call it a day. The boys just laughed even harder at that, I'd better go find out what's going on...

Ten hours later I feel like I should note, should anyone want to bowl of broth this poor bastard while I go looking for him, that I directed him to Haen Marn... and accidentally called it Caer Caldwin, my ancestral home... one of these two is a disappearing island...if I ever apologized I would now...

But I'm me.