Things That Never Were

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Sun Aug 28, 2016 11:10 am

Identity is suppose to be subjective. It is not tangible. Not something that can be stolen or denied. I have heard the term 'identity theft' but this has little to do with selfhood and everything to do with material possession. It is not the nightmare I once experienced.

I arrived home in my village one day to discover I had been there all along. Asleep in my bed was another Kiara. She'd taken my role in my absense. And by role I do not mean mere chores. While she acted the shaman and did as I would do for clients, she had even usurped my private life. My brothers took her by the hand and confided secrets. My father looked after her wellbeing and taught her that which she should know. My step-mother consoled her when she was down and cooked her my favourite sweet treats.

You might say I was angry. She was not the spitting image of myself but a rough approximation. It was inconceiveable that anyone could confuse the two. Let alone my closest family. And though I came to see that her thoughts and mannerisms mirrored my own – she was a blatant cuckoo. If this was magic at work it was of a very queer kind.

Her move was to play the innocent victim. My family were flummoxed but my dad agreed to house the two of us until he could figure out which was the imposter. His thoughts were on evil spirits but it became clear this was not what this was. We were both asked a series of questions only Kiara should know. And we both passed. She could recount things I only ever kept to myself, feelings and sensations that had been experienced personally and never told. I'm sure if she was asked to write out this tale she would be matching me word for word.

We only ever differed when we played off each other. When we responded to something the other one did or said. If we were identical before, meeting each other set our futures on divergent paths. Instinctively I hated her. She did not just covet my possessions. She wanted my home, my relations, my emotions and ideas and place on this Earth. It was unrelentant greed.

I knew I couldn't kill her. If I committed to such a course she, likewise, would be driven to the deed. And we would be equals in strength. It would possibly destroy us both. I needed the help of others in order to succeed. But it was a battle I strangely lost.

As the days drew on my family became more and more convinced I was the fake. There was no concrete proof or moment where I acted suspicious. They just gradually lost recognition for my face. I was being stripped of my identity. Like the shedding of a cloak. Despite my ardent protests by the end of the week I was a perfect stranger to them. Tired of this game my family cast me out and apologised to the false daughter.

Doubtless I had a plan for thwarting the villain. I always do. But I myself was beset by a peculiar sensation. When I looked in the mirror I had trouble realising it was a reflection. I began to not think of myself in the first person. 'Kiara' was someone else. And considering 'Kiara' was also my enemy it made my thinking muddled and confused. Kiara needed to convince Kiara's family that Kiara was not Kiara but rather a not Kiara who had usurped Kiara's identity as Kiara. You see what I mean? I was an invalid of self.

It grew worse. Having no identity meant not even I could recognise myself. I was lost, struggling inside my own mind for a point of reference. A ground floor to base my current existence on. And that was when she came to me.

The imposter knew full well what she was doing. She claimed to be a 'latent lifeform'. Basically the potential of another who might have had my life. A sperm that was too slow or else an unfertilised egg. She was just taking back what was denied her. What I had cheated her out of in the womb.

But she claimed this wasn't a sad ending for me. She knew how I thought. My hopes and desires. She said I held ignorance in high regard. She thought being a literal 'Nobody' would ensure that I was the very embodiment of ignorance, for I would not know myself. I could still continue the work I'd begun, even be better at it. I would not be burdened with the superfluous information I did not need of who and what I was. And I won't deny – that argument spoke to me.

She appealed to me in a way only I could. I left the village to wander a stranger.

I might have still been no one til this day had not a fluke of fate occurred. On my way out of the village I bumped into people that I knew. And they recognised me. They knew me! My identity was not a mystery to them. It was my Reptiloid pals Clive and Himay.

I am not sure why they were immune to this self obsfucation. Maybe the lizard man shape-shifting mechanic has something akin to its effect. Lizardmen seem to know each other no matter the disguise they have taken. And so they knew me now.

With them there to fill in the blanks of who I was (which did leave me thinking I was 'actually' a Reptiloid for a while) I was able to formulate a plan. If she was a being of potential then it stood to reason we had only to fill the gap caused by her lack of existence to defeat her. Bare with me.

Clive infiltrated the Belizean government records office. He made a fake birth certificate and added it to the pile. Himay found a collection of deeds or crimes that had gone unclaimed. He spread much rumour that it was this individual who was the perpetrator. I meanwhile went on a shopping spree. I bought cribs, clothes, and jewellery all for my new sister. I wrote birthday cards, wrapped presents, and made a pinata. I sent all these things to her.

This unnerved her enough to come after me. But I was prepared. Me and my friends had set up a traditional Obeah naming ceremony. Amongst the candles and the drums and the holy water we christaned my newborn sister – despite her screams of hatred. We called her Keiza.

Now that she was someone, it meant that her potential had been fulfilled. She could no longer be Kiara. I regained my identity and had my life back. Keiza was furious and ran back home. She thought she could use family against me. But now broken of the spell my father saw her for what she was and disowned her. With the usurper kicked out I enjoyed a tearful reunion. I'd been a fool to think I could give up the ties to my family.

This wasn't to be the last I saw of Keiza though. She is quite simply my mortal enemy. She resents the life she thinks I stole from her – twice. That I gave her a life of her own means nothing. All my skills and abilities she took with her. She can cast magic such as I can, and she interacts with the Unknown just as well as me. I grudgingly acknowledge that she also has my best dance moves.

Furthermore, having such a piecemeal identity has given her an additional advantage. She is indescribable. Despite having met her numerous times I cannot tell you her height, weight, hair colour, or how many legs she's got. This helps her go unnoticed and means she could technically be any person I don't know. Any stranger could be Keiza.

She knows how I think and what my next move will be. She is my match in strength and wiles. I will never see her coming until it is too late. She is my sister. And if anything in these pages will be the death of me, I would assume her...

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Tue Sep 13, 2016 6:59 am

That trains never made it to Belize is a blessing. Having had a chance to ride some I have become aware of several bleak realities. They are usually overcrowded, there is dried gum everywhere, you must listen to another's conversation or music. And occasionally they take a detour into Hell.

I have said before, if I have a religion rather than a philosophy, it is Obeah (though that is more my father's thing). And in Obeah there is no Hell. Bad spirits after death wander the Earth. One might think that visiting Hell itself might have changed my opinion. But I am not one to give up on faith when faced with apparent evidence to the contrary. Just because we perceive something it does not necessary make it real.

It was in northern Mexico that I found myself, late one night, on a train platform. The hustle and bustle of morning had finished. I was the only one there. With overcrowding an unlikely prospect I tentitively looked forward to that train ride. I was aware of an electric hum coming from the tracks long before I could see the vehicle.

To all and sundry it looked like a modern form of transport. But to my astral eyes what pulled into station was a vaporous mass of surging demonic tendrils, set ablaze with rank sulphorous fire. Not being a regular train rider, I speculated that this might be perfectly normal. As the doors slid open I stepped aboard.

There sat six other people in various stages of misery and distress. When I boarded they did not look at me. Yet as I took my seat I felt all eyes upon my back. The doors closed and the train regained its motion in silence. That is where it began.

After a short jaunt over the darkened Mexican landscape we hit a tunnel. When we came out it had suddenly become day again. There lay ahead of us a bank of clouds with a celestial glow which thundered with the sound of bells. To reach this magnificent place there was a bridge we had to cross. The train tracks went straight across it. But there was a problem. From my vantage point I could clearly see the tracks were too narrow.

I'm embarrassed to say I made a hoo-ha about it. I cried out alarm and tried to smash a window to no avail. The other passengers were impassioned – numb to the event. As we reached the bridge the train predictably came off its tracks. We derailed over the side of the bridge and straight down into a baking inferno that lay beneath us. I noticed there were no effects of gravity as we fell.

The lights went out again. There was a slight buck of the train cart and then the resuming noise of wheels grinding against track. When the lights returned, we were back on the lines. Except this time there was no utopic bank of cloud. There was only a decaying meadow.

While above us was pure darkness, I got the impression of being in a cave. I saw resignation in the faces of my fellow passengers and decided they had been on this journey before. Likely they could not escape, such as when I failed to smash the window. I didn't ask them for an explanation, which in the end earned their curiousity. They saw my tribal garb and spirit-scaring mask and asked if I had any magical ability.

I told them I did. But not enough to get them out of here. They lost interest.

At some point in our journey one of the dividing doors between carriages opened. Nobody ran for it, so I surmised it was not an escape route. A man dressed in uniform entered pushing a trolley of food items, which he handed out to the passengers. Underneath the glamour I could tell he was nothing more than a hooded skeleton. The name tag read 'Ankou'. He did not speak and could have been an automaton of sorts. When we had selected some snacks, he left through the opposite door. Always he appeared from the northern end of the train despite this.

Outside, the landscape was developing. I saw black rivers winding their way through desolate gorges with crowds of grey people gathered on the farthest bank. I saw still forests wet with dew and guarded by a giant woman with many breasts. I saw figures moving in the distance with the body of a man and the head of a horse, clambouring over pots of steaming lava. When there wasn't a cacophony of screams off in the distance there remained repressive silence. I wondered if I was even in Mexico anymore.

Eventually an announcement was made. In several languages an electronic voice claimed we were nearing our destination. I forget the name. Het-something. It proved to be a wasteland environment which was in the process of being torn up by devastating winds. I could see snow in the air when I pressed my face close to the window. The only lights were that given from the train cart itself. If there were men out there – I could not say.

My associates were now animated. Several got up and advanced in my direction. The automatic doors opened to allow in a howing gale. I realised we could now leave but wondered if we would want to. To leave was to consign yourself to a harsh and unforgiving land. The others grabbed me by my shoulders and hoisted me towards the door. One apologised profusely.

I fought back. My astral blasts scattered the congregation. Even the strongest of them was unable to overcome my magic power. The longer I stalled the more desperate the six became. At last, giving up on me, a Turkish man grabbed a teenage girl from behind and pushed her through the opening. She screamed bloody murder, calling him a traitor and cursing him even as the wind snatched her words away. Some invisible force stopped her from getting back on. The doors closed. The girl was rapping her fists against the windows still as the train began to pull away. At the very last moment, one hand materialised out of the darkness and grabbed her by the neck, taking her.

My companions now felt it necessary to explain to me what was going on. It was a train to Hell, they said. They had each been abducted, one by one, from various train stations of the world. There were always seven passengers aboard. Why they were chosen or how to escape, they did not know. The train always travelled through nightmare worlds, each as terrifying as it was unique, until it picked one to stop at. When it stopped, they had five minutes to step off. If no one stepped off in the alloted time, then everyone's soul was forfeit.

I did wonder how they could possibly know everyone would die. There would be no one left to tell the tale. But it was hearsay passed down from passenger to passenger. And no one wanted to test its veracity.

The six that had been aboard when I got there had made an accord. One they'd managed to keep for many months. They would work together to kick the seventh passenger out. That way they thought their own lives would be preserved until such a time a solution presented itself. This is why they had not explained this all to me when I first arrived. Why they would not look me in the eye. They had a murder pact and I was to be the victim.

They felt tainted by sin. And I admit I would probably of done the same as them. In fact I did agree to take the place of the sixth passenger in this alliance. At least until I could figure a way out.

The others included a balding cabman with sleeves rolled passed his elbows, an Asian of some kind who played with a flick knife, the bearded Turk I mentioned before, two beautiful young women, one claiming to be Finnish (or finished, she didn't speak English too well), kept apparently for their company, and the only decent one of the bunch – a young Italian priest who alone prayed hourly for forgiveness.

It was the other woman, the one with the looks of a china-doll, who was most vocal against me. She seems to have been great friends with the girl we had abandoned in Het-thingydoodle. She did not blame the Turk, probably out of fear, and beseeched the others to choose a different companion besides me. After all – I had to sleep sometime.

Cabman upheld her side of the argument. The Asian deliberated, asking me how old I was as he looked me up and down. The priest sent them off to their corners. When they threatened him with violence he threatened them right back. He threatened to stop praying for them. This had both a profound and disturbing affect – their mortal souls laid bare in that instant. They retreated.

We got to talking and I told him what I understood of our prison. These accursed lands that we passed through evidently could not take us without certain conditions. First and most obvious was that we must be delivered unto it via selfish desires. If we came here all in good conscience then it did not truly own us. Yet when we were thrown out, betrayed, sacrificed – our spirit was as good as signed over.

But we had to be prepared to inhabit the lands of the dead. And that was what Ankou was doing. In various fae realms you 'aclimatise' by eating their food. If you don't do that their power means little to you. I guessed that the same was happening here. While we had their food in our guts, escape was impossible. I advised the priest to fast. He wondered if that, in trying to escape Hell, he would die of hunger instead. Suicide, he claimed, was just another ticket to Hell.

I encouraged him to try.

A day must have passed. I refused the food of the trolley and watched the underworld go by. Once there were seven tiered levels of fire and ice that we spiraled across, showing effigies of people in all manner of horrific torture. Another time we rode atop a wall, of which there were many, surrounding a mountain and looking down on a race of starved, dark-skinned people. The tundras we traversed showed people being savaged by lions and snakes. While the mountains we scaled occasionally crashed together, mangling hundreds of bodies below.

At one point the train itself was attacked by a large crocodile-like creature. It barrelled into us sidelong and shook the whole carriage. I caught a glimpse of some giant weight scales collecting dust as we departed.

I understood a little of the passengers' mindset. Forced to endure prospects of their fates day after day, hour after hour. Demons would flock to us as we rode by, and smile slyly as they caught our eye. Some would beckon – others would call out to us by name. Only the glass kept them out at times and it was no strange thing to find one clamped to the side, gazing into our abode.

Eventually we came through all this and back into the world of the living. I have no idea where we arrived. But it was night and it was quiet. The train pulled slowly into station, and predictably a passenger boarded. Clutching her teddy-bear, it was a small six-year old girl. She had been running away from home.

It appeared to be the first time something like this had happened. The priest and the Turk were in uproar. We couldn't possibly condemn a youngster to eternal damnation. The Cabman and Asian were demanding to know who would take her place. The train ride to hell was clearly not a place she could reside anyway. Adding to all their woes – babysitting was not something the captives wanted to be burdened with.

I stopped the arguing. I declared that I was getting off the train at the next stop. They didn't know what to say to that. They barely glanced at the giant, one-eyed serpent atop a lake of fire as we rode on. It was like a roulette wheel. I would watch torments come and go and wonder where it would stop. The announcer brought my suspence to an end. It called 'Xibalba'.

This name I knew. It was the so-called underworld of the Maya people. Fitting.

We arrived in an empty cavern. Codensation left the walls dripping and the roar of the train echoed down the tunnels. The ground was covered with inanimate skeleton remains, which struck me as odd in a supposed afterlife. Even for an underworld it was dead.

As the train pulled into station there was just one inhabitant. Larger than large there slept an entity. Its massive form had the head of an owl. I noticed placed to one side on a stand was a headdress. Upon closer inspection this headdress had hundreds of blinking eyeballs. The door opened.

Everyone turned to me. I did doubt myself then. What could I possibly know of such matters? What if I was wrong? I would spend an eternity as the sole denizen of this forgotten hellhole. But I know my strength is in the unknown. The untried and untested. And I had faith I was right. I stepped off the train.

Behind me the door sealed itself. The mystic titan woke up. Shifting like shadows it rose above us to its full height. It donned its headdress and somehow without teeth smiled. It was a grim smile. It said one thing and one thing only.

“Get out of this one, Tzul.”

I looked away. And turned to the train. I held something in my palm against the window, “It's a return ticket.” The door reopened. Without a backward glance I stepped aboard. No one moved. Eventually the train returned to motion.

After a silent and agonising commute, one of which the poor lost souls fought with their instincts to dare hope again, we saw our next stop. It was the Mexican countriside. I was being brought back home. The Perdition Express was letting me go.

I stepped off a free woman. The passengers rejoiced. Their own salvation was in sight. They finally had a blueprint for their release. The priest himself blessed me for my service (though I do not believe the Christian shamans to have powers there is no harm in humouring them). And he said he would help the little lost girl find her way back home.

For a moment he was ecstatic. But then his face went white. I asked him what was wrong.

“I didn't buy a ticket...” And the door slid shut.

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Wed Nov 09, 2016 7:17 pm

I am by no means the only person out there fighting forces of the Unknown. Perhaps I am the only one doing so from a position of ignorance, but there are others. People who seek to map out the inane depths of the unfathomable in efforts to contain or destroy them that way. While such attempts are undertaken in good heart, they do nothing to stem the tide. By learning one threat all you do is create another. Known and Unknown are always in balance.

Yet sometimes I am thankful that they encounter a nasty before I.

Who they are is not important. Even if I knew. I shall call them Testers due to their trial and error methods of learning. They invoke calamity repeatedly just to figure out the limits of their subject. Like a medicine man seeking a cure; poisoning his patients until one survives.

Their tale begins in a place called Panama. A carry ship was sailing down one of their canals. It pulled into station(?) to report a problem. One of their crew had stepped inside a shipping container. He had been crying out for hours for someone to let him out. But every time they opened its doors the voices stopped. He wasn't there. Shut once more the cries for release continued.

Somehow our Testers got involved. They removed the container from the ship and took it back to one of their bases. They ran an analysis on the anomalous occurrence, cataloguing the contents of the container and recording their conversations with the trapped man. They were able to converse with the sailor readily. He claimed to be stood inside the crate but the doors were locked. He was quite angry that nobody had tried to release him yet. He was dismissive of any explanation that he had vanished from inside.

His identity was quizzed and confirmed, the man proved to know personal information about himself. His grasp of time was shot (it had been days and he felt it was hours) yet he had no water or food to sustain him. Items left inside the container he claimed to find, but giving him a metal cutting tool was deemed out of the question. If the captive destroyed the anomaly, the Testers could not continue to study it.

They decided to replicate the circumstances which got him in there. The sailor claimed he walked in to check no one was stealing the merchandise (and would have taken anything valuable with him to be doubly sure) but the door had swung shut on him. Though he knows not how it had been bolted or why no one was letting him out. The Testers tell me they sent a volunteer in to repeat the actions.

And the volunteer disappeared. In fact, the next dozen or so volunteers vanished when left alone in the sealed container. To further complicate matters their voices sometimes replaced the sailor's voice, and each perceived themselves to be alone. They too had become stuck.

Some of these volunteers (a braver bunch than I) had recording equipment or trackers on their person. The trackers claimed they were inside the container (shocking, I know) and the recording equipment showed static stills of the interior. If the volunteer was in conference with the Testers at the time, they were able to move the cameras around, otherwise they seemed immobile.

Other volunteers had monitors. Outside the walls all forms of detectors had fallen short. But when talking to their man on the inside he claimed he could pick up several other people practically on top of him, even if he could not see or feel them. Heart-beat sensors and inter-red and others all got a reading back. Yet it still did not uncover the nature of the anomaly.

Animals were also subject to vanishing (don't worry, I'm told these animals volunteered also) and it was frustrating at times for syientists to find the current talker was a dog. They began to make guesses as to what was going on. They thought that maybe the box held people in an overlapping dimension where they were kept suspended in time. It would certainly be a useful tool to preserve the knowledge of someone who was, say, very ill.

To test this they placed timers inside the container - but they had no irregularity. So next they found a woman who had days to live and sent her inside. She seemed to survive passed her predicted time. They were still able to talk to her weeks later. Clearly the suspension only effected people and not objects.

I'm unclear what happened next. I think in testing they gave those inside one too many items. For one evening there was an explosion from within the container. The door buckled enough to no longer be a sealed enclosure. And in the smoking debris that followed the first escapee stepped free of the anomaly.

The explosion hadn't hurt him in the slightest. The man had been one of the volunteers and the tale he now told exposed the futile task of the Testers.

At first he was able to speak to those outside. He perceived himself alone and felt it had been hours, not months. But then he began to hear the other voices. The voices of all those others trapped within the container. They were disjointed, distant – sometimes they couldn't hear him back, sometimes he could converse. No one at any time knew how far their voice would reach. Except for one.

There was a person using our escapee's own voice. Several others told him it had stolen their voice also. It began to take his place when speaking to the syientists outside. Try as he might, this man could not make his own sounds heard, and had to sit silent as this mysterious being impersonated him. There was a general consensus amongst those trapped within the box:

Something in there with them.

The situation became more dire. Occasionally the chatter of individuals would be cut off by screams. A strange keening sound like an animal would echo through the chamber, accompanied by something he thought visceral tearing. And yet later he could hear the victim talking again. Our man began to doubt that everyone he spoke to was human. He stopped talking back.

This meant that nothing the syientists had been told by their volunteers could be trusted. They did not know who they were really speaking to. A mimic had fooled them. It rendered all research obsolete. And the problems were just starting. With the container breached from the explosion they could no longer seal it. But this did not negate its effects. Merely enlarged them.

Now the very room itself took on the anomalous effects. Several Testers entered the room alone before this change was discovered. Several more lost to the belly of the beast. The syientists made the whole place out of bounds, but they underestimated the entity's cunning. It began to speak to coworkers with the voices of those taken. It pleaded with them, reasoned that if the container was breached then they, like the man before them, would be released.

One foolish syientist put a hole through the room's door. He disappeared. The corpse of the person he was trying to save reappeared. It had been savaged by some beast. They'd no way of knowing whether those they spoke to were dead or alive. It was at this point they nicknamed the device Srodinger's Catastrophe.

The area of effect now extended to the testing room and the adjoining hallway. Voices rang out from these places, desperate for colleagues to save them by opening more holes. No one knew what would happen if the Catastrophe ran out of 'inside' areas. Would they release it into the world? The whole building was rendered off limits.

Effort was taken to track down the owner of the container. The person who put it on the ship. I don't fill out paperwork, but somehow they figured out it was me. They expected me to know what it was, but I knew no more than them.

I'd come across a mouse box trap on my travels. Some local shaman had made it. He lured the vermin in with morsels of food, whereupon the door snapped shut. Where the creatures went was unknown. I could tell something wasn't right with it, so I slayed the wicked shaman and took the device away. I put it on a ship I knew doomed to sink so that it could rest unfound on the bottom of the ocean.

However – I didn't anticipate the difficulty of the mouse box breaking. Its power had been transferred to the container itself.

I offered to fix their problem (and my mistake honestly). I had them erect a huge circus tent over their building (I'm not kidding that thing was huge). Then a demolition team went inside to destroy the building. It was delicate work but the tent was undamaged. The rubble was removed and the tent then folded in on itself. I erected increasingly smaller tents over the folded piles until eventually we could not get a man inside. We then wrapped the bundle in several plastic bags (I'm told these don't break down for hundreds of years!) and took it to a swamp.

I had them sink the bundle in a peat bog. Now, even if all its seals were to be broken it would still be inside. Inside that stinking morass of mud. And eventually (as the syientists inform me) the rock itself.

Of course while we did this those people trapped inside wailed at us. And yes, while most of them were undoubtedly dead, some were probably still alive. We condemned them. The Testers were sad about this. But I think I was able to console them. I reminded them that the people had volunteered.

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Fri Nov 25, 2016 12:23 pm

I stay out of politics. My eldest brother is one of those clever people who engages in it. But much of what he tells me means little. And when I repeat what he has asserted to others, they tend to believe the opposite. Truth seems subjective to them. A little willful ignorance is essential to believe in people. For we are all inherently flawed and none of us are perfect.

Rarely though are candidates truly evil.

My travels led me to one of the island nations of the Caribbean. I forget which, but they spoke English there and the island had a volcano which they liked to talk about like a tempermental family member. And what they lacked in population they made up for in force of personality. So close-knit was their community that news of the first death reached even me, a tourist, by midday.

The death raised concern for two reasons. One, the gentleman was a healthy man in the prime of his life. And two, before his death there were bubbles coming out of his ears.

I may profess ignorance in many things but I am pleased to say I recognised this was unusual. Almost immediately.

I offered my services to the family in terms of shepherding the spirit, but they were not believers of my religion. Yet they came back to me after two days asking me to explain what the doctors could not. To explain why the husband had died in the way he did and why now too the rest of the family were also afflicted with bubbles.

It was an eerie thing. As they stood or sat or walked or ran, a bubble would expand out of the holes in the sides of their head and float away. These bubbles were not clear like the kind you get from water, they were a dirty brown. The family had been to their medical professionals and stumped them. Now they were desperate to hear that it was a spiritual matter. One they could correct with prayer.

It was not.

I tried what I could. I plugged their ears and waited several hours. The bubbling did not stop. I poured salt water down their canals to see if that would rinse it. This failed. I tasted the bubbles, they were very flavourful – a mixture of bitterness and salt (maybe from the water I'd introduced). Yet I remained impudent to help.

And things got worse before they got better. The symptoms spread like a malady. Dozens across the island contracted what folk were calling a disease. People did not understand why. Some households were only half afflicted. And I had been in close proximity, yet I remained healthy till the end. In no time at all to whole town was alive with the Brown Froth.

Not everyone died. After three days the first cases began to subside. The victims no longer had bubbles to keep them up at night. Instead they were listless, forgetful, and peculiar. The worst were practically comatose. It felt strange being powerless for once. I had an inkling what was happening was science. Only the syientists could not wrap their heads around it. There was still something I could offer.

I trapped a bubble in astral energy. I linked it with my soul and took to meditation. Although faint there was something there. A vision of sorts. A memory. It meant nothing to me, and nothing to the victim it came from, but their spouse was a sharp woman. She was able to tell me the memory belonged to her husband. Yet he had forgotten.

I now knew what the bubbles were. They were pieces of mind floating away. The illness was psychic. Their brains were evaporating!

I was too late to save the dead. Too late to save the mentally deficient. The ailment could have been natural, stranger things have happened, but I suddenly recalled the taste of the bubbles. Bitter. Another word for resentful or vengeful. The Brown Froth was man-made. I did not know why but I knew.

I felt it was important to stop this barbaric disease being used again. I trapped another bubble and kept it from popping. I tugged it around like a balloon on a string. It was psychically linked, so it gradually, eventually, pulled in the direction of its creator. Yes, I know how it sounds. The police laughed at me too at the time.

The trail led me to an expensive villa in the hills. I mentioned politics before, for the man who lived in this house was a politician. He was throwing a party. He had just won an election of sorts. I don't know what it was for, if that is important. My brother tells me not. Anyway, the bubble took me straight to his head where it finally broke up. I saw in his eyes right away the guilt.

Maybe guilt is not the right word. Hatred perhaps.

I agreed that we should talk in private. He took me to his bed chambers and threatened me there. I was just a little girl. I did not know what I was messing with. All I had was accusations. This was all true. I went away and left him be.

But I had learned something from my brother. I went to the politician's political opponent. The loser of this vote. And I asked him why it was he had lost. He replied that it was because a significant portion of his voters had died in the recent malady. His campaign had been radical. It had galvinised and inspired a core number of the population. His utopian ideas may even have constituted a new philosophy.

But the Brown Froth had wiped his believers out. Somehow the disease had targeted people who agreed with this man specifically. It had literally committed genocide on an entire ideology. I explained this to the losing politician and advised that he should leave the country. So that no one more could fall prey to this astounding yet barbaric disease.

But first I suggested he pay a visit.

The losing politician went to the winner the next day. He offered his congratulations. He also imparted that he had experienced a change of heart. He claimed that everything his opponent campaigned for, he now also believed in. Every. Single. Last. Thing. Without exception. He told the winner that their ideas and beliefs were now one in the same. And he must have been a good politician, for he made that sick bastard believe it.

The creator of the Brown Froth now agreed with his disease's target. And his evil brains bubbled out of his head until there was nothing left.

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Mon Dec 12, 2016 12:11 pm

I have been called a charlatan many times in my life. Many of the magiks I practice as a shaman have dubious worth. Their successes aren't tangible. It could be that my father made them up. As a child he told me chocolate was poisonous, so I know he is capable of deceit. But I do not dismiss things out of hand. I am willing to give all practices the benefit of the doubt.

So it was, I found myself accompanying a farmer in El Salvador. He had in his hands a forked twig that he swore up and down could divine what he was looking for. Underground water, boulders, or even buried treasures. He had merely to hold it steady and walk. It would vibrate of its own accord if he stumbled across a secret.

At the time I was looking for a lost soul. The soul of the land. The weather was foul, crops were dying, animals had fled. Something was wrong in this little corner of the world. I used the divining rod to investigate. And for many days after I began to wonder if the term charlatan could be used to describe its creator. I decided there was something missing to the practice.

It was far too easy for me, the holder, to wiggle the branch. So instead I took the forked twig. And I built around it a scarecrow. A very fragile frame which I could hoist upon one pole like a banner. And then I started carrying this around. I deprived myself of sleep and then let my legs wander. Let the power of the divining rod guide my actions as much as possible.

Finally, on the slope of a barren empty hill, the scarecrow shattered into pieces. And I knew I had found what I sought.

Behind the bracken there was a cave. I slipped down inside and crawled into its recesses. At some point I fell asleep nestled between a seam of rock. And when I awoke, I found myself in a chamber of crystal. Not naturally occurring though. These complex materials seemed home grown. Shaped and sculpted into columns and stairs and basins. There was a freshness of air. It was coming from the nearby mould. An underground river glided by like a moat.

There sat next to me a creature I had never seen before. No human or animal had his face. Nothing I've yet come across possessed appendages like him. He claimed he was an alien. All space, stars, and planets. He spoke English, which was very considerate of him. A lot of Mexicans I know will not bother to learn our language, and they only lived next door. This alien had brought me here to the end of the tunnel. He fed me and told me his tale.

One thousand years ago his people had fought a war across the galaxy against an entity of immense power and malevolence. They called it the Ruin of All. This Ruin had many frightening capabilities, the chief of which being a psychic influence. Those who looked upon it were instantly its slaves, or as the alien put it, an extension of its being. Even from that point on if it died it could regrow from the mind of any it had infected. So strong was its mental might that its malice could bleed through into nearby sentients even if they did not see it. Those afflicted could be tricked, confused, or just tormented by the Ruin until they were driven off or released it.

That's where the alien came in. He had once been a slave to the entity. But a one in a billion chance meant he had broken his programming. Now he was highly resistant to its powers. It burdened him with terrible nightmares every time he slept, but he was not susceptible to its delusions. He alone could stand guard upon the Ruin. With its powers dampened by the crystal lattice, here it would remain forever more.

Over the coming centuries he'd felt the crushing weight of loneliness keenly. The alien could have no contact with the outside for fear of the Ruin infecting them. He suffered nightly from its torment and awoke each day to a numbing isolation. But, the alien told me, he persevered. Where many would have given up long ago, he had perspective. He did it all so the love of his life (an unrequited love I understand) could live free. The alien knew that if he left, the Ruin would break free and seek her out specifically, to punish him for his vigilance.

The kicker in the story came last. Maybe if he was a more familiar race I would have noticed. But he was dying. While they live long, his race was not immortal. The alien thought my arrival as fortuitous because he had a favour to ask of me. He saw how I have defences against mental intrusion (it's nothing really, but I guess he was desperate) and he wanted me to take over his mantle after he passed on. He wanted me to stand guard and ensure the Ruin never got out.

I never professed to be a saint. I rejected it flat out. He was despondent but he understood. He was lamenting over the fate of his dearest and soon became inconsolable.

Maybe I'm a sucker for romance. I offered to do him one better. I offered to destroy the Ruin once and for all. That way he could pass on in peace. The alien was dismissive of the promise. Where his whole race had failed, I was suppose to succeed? And what if it germinated inside the mind of one of its infected slaves anew?

I told him who I was and what I do. I told him the task was insurmountable and any solution impossible. I said I would have to be a fool or just plain ignorant to follow through. And then I told him that, thankfully, I was both. I entered the entity's cage.

I'm often out of my element describing technology. Alien technology more than most. There was a thing that whirred. A thing that shook the cavern. A thing that roared at random intervals. Basically, things that made it look and feel as if the cage was inhabited. It was not.

There was no Ruin of All. I suspected the possibility my mind might have been invaded. Yet after consideration I decided all reality was subjective. After further exploration I found a device that gave nightmares and another which housed memories. Memories of an alien planet and the wanton slaughter and debauchery the wielder of those memories caused.

I realised the alien was not a guard. He was the prisoner.

Everything he'd told me were false memories. Memories implanted in him by his jailors. They were a drive and reason to stay put and keep himself incarcerated. There was no Ruin. No great space war. No terrible evil he guarded. Not even a woman he loved. She could be nothing more than a construct, designed to make him serve out his life sentence. And suffer. That nightmare machine did not need to be here. They scolded him every night for what he had done. And in his naivety he sat still and bore it.

But what was cruel. What was beyond cruel. Was the memory machine they'd left behind. The essence of his true history. Entombed next door to him for all these centuries ready for him to find. For him to discover the pointlessness of it all. So that he could understand the consequences of his actions and finally know a little of the loss he'd caused to others.

Make no doubts, what I saw in his real memories was horrible. The alien may be equal to our Hitler in terms of notoriety and sin. But did he deserve this reality? Did he really deserve this mockery of a lifestyle? This futile self-imprisonment based on fabrications and lies? And the soul-crushing reality that awaited him at its end?

Exiting the cell, he was wary. He asked me what had happened. I told him it was done. I had killed the Ruin of All. It would never trouble anyone again.

The jailors had designed their torture chamber so the alien would die in sorrow. Either pining for a love he thought was now doomed, or else discovering his own criminality. I thwarted them. I gave him peace of mind. We crawled out of the burrow, emerging from the cave exit into the cool Winter dawn. And for the first time in a thousand years, the alien felt the Sun on his face. He passed on that night.

I don't know if what I did was right or moral. But I am proud of it nevertheless. And maybe there is a twist to this tale. Maybe the Ruin of All did exist. Maybe it duped me and escaped. But there is no sense dwelling on maybes. Ignorance is bliss and this is what I granted a poor vigilant prisoner. I say whatever he used to be, he had redeemed himself.

And as for the blight of the land? The reason that drove me to search in the first place? It turns out it was just bad weather. Nothing supernatural about it. Neat, huh?

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Sun Dec 25, 2016 3:00 pm

Christmas.

I know it sounds odd, but I don't know if I celebrate it. My father would rather I not. He says he took his religion as a protest against Christianity (the one with the single god). However, just like anybody else, on the 25th of December we broke out the traditions and festivities. Many of them eerily similar to what the Christians were doing.

I never asked why. My brothers stopped when they thought of their gifts.

Anyway, that year we had a rare time of it. Wearing our best whites, we exchanged gifts by a tree we'd somehow convinced to stand indoors. We threw rum, limes, and parsley into our bigger cauldron. Filling it with Flordia water and lighting it on fire – we cleansed ourselves. Father took part in the deer dances at a party in the next village. And when darkness fell, the whole sky over the distant city was flooded with fireworks. It was truly a magical evening.

The problem was I'd been here before.

There was an air of predictability. Of sameness and similarity. For my young age, today was a day that should have cemented itself in childhood memory. But the specialness somehow soured. I was tucked up in bed that night with a peculiar sensation. All was not right.

With incenses I meditated. There was a tranquil calm as nothing in the night moved but the ticking hand of a clock. I opened my eyes. We had no clock. The ticking went on. Drably, unerringly. In taking the time to listen I realised that it was not the noise of a moving hand. This was the sound of a clock that had become stuck. The second hand ticked on into infinity.

I startled and awoke. There was a spectral entity before me. Our house was well warded against ghosts. It must have been powerful. I offered it our last pear. There was a fierce light over its head that illuminated the house. I was afraid my father would wake but he did not. In fact when I next checked on him he had disappeared. I was alone with the wraith.

Its form below the neck was amorphous, always in flux. Being at one instance human-looking and the next merely a wisp. I could not see its face for the light. But the voice sounded feminine. It told me that it was one of three spirits of Christmas. Obeah teaches us that many spirits lay claim to a single day. It is irregular for three of them to share the same one.

It identified as the Ghost of Christmas Past.

I agreed that this was a fitting name, for Christmas was now over. The spirit queried if that was true. It told me to look around the house. I did so and found presents under the tree. Our larders were full and the fireworks outside suddenly silent. I went outside and gazed into the stars. The day was still Christmas. The holiday reset. A curious thing. And exactly the uneasy feeling that had been plaguing me.

The Ghost of Christmas Past then approached. It told me it needed my help. I had seen what many had failed to notice. Better – I was a child. It needed a child's aid to break the spell that had been put upon the world.

For suddenly it was Christmas every day.

Over and over. The festivities looping on eternal. Mankind had failed to see that time was no longer a straight progression of events, but rather cyclical. There could be no birth or death or defeat or progress. Just a meaningless trudge toward that twenty-fourth hour, before our actions repeated.

Even the Christmas spirits themselves were under threat. For what was past or present or future in a ceaseless Winter wonderland? They would dissolve into the ether, forgotten concepts. Or so it said. I recall thinking that our pasts would still remain. Surely Christmas Past had nothing to lose here? But I was ten at the time and did not like questioning my elders.

I agreed to help. I suited up in my father's deer mask, the bells were quite striking in the empty air. The spirit explained its thoughts to me. Christmas was a night of powerful beings across the world. Yet it knew of only one with the worship and power strong enough to pause all of time.

It needed a child's aid to capture Santa Claus...

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Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Mon Dec 26, 2016 5:55 pm

I'd heard the name Santa before. Who hadn't? Always around the time of Christmas the great Santa would appear on television advertisements. Trying to sell us fizzy drinks. It turns out he was also a powerful spirit and a Saint.

Another trait my father's religion shares with Christianity is its reverence of great men and women. These people are Saints. After death their souls linger and benefit the world. This Santa was one of them. And apparently he held quite the significance at Christmas. So much so that he could visit every house on Earth in a single night. If this is true, then it makes Santa the most powerful Saint alive (even though he's dead, I think, whatever).

Being simultaneously everywhere and nowhere means someone is 'omnipresent', or so my dictionary says. On top of this feat the Saint Santa is a universal judge of moral karma, instinctively knows who among us is conscious or not, and lives in conditions that would kill an average human. Honestly I'm surprised he is not the subject of Christian worship instead of their Jesus.

Also his pet reindeer fly. This is not important, it is just awesome.

The problem was that he'd now doomed the world to repeat Christmas every day. And the Ghost of Christmas Past could not find him. It seemed among spirits, none of them could track down the Winter Saint. So they fell back onto hearsay and rumour. Santa had been sighted before, on Earth, but only by children. This was why Christmas Past had requested my help.

It did not know what quality in children inspired these encounters. And given I had not met Santa on the first night, then obviously a change in me was needed. It said I needed to learn the 'spirit of Christmas', its pagan roots. Yet I now feel that this was a default answer it fell back onto.

It transported me elsewhere, to a land of barren rock and ice. And there was a village made of only two dozen buildings. Clutching myself against the cold I walked towards its warmth. Only when I arrived did I see that everything was locked up. The inhabitants had moved out. Gone to a place of less snow. Only one chimney was smoking, with a single fire flicking in the hearth. I knocked upon the door.

The door was answered by strange short men. I recognised them as fae. Probably a type of goblin. There were thirteen of them and they looked surprised to see me. I asked them if I could come in. After all, I'd not dressed for the weather. The goblins refused, they are not a people who share. Yet when I pleaded with them they decided to bargain. They offered me sanctuary if I would give them my shoes. This I agreed to.

When they had my shoes the goblins closed the door in my face.

Now without footwear the cold acted faster on me. I found the spirit of Christmas Past once more and complained that there was no lesson to learn here. It shook its head and remained silent. Then, out of the wastelands approached a cat. I could not tell at first, but as it came closer I realised the feline was bigger than a house. I hoped it was friendly.

The giant monsters are never friendly.

It clawed at me and chased me for a time. I slipped on ice and fell down a ravine of glacial frost. It loomed over me menacingly, waiting for me to move. Cats like to play with their food. Fortunately the cat then paused. It sniffed the mask I had acquired off my dad. Having done that, it snarled and then slunk away.

The danger gone, Christmas Past suddenly returned (no, she isn't on my Christmas card list) and told me that the cat was called... it was called something difficult to spell. It was a monster that ate children who had not received any new clothes for Christmas. Like my mask.

I then understood what the lesson was. The goblins taught me that giving did not necessarily mean receiving. The cat taught me that receiving did not teach you the true value of a gift. Christmas Past was pleased.

“These Christmas Spirits represent indifference. The goblins could have hurt you, but they did not, so they were not evil. The cat spared your life, but not for your sake, so it was not good.”

I was ready for the next lesson...

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Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Tue Dec 27, 2016 6:58 pm

The spirit next dropped me off in a much warmer land. It was still dark out and the signs of people had grown exponentially. I saw some of the billboards were in Spanish, and so assume we were in Guatemala or El Salvador or one of those other countries. I still had no shoes, but decided I could go without.

For such a late hour the streets were bustling. Strings of lights decorated street columns and carol singers serenaded a market of happy drunken people. The atmosphere was infectious. But what I was drawn to instead was the unseen spiralling of faeries drifting on the breeze.

I ran after one of these small creatures until I had her cornered. She was even more beautiful than the fae that live in my home forest. I asked her what she was doing. She claimed to be delivering gifts to the townsfolk, as made by a charcoal man. I requested to meet with this generous man. The fairy led me on a hike, out of the town and over the sloping hills. From out of the night mountains loomed, and there, sat in a farmyard, was a giant of a man.

He was so tall that the barn looked like a doll house to him. He was exponentially hairy, not just from his face, but all over. The giant listened as the fairy introduced me and was delighted to make my acquaintance. He was sorry to hear about the dilemma. But he was the first to deny that Santa could be the culprit. Knowing the Saint, he said, he could not imagine Santa acting this way. After all, he had taught the man everything he knew.

This was Olentzero – the last giant of the Bask country.

In hearing I needed to learn the true meaning of Christmas, Olentzero told me of his origins. Once there had been a whole race of his kind. They lived unopposed, but then one night a luminous cloud appeared in the sky. It was too bright for most to look into. Only Olentzero could, for he was almost blind. In that cloud the giant saw the birth of a great man (that part of the story is not important, just more Christian stuff that I'm told I don't believe in). He realised that the birth of this great man meant the death of his own people. Christianisation was coming.

The giants wanted to fight against it, but Olentzero refused to join them. He requested help dying. But in trying to grant him this request, the rest of the giants perished instead. Olentzero was spared that day and forced to live through that which he feared. But he did not lash out at change like his kin had tried to, instead he accepted it. He became the world's first giver of gifts.

I wondered aloud whether he felt any hurt at the loss of his people. He claimed that he did. But all that made him realise was that family should be treasured. And he tried to make others realise this. Believing himself scorned by his own god, the giant still strove to do good.

Christmas Past returned and Olentzero waved goodbye. My next visit was a short one.

We came across a dingy run-down workshop. There was an old man in the corner, taking handfuls of nuts and sweets before fastidiously wrapping them in cloth. Even as I approached, a roof beam dropped to the ground with a loud crash, startling us both. The old man looked up from his work and squinted at me quizzically. He was not used to visitors.

We shared a cup of milk (of which there was not much) and he told me who he was. He called himself Grandfather Frost. He was nowhere near as old as Olentzero. He claimed to have been 'invented' in the nineteen forties. He spoke of a time where religion had been disallowed and so thus the celebration of Christmas. The only way the authorities would permit the festival was to bring forth a new icon. A symbol who embodied charity but with no religious overtones.

From this cold calculated political manoeuvring, Grandfather Frost was born.

He was a source of scant cheer at an otherwise humourless time. And what was his thanks? As soon as the regime had been overrun, and full Christmas reinstated, his people forgot him. Worse, they'd violently rejected him as a puppet of the cruel politicians. He was denounced and cast out.

Yet here he was, using what little magic he had left to give to those less fortunate. Grandfather Frost didn't think he'd be around for much longer. One day he would be forgotten completely. And then he would cease to be.

I returned to Christmas Past and told her what I had learned. It was easy to give when nothing but good things happened to you. Those that could give even as they suffered were to be treasured.

“These Christmas Spirits represent virtue. Olentzero loves his new family, even if they killed his old. Grandfather Frost continues to devote himself to his comrades, even as they actively reject him.”

By this point I was in tears. I stubbornly refused to believe that Father Christmas, the supposed best of the lot, could betray these principles. Christmas Past listened to my pleas silently and then departed. I awoke back in my own house. The infernal clock was still ticking. It was still Christmas Day.

Resignedly, I went to meet the next spirit...

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Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Wed Dec 28, 2016 6:43 pm

The house was no longer empty. A perfect stranger sat at our dining placements surrounded by more food than existed in the house. Even sitting he was taller than me – seven foot I dare say. He had about his head a crown of holly. His cheeks were puffed while his bulbous nose was veined, such as good drinkers are want to have.

I liked him immediately. He was warm and inviting, and possessed good wit. Yet when I settled too well into my seat he changed his tone. He reminded me that a grave task still awaited. I'd doubted Christmas Past and the assertion that Santa Claus was the cause of our woe. He now promised to teach me the last lesson. The darker side of Christmas.

The jolly giant raised a flaming torch – he was the Ghost of Christmas Present.

Naturally he finished the meal before we left. We were trapped in a time loop, he said, that meant we had all the time in the world. I noticed he wore a scabbard with no sword. But when I offered to help him find it he laughed uproarishly. There never was a sword to go with the scabbard. When I asked about my brothers he told me not to worry about them. Christmas Present had many siblings as well. More than twenty-hundred at his last guess.

He explained that each spirit of the Present lived for a single day. As the day grew old they would wither and die, handing over the torch to their newly born sibling. This caused them to live every day as if it was their last. Thousands of generations of Presents – all experiencing life to its fullest. And none was more joyous than Christmas Present.

And if you're wondering; he made the 'present' pun first before I could.

We left the house and arrived in a valley cold and high between mountains. The fire from Present's torch kept me warm this time. He pointed to a large forest and we kept watch. Eventually a small petite woman strode out of the trees and towards a set of houses. She passed us without a word, as if we were not there, but I think she sensed us. We followed her to a clearing where two children were throwing rocks at a stray dog. I noticed then that one of her feet was that of a swan.

I moved fast. One moment she was a pleasant woman, the next, she'd transformed into an evil old hag. She took one of the boys by the leg, dragging him to the ground. The other ran off in terror. She cackled to herself and drew back her crooked nails. I threw myself on top of the boy and took the first lash.

The hag hesitated for a moment. Then she chided me for getting in the way. She said the boy was evil and that she had come to open up his chest and fill him full of what he was in spirit. Trash. It was what he deserved. Being young and idealistic, I argued that the kid could change. That he be given a chance to change.

The hag cackled again. She said he had been given chances. He'd been evil for many a holiday now. She'd only come finally because he had done something unforgivable. He had made his brother evil as well. Now the kid's brother had several Christmas' to change his ways. Else suffer the same fate.

Distraught, I still stood defiant, when suddenly a gale thrust me down the valley slope. The ugly hag cried out in triumph, leaping upon the boy and tearing open his stomach. He didn't make a noise for long.

What happened next I'd rather not describe. Christmas Present demanded I watch. I didn't like him much any more.

When the hag had left, and the body lay open to the crows, I ran behind a tree to throw up. Present wanted me to believe that this scene somehow corresponded with Christmas. I did not understand and said as much to him. This behaviour was inexcusable. It was savage, brutish, and cruel. The lesson here had gone unlearned.

“Then we will watch another. And another. And another. Until you learn girl. For Santa Claus must be stopped. Or all will perish.”

A sudden blizzard picked up. When it had dissipated we were somewhere else. Inside a cramped cavern which was both warm and damp. There was a fiery glow at one end, which as I crawled towards, proved to be a brazier fed by firewood. Chiselled out of the rock was a large lounge area. There was furniture, a television, music players, and even a window that showed nothing but rock beyond. The whole place was lavishly decked out in Christmas decoration.

The only thing out of place was that gargantuan hairy beast chained in the corner.

There were two great horns on its head. Its hide was that of an animal covered in tangled black hair. Both legs were that of cloven hoofs and a long tongue dangled out of its mouth, reaching its waist. Fangs salivated as a deliberately mean continence glared back at me.

Christmas Past explained that the fiend was called the Krampus. It had already had its day this year, usually let loose in the time preceding Christmas. It brought nothing but beatings to children. And next to a certain Saint, it was the most powerful of the Christmas spirits. This was because it was the dark side of Santa. The anti-Santa.

And if I didn't learn the lesson fast, he would release Krampus to teach it instead...

[P.T.O] Page 4/7

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Thu Dec 29, 2016 6:06 pm

Cruelty exists in the world. One would assume it too has a purpose. Yet when I was ten, that was a thought far from my head. I sat down opposite the chained Krampus and tried desperately to think. Learning had never been my strong suit. I did not know what prompts to give.

I began by asking it to confirm what Christmas Present had said. It agreed that it was a spiritual force in tandem with Santa (only it said this with much emphasis on swearing), and that if it was released it would whip me until it saw the bones of my rib-cage. I countered that it could only harm those that had misbehaved, and I had been good. It laughed scornfully at this and listed several times where I had disobeyed my elders.

It's Santa who was the saint, not me.

This showed me that it too had intimate knowledge of my deeds and misdeeds. Like Santa. So he was indeed connected. I next queried why, if everyone had sinned, only certain people, children at that, were singled out. It asked a question back.

“If you have to ask then why not release me? You with butterflies in your head of a world so pure and good. Yes I'm sadistic, yes I'm powerful, yes I could kill you. But should that stop you from doing good by me?” (again edited for swearing, yeesh)

I shook from his words and then slowly stood. I reached for the shackles and grabbed hold of the iron pin. But before removing it I had a brainwave. I pulled back and turned away. The Krampus shouted obscenely, yanking at his bonds. I turned to Christmas Present. I told him what I thought. While good-will was infectious, so was bad-will. A single bad egg is normal. A bad running yolk would sour the souls of many. The latter was unacceptable. There was evil in this world that could not be turned. The only solution was obliteration.

Christmas Present nodded, “These Christmas Spirits represent the greater good. Frau Perchta and the Krampus seize upon a kindness taken too far. If you indulge an unconquerable evil, then you merely harm those that surround.”

The Krampus spat flame and demanded release. Ignoring him, Christmas Present walked over to a decoration fixed to the wall. It was a large birch twig belonging to the Krampus which he now took down. This he handed to me and told me its origins. He said the weapon came from an aspect of Santa and could thus kill the Saint. Wielded by me, it would put a stop to Santa's insanity.

Upon hearing this the Krampus burst out laughing. I asked him why. It called us stupid. It said that Santa would never do such a thing. We were on a wild goose chase.

Christmas Present returned us to our house. I had learned the three lessons. I therefore knew the true meaning of Christmas. Like Past, he suspected Santa would appear to me now. He tucked me into bed and told me to wait silently. To listen for jingle bells.

I did as he instructed, and waited all night. Come the dawn no sign of Santa had emerged. The spirit returned to me and professed his astonishment at this. He had no other suggestions that would let us catch up with Santa. He was about to give up on me when I myself had an idea.

I was used to these bolts of inspiration by now. I told Present to take me to the Coca Cola factory.

Being Christmas Day (still) the factory was closed. But on one wall was a massive picture of the Santa mascot, displayed in all his glory. To me, this was the centre of Santa. All the myths and magic I associated with him came from this merchandise endorsement. While it was true children would encounter the Winter Saint from time to time, these kids were likely blessed with awe and wonder and an imagination run wild. This building did all of these things for me.

I told Present that I would spend the night here and see what happened.

My father must have wondered where I had disappeared to. And on Christmas Eve too. But my mission was important. I was tucked up under the sheets of a makeshift bed under a hastily erected festive tree. It was long into the night when I heard the first noise.

Jingle bells. Reindeer hooves on the roof. Santa had arrived.

I crawled out my bed and hid in the corner, clutching the Krampus' birch twig. There was a soft thud of boots entering the factory. A portly figure moved ponderously across the darkened panels and explored the small decorations I had left. Here he was. The manipulator of reality. The spirit that could bend the laws of time itself so that he could visit every house on Earth in one night. And now he had finally gone too far.

I readied my weapon and crept up upon the Saint. I was shaking like a leaf. I had never killed anyone before. And I was going to start with Father Christmas. They were all relying on me. The people of the world and Christmas Present and Christmas Past. I couldn't afford to be a child now. My role was that of a shaman.

Yet before I could touch him. A new figure materialised in front of me.

It was a spirit smelling of charcoal and poppy seeds. It was covered from head to toe in a large all consuming cloak. The hood hid its face perfectly. What I could see of its fingers were skeletal. The grim reaper came to mind. It put a hand on my shoulder and teleported me away.

I screamed at the newcomer that it was interfering. I had steeled my nerves but I couldn't do that for long. If it did not take me back soon, I would fail in my task. Santa would get away. And the world would remain Christmas, forever and ever. The spirit made no sounds and said no words. It stared at me mutely and the duende inside me translated this perfectly.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come wanted me to stop and think...

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Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Fri Dec 30, 2016 6:28 pm

“I did what you spirits wanted, didn't I? I took your dumb lessons and I went your scary places and I didn't even fall asleep or nuffin when you were explaining things! And it weren't even important! It didn't matter whether I knew your stuff of not! Cus Santa didn't care about that junk! So what else? Huh?! What else could you throw at me? CMON! I'm not as stoopid as my brothers say I am!”

Things That Never Were - Page 2 22317033.549e3ebf8274c

“I knooow! I know things need to return to normal! Christmas is wonderful, but we can't have it every day. I had Santa there! I was- I was gonna do it! I was gonna stop him! Please take me back. He'll be gone soon!”

“N-No. I don't want to. But that's not important! It has to be done! Only I can do it! Don't you know that? The other spirits did! I don't understand what you mean when you say 'think'. I don't think you know either. I think that you don't really care! You spirits come here and you judge us! And you push us and you hurt us if we're too weak or slow or lacking a moral. Why don't you just leave me alone?!”

Things That Never Were - Page 2 Yet-to-come

“Wh-Where am I? Are you pointing at her? Weren't you listening? I don't care!”

“He's the Ghost of Christmas Yet to come. You're not where. You're when.”

“Huh? You're me. But you're...” o.o

“Older.”

“He wants me to speak to myself. But...”

“You're asking too many questions. Think about it. When I was your age the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come brought me here. To speak to an older me.”

“So that means... we escape the time loop. I save Christmas.”

“Actually you save every day except Christmas, but yeah.”

“Th-Then why- What is there to talk about?”

“You're asking questions again. We don't believe in that.”

“So? You're keeping a diary. I told dad last week we'd never do that.”

“I thought of a way to justify it. Look Kiara, I've been where you've been. You're about to kill a man. It's your first time. It won't be your last. The Krampus was right. Sometimes there are those you have to slay in order to preserve harmony. However... Have you listened to your gut?”

“My gut?”

“We have inside us a duende. And I'm not sure even now. But I think he tells us things. Things that give us good instincts. Killing is a big moral choice. Have you listened?”

“But the spirits said-”

“Who cares what the spirits said! Erm. N-No offense Yet To Be.”

Spoiler:

“So you're saying don't kill him?”

“No.”

“So you-”

“Kiara. I'm never going to tell you what you did. That's predestination. You will do what you do and you will live with it. And if it's what I did you will sit where I sit in years to come.”

“And... if I don't make the right choice?”

“Then we've doomed reality. That would be on both of us.”

“Please. I don't think I can... I don't think I can kill Father Christmas, of all people.”

“Don't be silly. When you need to you will find the strength inside yourself. You have many flaws Kiara. You are forgetful, you cannot do sums in your head, you're slow, and you're dense, and I just realised a little bit whiny-”

“A-And I'm not good with kids.”

“Heh heh, yes. But there is one thing you will always be. Cannot fail to be.”

“You will be wise.”

[P.T.O] Page 6/7

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Sat Dec 31, 2016 10:51 am

I left my elder self behind with her diary. I'm a lot nicer a person nowadays, by the way. My Kiara was much meaner than I was. No, seriously. You'll have to forgive me if I digress. It's late and it's Christmas in the morning. But I thought I should conclude this quickly after my conversation.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Be returned me to the moment that I'd been abducted from. It seems Santa is not the only Christmas spirit able to manipulate time. I was once more at the back of Santa.

Something odd was indeed happening with how I perceived the Saint in time. He seemed to move in slow motion, every footstep sounded louder and longer than it should, each movement he took scattered after-images behind him. I got a headache just watching.

It occurred to me that time did not matter to Santa. He did not experience things by their duration. I dropped the birch twig onto the floor and turned around. I asked him how long he'd been watching.

The real Father Christmas was stood behind me. I now saw him normally, suggesting he matched his time presence to mine. Do I need to describe him? He was everything the adverts showed. A jolly, fat, red clothed man. A bobbled hat on his head and a sack of gifts over his shoulder. And although his smile was kindly his words were accusatory.

I would soon try to kill him.

I cried and fell to my knees, I hugged his boots and claimed it was true. The Saint patted my head and spoke to me by name. He said I was a good child. He didn't know why I would attempt such a thing. His gaze lifted off me for a moment. I struck then. I used my astral power to pull the birch twig to my hand and held it under his chin.

Then I listened to my gut.

I told him to name what I'd gotten for Christmas. I knew because I'd lived the day many times by now. He said the bud of a beautiful laceleaf plant. I asked him if it came from him. He confirmed that it did. I threw down the birch twig. Such a thoughtful gift needed time to grow. In a world that was Christmas every day it would never realise its full beauty. Santa didn't do this.

It might seem like bad reasoning to you, but for me it was clear as day. I apologised deeper than I've ever apologised to anyone in my life and told Santa the situation. Despite his mastery over time, the Saint hadn't noticed that time was looping either. He was as much in the dark as most of the human population.

The difference is he wasn't worried.

He was very optimistic. He knew things would work themselves out. He commended me for my help, praised me for my good sense, and agreed with my disparaging assessment of the other spirits. He said they'd been very naughty. The phrase caught in my mind.

With still half the world to visit, Santa offered me a ride on his sleigh. He said I would see more lands and warm hearts than I ever had before in my life. I thanked him but refused. I'd learned too much needlessly tonight already. I did, however, meet his reindeer. Donner was my favourite, especially when Santa told me some people call him Dunder. The poor thing.

I waved goodbye to Santa as he dashed off into the night sky. I was renewed with hope for the future and glad I hadn't made the mistake of killing an innocent spirit. Even if the true culprit was still at large. I recall thinking that the other spirits would probably feel guilty too when they heard.

It was then I had a brainwave. The other spirits had been very naughty.

I got into contact with Christmas Past again and had it teleport me to a new location. The last place the Sun set upon the day of Christmas. An island somewhere in the Specific Ocean. It was there that we beheld a horrifying sight. Christmas Present lay hunched over a meal, voraciously shovelling pieces of it into his mouth and tearing chucks out of its raw flesh. Then he saw us. Such was the terror in his eyes he couldn't stop eating.

Christmas Present was feasting on the life-force of his newborn brother. To perpetuate this day eternal.

Fa la la la la.

Page 7/7

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Tue Oct 31, 2017 7:00 am

- I can see people's souls. I have no problem admitting this. It's when I can't see them I say nothing.

- As the birthing commenced, the Director of AMO explained the years of effort and sacrifice that went into the creation of his eldritch abomination. I looked into the merciless eyes of the newborn monstrosity and answered, “We've already met.”

- The inhabitants on the other side of the weakened veil never stop pounding against the barrier. They left the message “It's your problem now.” I think they've almost boarded it up.

- Smile dog jay-peg is nasty, it can screw a person up, yet I have seen many make full recoveries. But the victims of smile dog em-kay-vee... Let's just say the head-sets weren't empty when I buried them.

- Aliens are real now, I guess, you see them on the news all the time. I remember a farmer confronting one on some talk show, demanding an explanation to his abduction experience. The alien blanched and replied, “You're kidding. That happened to me too.”

- A couple brought a photo to my father. They were standing in their house, a pale-faced crone was peering around the door behind them. My father was able to inform them that their house was not haunted, they were glad.

- Upon the frozen mountain they found his glasses, phone, boots, and a strange wooden carving depicting a grotesque squid thing. The next day he walked into camp, explaining his miraculous survival. We killed him while he slept.

- There is a being living in the eye of a needle who reckons he has the cure for insanity. Passing through his domain convinces anyone that they're really too sane for the experience.

- The noise came from the attic. I told the children to hold my staff, I would be back. It was only after I got up there that I realised the sound had been digging.

- There are fae realms in the forest, forgotten portals that stragglers tend to wander into. Strange worlds with buoyant vapours, blue twitching ivy, and trees sporting ghastly faces. The latter makes it back out; eventually.

- If you watch a broken tv long enough you begin to recognise the channel that hasn't been lost, the channel that's always been there, hidden by the chatter and noise of the others. Its offers puppet shows, craft programs, and live hidden camera broadcasts; never with a presenter on screen and definitely not suitable for children. Tune in often and it even starts to address you by name.

- The ritual said to light a lone candle at the hour of two and to chant the magic phrase into the reflective surface opposite, you will see your future husband to be. Don't let the candle extinguish, or it will get you. Mine blew out, but I was hovering outside a thirty storey window; it missed.

- Does the light in the fridge stay on when it closes? Seriously, it keeps me up at night.

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Thu Feb 14, 2019 6:51 pm

What number of us actually ever encounter our soulmates? There must be thousands of people in the world, and so the chances are very remote. Made harder by the fact it's so difficult to recognise you've found them when you've found them.

If the gossip is anything to be believed (and I find so frequently it is) then your soulmate should complete you. They'll resonant with your personality, reassure your anxieties, and finish off your sentences.

I mean, I like finishing my own sentences, but that other junk sounds pretty cool.

Of course there are several problems with the belief that don't stand up to scrutiny. For example, if everyone has one then that includes the vilest of people. The loners, despisers, and graceless. People who could not even love themselves. And what if your betrothed is dead? What if they do not speak your language? What if they lived in a time long passed? Or yet to come?

And the biggest – who's making these matches? When the soul is spawned whoever is responsible must specifically make the counterpart. And then separate both. In a twist as sheer in its thoughtfulness as in its cruelty.

The idea of a soulmate is wishful thinking on behalf of schoolgirls. And despite what my brothers may say, I never believed in none of it.

Well until I met mine.

Okay, I'm not hard to impress. I've had my fair share of crushes and fancies. But the figure who walked in on me that morning took my breathe away. I was conscious of my attention being taken off of everything but him. Although I did not relate this to attraction immediately. Because there were very good reasons to ogle and gape at him. He was, after all, a demon.

It wasn't subtle. I think the term 'demon' is thrown around a little loosely these days. I recall my mother referring to her children as that on more than one occasion. But this... dreamboat was a strapping seven foot, with flaxen hair, skin the colour and consistency of muscle fibre, and bore a magnificent pair of oiled mandibles. My heart beat a little faster.

You might have done me credit and realised this isn't usually my type. I tend to the significantly more mortal. But souls are funny things. To some beings and places they are little more than currency, ready to be passed around. And this demon had gotten a hold of a very useful one where I was concerned. It was the soul of my soulmate. And the demon had eaten it.

He said as much. As he took my hand in his greasy tendrils and brought a bright flush to my cheeks. I confess I made a damn fool of myself. I wasn't able to form coherent sentences. Or present myself in any fashion befitting a slayer of the damned. I have resisted the charm spells of fae before. But whatever defences I possessed were overcome by the simple and pure fact that my feelings were natural born.

His name was Saleos. I want to stop there, but I'm compelled to write of him now. He wasn't just a Duke but a Great Duke, with his own crown which he really pulled off. He rode a crocodile and it didn't even try to bite him. He abhors violence and champions preservation. I don't remember his jokes, but I'm confident they were very funny. At any rate I laughed.

And he wanted me to surrender my soul.

After all we were a predestined couple. We could not hope to be as happy as when we were together. I would give him my soul and he would give me his. Y'know; the stolen one. You had to admit, it was a clever plan. My Saleos is very clever.

But we could only trade our souls in marriage. And marriage was sacred. Sacred and demons don't mix so well. But fortunately Saleos knew several non-religious ceremonies. Cue the wedding planning stage which I, uh, kind of enjoyed.

We settled on something he called a 'love letter ceremony'. We lock two love notes and a bottle of wine (or rum, he wanted rum) inside a box, ready to unlock at a later celebration. Usually an anniversary. I picked the 100th. I guess he lives a long time because he didn't bat an eyelid at that. The love notes contained what you would expect. Heartfelt platitudes directed at one another. I tried to sketch his handsome face. But it didn't come out too well.

When the wedding was done he came to me in the night and demanded his prize. He wanted my soul. I told him I could not give it him. I had fused my soul to the love note I'd written, and sealed it inside the box. To unlock the box before the chosen time would void the marriage.

I don't like tricking Saleos. But he had to have guessed I would be as clever as him.

He was forced to surrender the soul he'd stolen. His plans thwarted. He graces me with his presence from time to time. And it's left me with this 'thing' for tentacles (I have burned all my brother's manga). But I think he realises I won't be a meek wife. I have hidden the marriage box in a place neither of us are likely to find as a precaution.

And if I can find some way to reincarnate my soulmate's soul, I might be able to annul the whole deal. In the meantime, I keep it safe. I can't walk around with no soul after all. My body's as good a place as any to put it.

Subject: Re: Things That Never Were Thu Dec 19, 2019 5:35 pm

There are some who question Kiara's omens. That she was finding significance in the insignificant. That she wasn't adhering to the tried and tested, properly documented lists of signs and their subsequent interpretation. But augury had always been an inexact syience. Some people even told her that it was not one. And so she stood by her initial impressions.

It did not matter that hundreds, maybe thousands, of people had listened to the song before her. She knew when she heard it that there was something crazy going on in Acapulco. And that they would soon have need of her.

Kiara arrived by ship. She'd heard it was a famous port and so she thought she'd try to hitch a lift. This was before her long time spent afloat in the Specific. She still kinda liked boats. She got onto a cruise ship and it found its way to the city she wanted. The passengers were warned about wandering into the old district. And an elderly couple warned Kiara that there were many gangs made violent by drugs. This she thankfully did not experience.

The problems had already begun. Crazy was an apt descriptor, for a small chunk of the population had started hearing voices in their heads. But this was not mass histeria. People reported that these voices were unfamiliar yet known to them.

They were the voices of their story-book creations.

Their characters were speaking to them. Treating them very much like agony aunts. These pieces of personality on paper had gained a sort of awareness that transcended their medium. They could see what their human was doing, and converse without filter. Direct access to their creator, like Christians prefer to believe they have.

This brought about a variety of problems. Privacy being chief among them. Kiara hadn't read many books (shocker), but she gathered from this experience that there could be upwards of a dozen people created for any one story. Which pretty much ensured there was always someone to accompany the creator when they engaged in more personal activities. Bathing, sleeping, pooping, using romance books.

The voices could get demanding, pleading, scathing, or just plain irritating and the writers would have no place to turn. They could not avoid their creations and were slowly being driven mad by incessant contact. Like when Kiara's little brother wouldn't stop following her when he was three.

At least one victim she knew deafened himself. She believed he'd written a crime novel. Something about the killer describing his deeds in detail. You'd think if he wrote it, he could handle it. But this was not the case. A shame the voices continued despite his handicapped state. Kiara suggested he write one of those talking pony things to balance it out.

Another problem came from characters asking their creators to fix their lives. They naturally held these pen pushers to be the cause of all their woes. So they demanded restitution, resolution, restoration, revolution, and a better body. Fixes to anything and everything. Some went further and begged for power that could change their worlds or indeed their universe as we know it.

This was more easily solved. The authors who were tempted soon found they could no longer effect or command their creations. A few of them explained it to Kiara in a way that sounded right. The creations had begun to 'write themselves'. This came as a disappointment to those who thought to end the voices simply by writing a death to the character in question. Probably prompting further verbal abuse when it failed.

There were those who formed relationships with their characters. Like souls who traded history. Tutors and spiritual advisors and drinking buddies. A little girl who made her own friend. The occasional marriage that Kiara preferred not to hear the details of.

Some tried to learn from their creations. But technology or magic that did not exist in Kiara's universe did not spontaneously come into being simply because of this instruction. A jetpack would have been cool. But mostly she was glad universal knowledge was not furthered by this event.

However, these magiks and technologies must have been working back in the story-book dimension. Because a screenwriter came to her concerned that his creations had built a reality killing superweapon (she concluded they were just messing with him). One person claimed to have been dragged into his book by evil antagonists (he got better). And at least one woman ended up transformed into a robot (and not even a cool robot like Henry hoover).

What was clear, was that someone had created a dimension hopper. Several elves were discovered (different to real elves), a giant gorilla attacked a casino, and several historical figures were revived (though Tzul was uncertain whether the gorilla counted as historical). Many more besides could have gone unnoticed.

The news called it the Fourth Wall Fissure.

The Fourth Wall was like how people on a tv screen never looked directly at you. Their blind spot. The wall lay there, and the Fissure had drawn attention to it. Now the characters were using the knowledge of their fictionality to try and do something about it.

Naturally Kiara could not allow this and vowed to resolve it.

Her first attempt was to write up a character of her own to be her eyes and ears on the other side. She wrote from what she knew. So she made them like herself and called them Keiza. It didn't turn out so great. After she'd written the concept, Keiza began to write herself.

She kept repeating the same trite phrases and throwing her history and beliefs into every other sentence. Nothing Kiara said surprised, upset, or unbalanced her at all. She would often go on these long rants if she disagreed with what her creator had said, not letting them get a word in. Eventually, instead of helping, she just stuck to criticising Kiara and pretending she had some great secret that it was too early to reveal.

Tzul's back-up plan was to find the Fourth Wall. Not the Fissure. But the one she guessed her own dimension must have had. A direction the people of her reality never thought to look. She borrowed a compass and checked each point. When that failed she instead used it to- But you don't care how she did it. I'm just slowing the story down.

And when she'd succeeded Kiara could hear a voice. A voice giving general narration to things that were happening around her. It explained things as they happened and as they were about to happen. He knew her inner dialogue and her history in detail, which he seemed to taunt her with.

Given The Narrator was behind everything currently happening, Kiara thought it stood to reason that he was also behind the Fourth Wall Fissure. She asked him why he had done this (although he stated she'd only asked this because she was a hypocrite when it came to her 'so-called' philosophy of ignorance). He told her that he'd caused the Fissure because it was entertaining. And that it would be some kind of juice machine if he himself was made to fix it. So he wouldn't lift a finger to help. She would have figure it out alone.

Kiara tried to make her case, but The Narrator called her unimaginative and inconsistent in her vocabulury. He narrated that she would eventually get a clue and stop whining to him for help, because she would realise he could give her nits or make her derp when talking to a boy or maybe bring back the umbrella.

At the same time, Keiza was pretending that she'd already expected all of this. And that Kiara was stupid for wasting everyone's time on this sub-plot. And we all knew Keiza was going to save the day anyway.

"Hey. Can't I just write one of those self stories?" Kiara asked.

Having since asked around, I now knew one of those stories was called an auto-biography.

"Yeah. That. If I write the story of what I'm doing myself. Then I don't have to ask for the help of this asshat in the sky or the spoiled brat in my head."

Neither The Narrator or Keiza liked that answer. But they still thought she was talking to them.

"So I'll fix the Fissure that way. I'll write myself doing it. And if you don't back off-"

The Narrator tried to narrate Kiara into drinking one of her memory robbing potions. But as he spoke a fly caught in his throat. The shaman struck the ground with her staff, channelling her astral energies into the direction of the Fourth Wall. The rift began to heal, but not before it stung Keiza a lot in her stupid face.

Of course The Narrator tried to compensate for his voice by typing his next additions. But he noticed as he did so that he was fading out of existence. A character in someone else's story. Discarded because he didn't quite pan out as they were expecting. They would try again. Probably with a nicer Narrator. One who would give his creations a break or two, maybe a cool talking animal sidekick, and a damn love interest.

And so The Narrator as we knew him was gone. The Fissure was contained. And everything was back to normal. Kiara was finally recognised for her hard work and paid for once. Then she was let back aboard the cruise liner where she could relax in some peace and quiet and get a little writing done.

Somehow she doubted that The Narrator was the only being out there who could break the Fourth Wall. But clearly it was an ability that was going to muck with the universal balance of knowledge. So if any of them were out there, she very much hoped they read this story. And understood to stay well clear of her.

P.S. She had yet to meet her talking animal sidekick.

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