Hi guys!! So happy to have found the 2024 group!!! . I have gained so so sooo much respect for women through this process already it’s incredible what our bodies go through and a lot of women continue to go to work through all of this! I’m due Jan 14th and i have been dealing with terrible nausea and vomiting. So much so that i can’t keep anything down. Haven’t had a full bottle of water (only drinking gatorade zero right now lol). I feel like i’ve tried all of the holistic remedies possible! I just wake up feeling so terrible and then around 6-10 pm get a burst of energy and am finally able to shower or clean.
I called my doctor to ask for advice and they recommended Unisom and B6 which seemed to help great on the first day but now am back to vomiting and nausea. Has anyone ever tried Zofran?
I guess I’m just wondering if anyone is going through the same experience as me because it seems like a lot of other women are powering through and i dont understand how😭 thank you🫶🏽

My ex and I (both single and in our mid 30s) have now known each other for almost 8 years. We dated for 3.5 years (2016 - 2019) before I ended things. From that moment we have remained steadfast friends (we both regularly say that we are each others best friends). Throughout the years we have fallen into situations where we have slept together, and then reverted back to our traditional friendship. We did attempt to date again after late 2021, which was great for 6 months before we broke up again (issues outlined later in this story). Since then we have both been on our own significant personal growth journeys, me struggling with an ADHD diagnosis along with going back to therapy to delve into some childhood traumas. For her, she has done a tonne of work into her own personal growth around setting boundaries (learning to put herself first before helping others), communication and not being afraid to pursue her own path regardless of other people’s thoughts.
Throughout all of this we have both been each others biggest supporters, always available to each other through this all.
Recently, we both have been seeing a therapist together to delve into our conflicts from our past relationships and address the old negative feelings that would resurface from time to time. This was a great experience for us both and has allowed us to both take our communication to the next level as we peeled back the layers of hurt by learning and understanding what the other may have been experiencing / been through during those moments of conflict.
During one of these sessions recently, she said that she is bisexual and wants her next relationship to be with a woman. She has been with women before, but this was her defining it and owning it (as prior to this moment, i was one of a very few people who knew this). After the session, we were talking and I admitted that i had growing feelings for her that were becoming stronger as we progressed through our sessions. Rather than hiding it (as i would before) our new-found transparency allowed us to have this conversation and we talked it through, but she was very clear about wanting to explore this new path.
A few days after this conversation, she reached out and opened the conversation with how she had been feeling extremely horny recently, and wanted to know if I’d be open to some casual sex. I was initially hesitant, but after some thought I agreed as long as we set some boundaries.
I had a gardening course that was coming up over a weekend, and she signed up and joined and we agreed that the weekend away would be the moment to kick off a sexy weekend away.
The weekend came quickly and the tension was palpable. From the first moment to the last, it was incredible. This newfound communication and openness allowed for some of the hottest and freakiest sex we’ve both ever had. We pushed ourselves to our limits (which included her wanting to be dominated, which had never happened before) and in between the hot sex we would lay around and talk about anything and everything. Mostly, about things that we never shared either in our relationships or even during our friendships. Three of the things that came up were:

1. Her attraction to women wasn’t new but after a psychedelic experience in which she was able to feel her connection to all women. She strongly feels that she wants the time and space to explore the softness and sensuality that only another woman can bring.
2. That, regardless of her new path that she has always loved me, and always will. Her openness and sexual expressiveness was her way of physically showing me how much she loves and cares for me. Her attraction to me is always there and that helped me to understand and process where I fit into everything.
3. The third was understand that her fears were not around dating me, but around the fear of expectation. Relationships come with labels and expectations and she wants to be free from all of that so that she can freely explore her relationships (both sexual and romantic) with women.

She talked extensively about her fantasies of having a threesome with myself and another woman. Towards the end of the weekend I asked her whether what she wants is closer to polyamory. She said she hadn’t thought about it. I said I had before, since my pursued relationships post our breakup never amounted to much in comparison to the depth of feelings I have towards her. I have never wanted to get married, or have kids and over the past few years I have been more into casual encounters, never really meeting anyone I wanted to date exclusively. I remember laughing and saying something along the lines of ‘wouldn’t it be a perfect situation if I could have your love, continue to fuck you silly, while allowing you the freedom to go out and explore relationships with women’.
She looked at me, I looked at her and we both laughed. Why not? The more I thought about it, the more it began to make sense. We’re not jealous lovers. We discussed what we’d both want from this situation. My desires would be to be the only guy she fucked while being free to pursue other women. For her, she wants the freedom to explore hookups and relationships with women, but to do this from the safety and understanding of ‘us’. A place of reciprocated love, supported by amazing communication and exploration.
It’s not easy to get this all across. There’s the potential for this to be amazing, but with obvious risks. The more we talk about it, the more I’m opening up to the idea, but wanted some input from you ‘internet experts’.

Analyzing...] [ Disassembly Required ] Error: Disassembly cannot be performed due to no present of the test subject Initializing export info... {Exported complete} - Name: Murder Drone V - Type: Killer Drone - Code name: Angel of Death - Usage: Destroy any robot that retaliates or may possesses potential threat to [company] - Description: From afar It may look like an angel to the untrained human eyes. Upon closer look it maybe your last nightmare and the worst one at that with fear and traumatization from every point of observation - Danger: Unprecedented level to any robot within its range or been spotted ====[ Equipped with: ]==== 1. A normal slim body with sturdy frame 2. Very dynamic joints for multiple types of movements with flexibility 3. Two very noticeable metal claw wings [ maybe used for both offense and defense ] 4. Two multi-tools arm can be configured to new weapons and tools of choice 5. The optical image sensor are placed behind some sort of screen that functions both as displaying eyes (emotions included) and info for diagnostic. 6. The mouth is what you would find from animatronics in FNAF 7. A very long metal liked tail can usually be thought as a whip with an iron needle at the end and a questionable high energy blade? 8. State of the art AI capable of simulating basic human emotions and has more personality then Siri. 9. Five unknown lamp or some sort of illumination bulb on the hair like some sort of hair clipper. 10. Confirmed self repair ability by using nano-bot
====[ Mode: ]==== 1. Kill mode (XX): When double X is fully displayed on the display, it is in "Kill mode", and should be avoided by all non-human counterpart. It's preferred method of killing is beheading. It is also unknown if these killing machine will be hostile towards human.
[⚠ Warning one or many drones (depend on the number) will go on a mass killing spree and will lose all sense of emotion and sympathy ⚠]

1. Normal mode

(0-0): When a murder drone's eyes are that of a normal drones eyes. It is still discouraged to approach when in normal mode, since it can switch to [KILL MODE] very easily at anytime. When [NORMAL MODE] is active. The drone will be on standby. Waiting for its next prey to come to its line of sight. When active in this mode the drone is considered neutral and no weapons are active. Please restart or take down any drones which are on normal mode, that is carrying a weapon. [⚠ Warning if you were to see one in normal mode. DO NOT APPROACH OR PROVOKE IT. Instead keep a reasonable safe distance away because you don't know how to react if one were to come at you. ⚠]

1. Standby mode ( Not yet in record of seeing one in this mode ) (Face_unknown): A mode where the drone will shut most of its component including weapon to save power on the event of power outage or freezing temperature and instead transfer that power to the heating element in order to sustain normal operation during harsh weather or a Nuclear Fallout.
   
2. Offline Mode ( Offline ): The face or more specific the part that is above the mouth will display that it is in offline mode. Possibly not connected to a server or simply diagnosing itself. Beware as the drone will remain powered on and will might attack or jump at you unexpectedly.
   

====[ Solutions: ]==== If you as a human or robot spotted any of these drones run in the opposite direction as fast as possible. Find somewhere it is dark and cold to hide yourself as the drones maybe capable of thermal seeking. Also in the case of you being a robot, It is recommended to run at least more than 1 km away from the place where the drone was last seen . Make sure to cover yourself in multiple layer of camouflage or anything to make yourself blend in with the environment. Beware as not to make sound to alert this predator.
====[ Owner ]==== - An Unknown robot parent corporations
====[ Mission Log ]==== (7:37 AM 14/12/20xx )>: Preparing for observation of the Drone (8:15 AM 14/12/20xx )>: Observation of the Drone failed due to bad weather. (8:34 AM 14/12/20xx )>: Attempting to capture a murder drone (9:00 AM 14/12/20xx )>: Detected a drone within 500 meters (11:00 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Heading North (11:35 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Approaching closer to said drone (11:35 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Deploying Camouflage barrier. Blending in with the surrounding environment. (11:40 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Attempting to knock down the drone while in standby mode. [Redacted] : It seems to be standing still in one location under the tree, Control. [Control] : Copy that now use the Zooming capability of your scope to observe what it is doing. [Redacted] : Affirmative. [Control] : Observe it for more than 5 minutes if nothing suspicious is found move closer and try to disable the drone. [Redacted] : Copy that. (11:45 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Confirmed that the robot hasn't moved for 5 minutes (11:50 AM 14/10/20xx )>: The robot seems to be displaying Offline mode (12:00 AM 14/10/20xx )>: Attempting to open the drone's internals (12:01 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Failed due to not having the correct tool (13:00 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Reported back to control center that it is not yet possible to open the drone (13:21 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Returning Back to HQ awaiting new orders (13:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Confirmed location. Autonomous ship deployed for pickup (14:00 PM 14/10/20xx )>: [REDACTED] has been picked up. (14:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: The Autonomous ship has been shot down by a nearby killing drone with a rocket. (14:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Attempting to Reconnect ... Failed (14:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Attempting to Reconnect ... Failed (14:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Attempting to Reconnect ... Failed (14:30 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Confirmed Autonomous ship has been destroyed no incoming communication signal received. (14:31 PM 14/10/20xx )>: Waiting for SOS beacon signal... ... ... ... ====[ Mission Log End ]====

anybody know what happened last night? i saw someone loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher and they turned the lights off and drove away slowly. block was blocked off by cops and heard a woman screaming when she saw the body. didnt hear any gunshots but im assuming it all went down inside the mill or another bar on the block.

https://imgur.com/a/TiEwaoN
Must be over 21 and live in California. Don’t respond unless you want to do what you’re told. No hookers, escorts, or gay males. I’m straight. Any and all gay and/or bi males will be immediately blocked.
I’m a SWM, no kids, 6’2, 200, 8.5”, drug/disease-free, non-smoker.
Let Me be clear - I’m looking for a young woman who’d like to be in a monogamous relationship which would involve the delicious dichotomy of genuine affection with you being completely sexually objectified. You would serve as My Personal FuckDoll. My Sex Slave. My Cock-Whore and Slut. You would a servant to Me akin to a maiden who’s been subjugated by a conqueror - which, as a matter of fact, would be how I’d always be fucking you - like you were the princess of a kingdom I’d just conquered.
Your first priority would always be to serve My carnal lusts, whenever that may be. Barring any kind of family or medical emergency, when I want you, you will make yourself available. Period. You will constantly strive to be a Good Little Whore for your Master, and when you please Him, He will always reward you by calling you variations of exactly that - a Good Little Whore.
Sexually, I’m very rough, forceful, and vulgar. You’d always be getting fucked like you were in a porn shoot. Your body - which would become My Personal Sexual Property - would be used as I see fit as a piece of soft, feminine flesh for your big, tall, strong Master to manhandle and ravage. Your hair will be yanked and pulled. Your throat will be grabbed. You’ll be restrained when I want to restrain you. Your mouth will be muffled when I want to muffle it. Your tits will be voraciously sucked. Your ass will be spanked. Your pussy will be licked. And it will be pounded and stretched out deep to conform to My big cock.
Afterwards, whenever I want you to, you will lay naked with your Master. Maybe we’d watch something, maybe we’d nap, maybe we’d go somewhere. Or maybe you’d simply caress and massage My athletic physique.
Everything about your appearance would be dedicated to looking good for Me to fuck. How you do your hair, your makeup, your lips, nails, earrings, skin moisturizer, all of it would be done as if you were going to a night club specifically to get hit on. And I’d control how you did your makeup, lips, nails, what kind of earrings you’d wear, as well as the more obvious things I’d be controlling, like the kind of heels you’d wear and whatnot.
I’m not into anything extreme. No piss/scat, blood, cages, or any of that kind of crap.
No experience is required. I’m very capable at breaking you in and training you.
I’m not into BBWs, and any kind of smoking or vaping is a dealbreaker. No, I’m not 420 friendly.
I play baseball in adult leagues on weekends, and you’d come to as many of My games and tournaments as you could, dolled-up per my commands.
Describe yourself and your body very specifically when you respond. Tell me what turned you on about this post, and don’t be afraid to be bold and vulgar. If you’re going to send pics, do NOT send anything naked.
I’ll take it from there.

dom #sub #socal

The entire plot of the killers in Scream 6 was to frame Sam for the killings of 5.
(un)Fortunately, the plan fails, and Sam remains exonerated.
However...
​
Sam should have been successfully framed at the end of Scream 6.
The killers' plan should have worked. Here's why...
​
- You can still kill off the Ghostfaces at the end of 6 and have police still arrest her to sort everything out. This doesn't require the killers to "win" by living... they're still dead.
- There's never been a Scream film that ends on a cliffhanger. It would actually cover new ground in terms of horror franchise tropes.
- A "bad end" is more in step with modern horror movies, anyway, and could be even more commentary. Mindy saying, "Oh, shit... it's a downer ending..." right before credits roll.
- You want odd Star Wars references in your Scream movie? Here's your Empire Strikes Back moment.
- Scream 7 would then take place around the trial of Sam Carpenter.
- It's a media circus that dwarfs ALL past movie scenes. Tons of reporters, hundreds of protestors, massive scale spectacle. Police vans FULL of idiot "Ghostfaces" who came to cause trouble are carting them away constantly.
- Every surviving cast member comes back, but they actually have a good reason this time. They're witnesses. They have to be here by law, and have no choice. Recorded depositions aren't being considered because of the Ghostface killings having a long-standing connection to edited video, faked evidence, "victims" turning out to be the murderer, etc.
- The opening kill seems like it's Tara Carpenter, being escorted by two officers, but through film-making trickery, it's revealed to actually be a body double that's murdered - the case is so high-profile, they had three "Taras" going to court to confuse any would-be killer... and Ghostface got one of them, remarking "Looks like I got the stand-in" before killing her. (Bonus points if she's played by Jenna's actual stand-in.)
- Kills taking place around court, city hall, the police station, and even prison would be amazing, especially when it comes time to reveal how the killer(s) pulled it off.
- We'd get all-new types of characters. For example - The prosecutor REALLY needs Sam to be found guilty because they botched their last case and need the win to avoid going down in disgrace. Maybe they're killing Sam's witnesses to secure the victory? That, or maybe it's the weirdo who came to the trial from across the country and keeps asking for Sam's autograph - which she won't give him?
- This would also bring back echos of Mickey's plan in Scream 2. Media circus trial, becoming the center of the nation's attention - but in this case, the defendant DOESN'T want it.
- Since it's almost a requirement to tie back to old films, there's evidence NOBODY has seen yet, and it's coming to light now that this trial is taking place. It's been locked away, kept secret, for fear of the ramifications if this evidence ever came to light publicly... Billy and Stu's tapes, showing them picking out which mask to use at a Halloween store... running through trials of how they would carry out specific complex killings from Scream 1, etc. It's all shake-cam, old VHS quality, mostly featuring Billy with Stu as the camera man - so all you'd need is Lillard's voice-overs and an occasional moment when Billy's face is on the constantly moving camera view. It's being brought out and used now so the prosecution can draw a better connection between Sam and Billy's "methods".
​
Anyway, I'm sure you get enough of an idea, now, so I'll stop.
​
I really think it was a missed opportunity, and they should've "let the bad guys win", posthumously, at the end of Scream 6... it would've been so much more interesting than a clean wrap-up, IMHO.
​

Winter 4986, 22 Aoimoth
Rasnah found Branston in the chapel of Soleil and was grateful she wouldn't have to climb the stairs to his office. She waited in the back for him to finish his prayers and blessings, the stack of heavy books weighing down her mind more than her arms. "General..." one of the parishioners greeted her in a respectful whisper as he passed, and she managed to force a smile.
"My dear Sir Rasnah, is that a library in your hands or are you just happy to see me?" Branston asked with a jovial laugh that shook his belly.
Rasnah wanted to smile for him, but he was too good a friend to deserve something fake, "I was hoping to use one of your classrooms, I assume the children are done with their studies for the day?"
The shift in Branston's demeanor was subtle, but she was relieved to see he understood her mood. He continued the smile for the sake of his priests and petitioners still mingling in the chapel. "Right this way, General." he opened the door to the courtyard for her, whispering, "Need a change of scene, my dear?"
"I need a blackboard," she explained, following him around the outer edge of the courtyard to the classrooms where the city children took their lessons. "The Temple has great rooms for planning battles, full of maps and tokens galore, but not a single blackboard."
"Seems like a great oversight," he chuckled, opening one of the classroom doors and gesturing her in, "Let us hope that fixing that particular problem isn't the only heroic accomplishment you're known for in generations to come."
Rasnah snorted out a genuine laugh at that, placing her pile on one of the tiny desks but going straight for the board. "The Clerics of Lune were able to identify four of the ten bodies from the tower," she explained, searching the tray for a large piece of chalk. "I've had someone tracing the names, but they weren't natives to Clearhelm, and they didn't come here through legal channels."
"Not surprising, considering..." he moved to stand beside her, squinting at the board, "What are you...?"
"Warlocks, Branston. We know there were Warlocks at the tower, but that's the only thing we know. What do you know about Warlock magic?"
Branston sucked in a pained breath, "Probably little more than you, my dear. Tell me what you know, and I will fill in any blanks I see."
With a sigh, Rasnah began to write on the board, speaking as she did so. She wanted to get everything out so she could actually see it, maybe draw connections she was missing from turning too many pages in too many books, "Warlock magic is neither divine nor arcane, though it is more similar to arcane in nature..."
"Except it's gifted to them by a patron, much like divine magic is gifted by the gods," Branston interjected. Rasnah had started to draw out the standard venn diagram with the 'divine' circle, and 'arcane' circle intersecting but stopped halfway through writing the word 'nature' between the two. Branston shook his head, "I'm afraid this won't work quite so cleanly in two dimensions..." he moved to the teacher's desk, taking a blank piece of paper and drawing out the venn diagram again, filling the page with the circles, so they touched the edges. Picking it up, he rolled the page into a tube, so the two circles intersected twice, "Warlock magic is the opposite of nature magic, though it has the same overlapping sources." he explained.
Rasnah groaned and erased her started 'nature' with the side of her hand, scrawling, 'warlock' in its place for simplicity's sake, "Let's just ignore nature for now then..." she tapped the new word, "Warlock magic leaves a very distinct residue, like both divine and arcane, but unlike them, it can't be accurately identified as anything other than 'warlock'..." But Branston hummed to interrupt her again.
"There are different types of warlock magic depending on the patron granting access to it," he explained, picking his own chalk and starting a list, "Demon magic from the hells, and necromantic magic from the abyss, are the two most documented..." both the hells and the abyss were seen as outside the heavenly planes, segments of the 'outer planes.'
Rasnah's nose crinkled in disgust at both examples. They were not new to her, but she hadn't known they could be identified by residual spell effects alone. Needing to make sure everything stayed clear, she recited what they both knew, "Demon magic is granted by patrons only interested in collecting souls. It can cut the ties between a person and their god, preventing them from going to the heavenly planes after death. Some accounts even state a Warlock powerful enough can cut off a Cleric or Paladin." it was the most terrifying thing any follower of the gods could imagine, but a close second was... "Necromantic magic raises the dead as undead, trapping and twisting souls in their decaying bodies."
"Do we know what kind of Warlocks we're dealing with?" Branston asked.
She shook her head in frustration, "Are there any other types?"
The Cleric nodded but then contradicted it with a shrug. When Rasnah arched an eyebrow at him, he sighed again, taking up his chalk, "Warlocks get their magic from a patron on the outer planes. Some theories suggest this is where the gods originated and that the beings who dwell there are the parents of our gods. Though 'parent' isn't the right word..." he drew out the names Hengist and Horsa side by side. Rasnah felt her nose crinkle again, a growl slipping out as he drew lines from each name up to a single word, 'law.'
He tapped the word, "Please keep in mind that all of this is theory posed by Mages and philosophers, there is no way of confirming any of it without making a pact ourselves, which obviously isn't an option..." Rasnah nodded curtly and gestured for him to continue. Branston cleared his throat, "In the outer planes exist beings of pure concepts, such as law and order. They embody ALL of the concept, even the parts that seem contradictory. Their children split these contradictions. You have to admit, my dear, that Hengist and Horsa both value law and order, only their execution of the concept contradicts each other."
"Horsa is evil." Rasnah growled.
"I'm not going to argue that, Sir Paladin, but humor me," he managed a smile and tapped the combining word again, "Warlocks make pacts with these sources and communicate with them directly. Such communication in itself is enough to drive them mad, add to the fact that the beings themselves often embody contradiction..."
"Which is why all Warlocks go mad." Rasnah interjected, "Even if they started off with good intentions for the power they gain from the pact, they all eventually end up crazy and dangerous. And most," she underlined the types of warlock magic they did know, "Start off insane..."
"Yes," Branston confirmed, tapping the types of magic as well then drawing a new word below them, 'law,' "Just as an example..." he muttered as he wrote, then louder explained, "Basically there are as many types as there may be beings to make a pact with. Unless these Warlocks have formed a pact we are already familiar with, we have no way of knowing who their patron is."
Rasnah threw her chalk into the tray in frustration, "Damn it, we know so little..."
The classroom door slipped open, and an elderly priest poked his head in before pulling back into the hall, speaking to someone there, "I found her, Sir."
A young Paladin stepped into the classroom, and Rasnah cleared her expression, becoming the General once again. The knight saluted, and Rasnah nodded for him to continue, "We found where they came from, Sir."
"Ask, and you shall receive." Branston muttered under his breath. But Rasnah had heard the hesitation in her Paladin's voice and narrowed her eyes at the man.
"Swailand, General..."
"Damn." Rasnah slammed her fist on the desk, her unopened books rattling with the force of it. She couldn't hold back the whispered, "Fuck..." her mind racing.
"Uh... Sir?" the Paladin started cautiously then snapped to attention as she glared up at him.
"Go to the Mages Guild, have them send a blanket message to all Hengist Temples, they are to find the Master Monk Veon-Zih, Ally to the Temple, First Class, and have him contact me through mirror as soon as possible."
"Sir!" the Paladin saluted, and just in case, repeated Veon-Zih's name and credentials before hurrying from the room.
"A Horsa province..." Branston sighed, "You think they'll let him in when they won't anyone else from the Temple?"
Rasnah sighed, leaning back on the desk and rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, "Veon-Zih has connections everywhere. If anyone can insert themselves into this investigation, it's him." and the only people expressly banned from crossing Horsa's borders were Clerics and Paladins of Hengist. It took kingdom intervention to get such divine representatives across.
Branston took her by the shoulders, giving her a gentle shake, "I'll see what strings I can pull from my end. Soleil's light shines on all lands."
She managed a weak smile, "Thank you, Branston."
***
The same Paladin who delivered the first message brought the second four hours later. Rasnah ordered him to get dinner for himself and at least six hours of sleep before reporting to her again and made her way to the Mages Guild at a brisk walk, only a step removed from a jog.
The attending Mage at the front desk recognized her rank right away, even if she didn't know Rasnah personally, and stood to escort her to the call room. Rasnah was in enough of a hurry that she almost considered letting the other woman off, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She cleared her throat loudly, taking out her identification papers and tapping them on the table.
The Journeyman Mage had the decency to look ashamed before she resumed her seat, taking Rasnah's papers to confirm her identity and purpose. "My apologies, General..." She muttered for the breach in protocol.
Rasnah wasn't the type to yell or punish on a whim, but she did explain curtly, "These protocols are kept in place for a reason, Journeyman. You above all others should know the capabilities of magic to disguise an individual or take another form,"
"Those spells are very difficult, General, and highly regulated..." the Mage started but stopped at Rasnah's glare,
"And only those capable of both high-level magic and breaking the law would risk impersonating me. Those are exactly the people this protocol is in place to stop." She took back her papers without further admonishing the young woman, who hurried to take her to the call room.
The room was more like a long hall, lined with high-walled stalls. Above each stall's door were set two gems, this late in the evening, nearly all the red gems glowed steadily, mixing with the illuminating white light to tint the walls in pink. At the far end, above the largest stall, the red gem blinked. Rasnah's guide opened the stall door for her, chanting quietly as she did so until the red gem dimmed and the green began to glow in its place.
Within the stall was a single mirror, reaching from Rasnah's waist to just above her head, but the reflection was not her own. Veon-Zih had his eyes closed as he stretched with one arm and scratched his chiseled belly with the other. His already tan skin looked even darker with blotches of dust and dirt from the road. He'd obviously taken Rasnah's request for immediate communication very seriously.
The sight of him couldn't help but make her smile, "Hengist's pure soul, you're filthy, old man."
Veon-Zih scoffed, his eyes still closed as he finished his stretch, "And after I made a point of washing the blood from my knuckles just for you young whippersnapper..." his voice echoed in through the mirror, a reminder that he wasn't actually with her. As if to drive that point home, he said, "If you need me up there, Ras, you could've just sent an order to gate."
Rasnah shook her head, "Except that I actually need you in Swailand. Where are you now?"
Veon-Zih dropped his hands, "Halakon. Why Swailand?" Rasnah arched an eyebrow at the Monk, momentarily distracted by personal concerns for her old friend.
She resisted the urge to ask him about what had taken him to the desert province and instead stated, "Well, that explains the dust." before continuing with the matter at hand, "We have a lead on the Warlocks. The corpses originated in..."
"Corpses?" Veon-Zih interrupted.
Rasnah sighed. In her rush to continue the investigation, she'd forgotten he didn't already know about the tower, "We've found the Warlocks in Clearhelm, or more accurately, we found some of their bodies, a few of the corpses were still able to be identified after the fire and..."
"Fire?" Veon-Zih shook his head, "Start from the beginning Ras. If you want me to be your eyes and ears in Horsa land, I'll need to know everything."
So Rasnah told him what little they knew about the burning tower, but when she was done, he asked, "Where was it?" which made Rasnah look away. "Ras?"
"Just north of Hamerfoss... Shon was there. He's the one who saved the girl."
"What?!" Veon-Zih shouted, becoming larger in the mirror after stepping closer, "Rasnah, he's fifteen, what in all the hells was he..."
"He's a Sorcerer." Rasnah interrupted, and Veon-Zih's jaw dropped.
He swallowed, then -just as she feared- he nodded, "I'm coming up there, send orders for a gate."
"No, I need you in Swailand. We are taking care of Shon."
"I know how the government takes care of Sorcerers, General." he spat, "I'm coming up there. I might not keep money on hand, but I have enough favors I can cash in. I won't let them seal his ki. He can get his clearance and..."
"We are not going to give him the tattoo." Rasnah shouted over him, then continued calmly, "And he isn't leaving Hamerfoss." Veon-Zih arched a disbelieving eyebrow, and Rasnah rolled her eyes, "I can't tell if you're mocking me or genuinely don't believe me. The Temple is vouching for Shon so he can get a sealing item instead of a tattoo. It will block the ice magic but allow him to cast divine spells after he takes his Oath. We are taking care of him, V, and I need you in Swailand. If Horsa tries to take over our investigation I'll be left in the dark up here."
Veon-Zih sighed, leaning forward to rest his hand beside the mirror on his end. He rubbed his face and over his head with his free hand, still torn. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper, "Did he hurt anyone?"
"Hamerfoss has no less than forty-two men capable of healing all but the most deadly wounds..."
"Rasnah. Please?" Sorcerers rarely woke without some collateral damage.
"He was sparring with a fellow and froze his feet to the ground. The boy broke an ankle and suffered minor frostbite; both were healed the same night." Rasnah answered, trying to stay detached from the issue. Veon-Zih was already invested enough for both of them.
"I should have suspected... he's always been so cold." But ice was also incredibly rare. The cold of those who possessed that element made it difficult to find willing partners to carry on their bloodline. Instead, it passed through siblings and cousins who didn't manifest until it finally did many generations later.
"Shon is fine, Master Veon-Zih," Rasnah spoke quietly, waiting for her friend to meet her eyes before she continued, "he is one of the best Squires we've ever had, and we will not let him go so easily. I'll have you brought up here by gate as soon as possible. As soon as you're done in Swailand. I need you there, my friend."
Veon-Zih stood straight again and rolled his shoulders back with another sigh, "Let me get a shower, and I'll head out tonight."
"Would you like a horse?" Rasnah forced a smirk to try and lighten the mood, glad when Veon-Zih returned the smile.
"First you offer to get me up there faster, then you threaten to slow me down? General Rasnah, I thought you wanted to stay involved in this investigation?"
Rasnah snickered but continued on topic, "Branston has already contacted the Abbot of the Church in Sanoloa," the capital of Swailand, "I will have the reports and orders delivered to you with a gate to the closest Hengist-controlled Guild, after your, much needed, shower."
@@@@@
Thanks for making it this far, you are the real MVP

​
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fslE1PK78Jo
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
​

TLDR: Digestive issues (nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, loss of appetite) Omental Infarction Omentectomy and appendectomy Months of pain and digestive issues after surgery, more than feels normal Canker sores from hell
In December, I was in Taiwan and I got what I thought was food poisoning. After getting some fluids and anti-nausea meds in the ER, i was a bit better. Still had nausea off and on for a few days, but recovered.
In February, I ended up in the ER for what I thought was appendicitis. Symptoms: lower right abdominal pain, vomiting, diarrhea. After CT scan and blood work, they diagnosed me with diverticulitis (which apparently normally happens on the left, not the right), sent me home with antibiotics and pain meds. About a week later the pain was worse, so I went back to the ER. Another CT scan, then they decided to do a laparoscopy. My appendix wasnt very inflamed, but they removed it just in case (lab work did find fecaliths, so good thing they removed it). There was also excess fluid in my abdomen so I had a drainage tube and blood bag for about a week (very sexy). Took antibiotics. Another week goes by, the abdominal pain becomes unbearable. I couldn't sit up without help, my partner had to help me get in and out of bed, I needed help walking to the toilet, I had to sleep sitting up because laying down on my back hurt like hell. I was throwing up everything I consumed, water included. Back at the ER for a third time, and another CT scan found inflammation in my upper right colon. They gave me the choice to be admitted, or to go home and schedule an appointment with the surgeon who did my appendectomy. I scheduled an appointment for a couple days out, but the pain was so bad that I was back at the ER the night before my appointment. CT scan... they diagnose me with Omental Infarction. Next day, March 1st, I had a full omentectomy. I have somewhat graphic pictures, if anyone wants to see. They had to make a 10cm incision above my belly button. Half of my omentum was necrotic.
Recovery from the omentectomy was hell. I mean, my abs were cut in half! But I was hopeful that once I recovered, that would be the end of it. My surgeon said "we'll never know why you got omental infarction, but it looks like it was just some rare incident." Side note: that hospital shut down as of May 1st, so I can't even contact my surgeon anymore.
As I slowly got my strength back, I was still having really loose stools and frequent nausea. Every day I would get cramps in my abs (even today, I'll get random cramps and my ribs and back are constantly in low-level pain).
May 12th I saw my GP, and she told me "this pain is normal after such a big surgery," even though I was having debilitating pain and the cramps kept moving around my abdomen. I was still having digestive issues as well, so I asked her for a referral to a GI (they took forever to get the referral for me). May 18th I was out of town with my partner, and we went to the ER because I hadn't been able to eat for 3 days and my abdominal pain was pretty bad. Thankfully, these doctors actually listened to me! They got me in quickly and did a CT scan and blood work, and gave me fluids and anti-nausea meds. Blood work came back normal, CT scan showed inflammation in my ileum. They couldn't give me a clear diagnosis, but they advised I get a colonoscopy (which I've been trying to get scheduled for a month) and prescribed me antibiotics and anti-nausea meds.
My poops finally have shape now, and the nausea is only bad every couple of days. My appetite has been small ever since surgery, and I've gone from 220lbs to 200lbs (but hey, I'm not complaining about that!). My bathroom trips are still very frequent and urgent, I just get a sudden grumble and have to run to the nearest toilet.
And to top it all off, about a week ago I started getting some canker sores. That's nothing too new to me, I get awful canker sores a few times a year and usually manage them with warm salt water, hydrogen peroxide, and orajel. But THESE canker sores... I feel like my mouth is being tortured to attone for my many sins. I have two on the inside of my lower lip, one inside each cheek, something under my tongue, and the tip of my tongue constantly feels like it's on fire. My lymph nodes on my neck are swollen and tender. I can hardly eat, I've resigned myself to warm tea and popsicles. There's not enough orajel in the world. I can take pictures, if requested.
So, thoughts? I have a consultation with a GI on Monday, but I'm worries they won't take me seriously. I feel like I need a colonoscopy and endoscopy. I had to withdraw from school for the semester because I knew there was no way I could catch up with all I'd missed, so I've been lonely and purpose-less for months. Thankfully my antidepressants have been working well. And I started a summer job this week! But I can't keep living with my body like this. It's torture.
Current medications: 150mg Wellbutrin (antidepressant), 200mg Pristiq (antidepressant), larin FE 1/20 28-day tablet (birth control), 7500mcg methylfolate

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fslE1PK78Jo
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
Social Media
We were both active in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit.
https://underground.contact/2022/12/11/i-remember-john-mack-md/

​
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
​

First Previous Next
It took Nathan a week to get back to Silverlight. At some point someone had updated its registry designation with an actual name. Nathan shrugged and accepted it. At Least it wasn't something like “new London” or something stupid.
In the week he’d spent a day in orbit connected to the ISS slowly towing it towards the other station as a favour, it did represent a large amount of resources that they would otherwise not be able to bring to the larger station, and the astronauts aboard were more than happy to have gravity back, even if it messed with their experiments.
Another day was spent on the station making sure the guild species onboard had enough mana to work and were all happy with their treatment. The first part left Nathan slightly drained but the second part left him mentally tired. They had a long list of things they needed and a doubly long list of things they wanted from the guild which would at least give him an excuse to send a cargo ship on the journey back to Earth. From there the next few days were spent hopping from habitable planet to habitable planet on the way to Silverlight, spending an hour or two jumping from system to system before spending the rest of the day practising with magic, resting on some tropical beach or lush rolling grass plain. The Rest and relaxation was much more successful than his efforts at using his mana for things that didn't need tools.
Once they were back at Silverlight, it was a case of catching up on what Dakota, Nostradamus and his ship captains and crew were upto. Dakota was close to ready to send the loaned soldiers back to earth and the base camp had more than tripled in size. Now having a core of buildings around the two massive trees looming above the prefab buildings, off to one side a clearing had been made for ships to land with a thin cargo tram line going from the dock to the town itself. There were enough supplies down there to keep for months without the voyager but for the foreseeable future they’d be reliant on its systems and everyone was loath to risk the ship by stripping out some valuable system.
Nostradamus and his students had probably been the busiest group. So much so that Nathan directly informed the Lizard to slow down and take a day to recover when they met, the Lizard had been spending every bit of mana he could from Nathan's borrowed Opal without it making him sick to conduct his research, he’d filled a grimoire already and was working on a second and his students were all notable tired from how hard he’d been driving them to learn everything they could. At some point the lizard had opted to his both his ship and one of the Quilo prise ships put into orbit as the Voyager would soon be leaving for Earth, all but a few escort ships and cargo ships would also be staying, either working to mine material from a distant asteroid belt for the colony or ferrying material down for it…the combat ships were mostly docked but a Fed cruiser and a group of escorts were above the Colony to protect against anything unexpected.
Nathan waited until the Voyager left for Earth before he finally ran out of things to do. He got ready and left the colony with Jim for the clearing he’d spent the night in when they first started up.
He’d asked Sophie and Shayma if they wanted to come along but both declined, only Cave had come with and even he wasn't in the clearing, waiting respectfully at the edge.
“You can still change your mind.” Nathan told Jim, he’d said the same or similar things over the last week but Jim had just smiled his sad smile and reassured Nathan that he was sure of his choice. And that the other guy would be much better help to Nathan going forwards.
“Im good kid, I’ll miss you but…I want this.” Jim replies standing in the middle of the clearing next to the leaf covered stone Nathan had slept against before. “This place feels right though.” he adds.
Nathan nods, it did feel right. The clearing had grown since he’d last been here, the silver mana slowly spreading into the earth and through the plants. “Alright….alright…” Nathan says trying to prepare himself.
He dry swallowed a few times until finally saliva came and then he cleared his throat, took a shaky breath and began.
“I Lord Nathan wish that my friend and Djinn, Jim, be reborn. I wish that he become the God Wodin who he embodied in the past. I wish that the god he becomes, be the protector of my people so they may grow strong. I wish that he be empowered by my people, by their belief and hard work so that as we grow so does he.”
Nathan paused to take a breath as tears streamed down his face, his voice caught and he quickly swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing. “I wish that he be free to act within the domains that will be his, domain’s of power, war, wisdom, nature, protector of the fallen and guide to those who aspire to achieve greatness or die in the attempt…I wish…I wish that he finds himself content in his duties and in the efforts of those who one day may choose to serve him.” Nathan finished and felt a thrumm of power from the kettle as it began to grow hot in his hands.
Jim stared at Nathan and slowly began to glow in golden radiance until he was painful to look at, unable to bear the bright glare or the heat he dropped the kettle unaware that the moment he did so it vanished into golden light and flew into the being coming into existence before him. His own attachments being the last thing keeping it as it was.
Suddenly the calm clearing was struck by a violent bolt of blue lightning. It struck Jim’s glowing form, the power cracking through and around him. Across the planet Silverlight, its skies lit up, Nosdramos and his students felt the monstrous eruption of mana and quickly sent their magical sights out to view it as bolts of magical lightning coalesced at a single point before exploding out to cover the planet.
On earth a brief rainstorm sprung up across the day side of the world, distant thunder rolling across the skies, the night side people reported sudden lightning strikes and a brief but violent storm waking them up as the dark skies were lit up by lightning. The aliens on the station would report a surge of mana from the world that shouldn't have been possible with the ambient mana.
Back in the clearing Nathan had both hands over his ears to protect them from the constant strikes of lighting, the force of the continuous strikes bringing him to his knees, even so he muttered a few words, their sound robbed from the universe as the lightning strikes reached a peak and then just as abruptly…stopped.
Before Nathan could properly recover he felt a large heavy hand on his shoulder giving it a reassuring squeeze before he found himself hauled to his feet. He looked up at the kind middle aged face for a moment before the being in front of him turned around, picked up its spear and in another flash of lightning vanished from the planet.
Wodin looked down on the world that was his to protect and nodded. He had the memories of someone not him. A low creature that spent its life in service to others, then trapped beside a river starving but unable to die, and finally a few short years with a good friend. This person had given Wodin existence at the same time they had gained their freedom in death. He could feel the layered wishes that had formed him coalescing together still but there was one that was kept apart, it wasn't part of the group that made him but it could be if he wanted it to be. He gathered it up in his free hand, looked at it and the intent it had been made, it was an honest wish, spur of the moment, desperate and hopeful in equal measure. But most importantly to him. It was a good wish and he accepted it as part of himself as much as the others.
He made a note of the world below, not that he could forget it but his domains and his gifted memories were working together and he knew he had a job to do. He turned his attention away from the planet towards another location. There was a gathering of beings like him and he could feel their call to meet them. He would go to them and introduce himself…but first…
Nathan shuddered from exhaustion as the figure left. He’d done it and he was exhausted, and he was responsible for the death of his best friend.
He collapsed again, curling into a fetal position and sobbing great shuddering breaths. He lost himself to exhaustion and sorrow until a deep rumbling voice broke through his self absorbed misery.
“You loved him.”
He took a shuddering breath and uncurled enough to see who had spoken. In Front of him was a tall man covered in beard and thick hair, armoured in studded leather a rune engraved cloak resting around his shoulders and a great silver-gold spear resting on his shoulder.
He took a few more breaths as the god waited for him before moving, instantly there was a pair of strong hands lifting him up to his feet and then he found himself being sat down on the large leaf covered rock at the centre of the clearing. Wodin, because who else could it be, nodded then apparently self conscious, looked around before sitting down cross legged close by.
“What am I to you?” Wodin asks.
“I don't know…I…”
“If I may” he interrupts “…You and Jim. created me. He gave his existence for me. But he could not have done so without you. In a sense he is my mother…Father.”
“I am not…ready” Nathan was about to deny being Wodin’s father but he wasn't ready to risk losing the last part of his friend.
“No one truly is ready to be a father.” Wodin says with a brief smile. “I have to go now. I may not manifest like this often. You can’t feel it but Shayma is probably scared witless right about now, Gods are not meant to interact with mortals. But I’ll be around.”
And with another flash of lightning he was gone.
Nathan was still for a minute, still exhausted from granting so many wishes, except the more he felt it the more he realised he was something else, something other than mana exhaustion. It was like he had stretched something to its limit and he had to wait until he recovered naturally or risk it snapping. Carefully and painfully he moved his presence out feeling the effort and how it was different. Like working your arms after walking all day. Yes his legs were tired but that doesn't mean he cant move his arms.
“So no more wishes for a while.” he mused. “Or perhaps no more wishes that are going to have such an impact…” that sounded more correct. There was probably only mana right now preventing him from wishing for a fresh bowl of strawberries to appear in front of him. But wishing for the Quilo race to suddenly vanish or the mudlarks to suddenly be gone.
He filed those thoughts away for a moment and instead sat there breathing in and out until he felt good enough to walk for a bit. Ultimately he’d achieved what he wanted. He’d made the wishes and created a god. One that considered him, its father…
“Shit, how am I going to explain this to Sophie…”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fslE1PK78Jo
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
​

FYI, this is a story COLLECTION. Lots of standalones technically. So, you can basically start to read at any chapter, no pre-read of the other chapters needed technically (other than maybe getting better descriptions of characters than: Adam Vir=human, Krill=antlike alien, Sunny=tall alien, Conn=telepathic alien). The numbers are (mostly) only for organization of posts and continuity.
OC Written by Charlie Stastarrfallknightrise,
Typed up and then posted here by me.
Proofreading and language check for some chapters by u/Finbar9800
Future Lore and fact check done by me.
Its space Sirens y’all! Coming to lull you in and take your life away!
Previous First [Next](link)
Want to find a specific one, see the whole list or check fanart?
Here is the link to the master-post.
He was so hungry, lying on the floor of the cage, his hand dangling through the bars, he listened as his stomach left off a round of mournful gurgling.
The mournful gurgle turned into a low grumble and then a distinctive angry howl. His mouth was dry, and he did his best to wet his lips with his tongue.
He could only imagine what the others had been feeling when he first arrived.
No one had been feeding them, and here he was, lying around in a pathetic heap, though he was still watered and fed to some degree. Arguably the amount should have been sustainable if he hadn't been sharing with the other prisoners. He knew it would only cause more problems for all of them in the long run, but he couldn't bring himself to eat while others starved.
Below them on the Prodigum's open floor, Sunny lay curled up against one wall with a line of other prisoners. He had no doubt that she could have broken out by now, but she wouldn't, not as long as he was here at least.
Adam rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling of the cage. A plan had been forming in his head, though whether he could get a message to Sunny was a different matter. He mostly hoped that she would be smart enough to go along with it, or smart enough to go along with it and help with her own plan, if his plan failed.
What was his plan?
Well, that was an entirely different matter…
Honestly it was a pretty stupid plan, designed based on complete conjecture and hope on his part.
Not only that but it pretty much required that Sunny had the ability to read minds, which in itself was stupid, considering their only mind reader was most likely a couple million light years away.
He sighed.
"Ready to start again, commander?”
He closed his eyes against the voice and tried not to groan. He did not want to keep going with this, but he knew he had to.
He rolled onto his knees and looked over at the other cages, where the voice coach and the drummer were watching him. The two of them had been there longer than him and were much closer to the verge of death, though since his arrival they were at least getting something small to eat and drink.
"I'm ready."
His voice was hoarse, and He was forced to clear it.
At least his throat didn't hurt today, a fact that he owed all to the voice coach.
"Remember keep your posture straight, but not strained, breath all the way down and into the belly, don't rely on the chest. The posture of the mouth is the most important aspect of a good singing voice."
He leaned his head against the bars with a sigh.
This was not something he ever thought he would need to learn how to do, especially not in order to save his own life.
There were plenty of other things he had imagined needing to learn. On the floor below them, he watched as Sunny watched him, her sharp gold eyes curious as she watched the two of them working.
She would have no idea what his plan was, and he couldn't tell her. It was known that there were members of the serving staff who were loyal to the Prodigum, whether it be out of fear, Stockholm syndrome, or loyalty.
He idly wondered what the others were thinking.
He wondered what Sunny was thinking.
He wondered if tonight would be his last night alive.
If he would die he would make at least sure that it would be to save Sunny.
[…]
The clients began filtering into the room.
Slaves were brought forward for auction, most of them rather worthless, burned out from ears and years of use, but occasionally he would throw in a piece from his own stock knowing that the perceived value of one slave would drive up the price of another.
Lights began to flash and pulse around them at his behest.
He liked the flashing lights, they tended to confuse some of the other species, making them dumber and more likely to buy irrational purchases.
It was the same with the music, though speaking of which… where was his music?
In anger, he turned in his place, shuffling his great bulk over the floor with great halting movements of his arms and the shuffling of his back legs.
The little tentacles below his chin waved in the air, tasting it. He could taste the human, so it's not like the creature was out of his sight.
Ah there it was, in its cage as usual.
It was standing defiantly looking down at him. The ugly little creature glowered at him, its tight skin stretched over bone and lumpy muscle skeletal and strange with its flexible rubbery body.
He hated humans, though they were at least good for one thing.
…
Singing.
He wasn't entirely sure how they did, but he was more than jealous.
He really wished Prodigum could sing…
Though he was already working in one of the backrooms on a little project to help with that hinderance…
Of course, he didn't know this, but the Prodigum were more readily affected by human species than a lot of the others.
Where it targeted the Vrul's sense of pattern recognition and overloaded their brain, it directly impacted the emotional cortex of the Prodigum.
Singing to him was an addiction.
One that he had not yet admitted to himself or anyone else.
The human still stared at him its slimy white and green eye, blinking once or twice. He shivered in disgust, but slowly turned to look at the blue Drev. She would fetch a nice price if he were ever to sell her, and he hoped the human understood his intentions.
They were at least smart enough for that on most occasions.
He saw the human shoulders sink just a bit.
Then without further urging, it began to sing.
The Prodigum leaned back slightly, as the sound washed over him bringing with it a wave of melancholy and sadness.
It felt so good,
The fold of his face trembled with delight.
All around him the other clients stopped to look up at the human.
Was it just them or had its voice gotten better, more hypnotic?
[…]
Behind the Prodigums back Sunny flexed her hands.
She was ready for whatever Adam was planning, for she knew based on the looks and small gestures he had been giving her over the past few days that he was planning something.
However, the night went on, and although Adam's singing voice had markedly improved, she sensed nothing changing.
She shifted nervously in her cage, looking over to where the Prodigum sat on his back haunches, his large arms resting beside him, a glassy expression on his face, or at least as glassy as an expression could get when it looked like a pile of melted dough.
…
That was strange…
She glanced around at the others, aliens in various stages of debauchery, sort of lethargic and wobbly.
She glanced up at Adam…
He looked down at her, letting the last note of the song he was using fade off.
She nervously shifted as the aliens began to shift and move.
Then the quiet human in the far cage began tapping his hand against the bars. Adam cleared his throat. The female human began to hum softly.
How interesting…
The effect was almost immediate.
Adam took one deep breath and made eye contact with Sunny.
And then he opened up his voice, cutting through the fading clamor like a blade made of diamond–rising from the upper chest and throat in a way she didn't think him capable, quivering at the top as the others accompanied him.
His voice was full, but filled with pain as he poured in emotion like a damn, breaking to spill water into a canyon. The drummer beat out a soft rhythm behind him.
As he continued to sing the voice was so sad, so pained, that it almost made Sunny want to cry.
He gripped the bars with white knuckled hands, his face contorting with the words not bothering to mask whatever emotion he had dredged up to make a sound like that.
Beautiful and sad.
He dropped low into his chest his voice ringing powerfully over the walls before dropping into softness.
He leaned his head against the bars.
She had a tough time looking away.
What did someone have to be thinking about to make a sound like that?
The beat stopped behind him, leaving just his clear voice ringing out through the room.
She was forced to shake herself from her reverie.
When that song ended, the next one began his voice –quiet– filling the room as she slowly stepped back out of line of sight from the others.
No one was paying attention to her.
If she could just make it to the door, then maybe she would be able to find a way to get a signal out to the others.
Her movement almost notified someone, but at that moment Adam dropped his voice low, adding such a powerful hint of sadness in it that it nearly broke turning his voice to a soft rasp.
The creature could barely keep its feet.
Off to her side the Prodigum had practically melted onto the floor.
She had almost reached the door, and he brought his voice higher, the rasp still in it. It took everything she had to keep moving towards the door, and not to turn around, to be captured in the pain and sadness that he used to glue the others to their places.
Again, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of memories you had to dredge up to sing like that.
It was almost painful.
She had made it to the door.
She reached out to open it as the door opened and light spilled inward, he again reached upwards with his voice, cracking the barrier between him and the others. His voice began to splinter, but not unintentionally, actually quite on purpose, fracturing like ice.
She ran out into the hall.
She froze in place for a second, running face-first into another Prodigum.
It looked as if it was about to attack her, but when the voice washed over it, there was nothing it could do but follow the sound.
As the voice filtered out into the hallway, the same effect remained true. Others began following the sound in a dazed trance barely acknowledging her as they searched for the sad voice, so clear and powerful.
[…]
He leaned into it, eyes closed, trying to dredge up the emotion he needed. He needed to give Sunny time to work. He needed to keep their attention. But the more he thought about keeping his voice in place, the harder it was to hold.
So, he tried to ignore the need, instead allowing the emotion to roll into his body strong enough to make his face tingle and shivers to run down his face.
Tears sprung to his eyes, and he tried to hold that feeling allowing his voice to crack at just the right moments occasionally looking down at a slowly growing crowd absolutely entranced.
Behind him, the others were trying hard to keep up.
The door had opened long ago, but there were still forms trickling in.
How long would he have to hold this before someone noticed that Sunny was missing?
He tried tor as long as he could, he really did, but carrying that amount of emotion was difficult, and eventually it faded away. He still kept their rapt attention with his voice, but they were moving again, looking around at each other with confused expressions as if they were trying to figure out what had happened. The Prodigum lay almost passed out on the floor looking on in a strange mixture of confusion and contentment.
Like he was high as hell.
He had no idea how Sunny was going to do this worried that she had gone to her death.
Someone would notice her eventually, wouldn't they?
He wasn't sure how long he was going, hours or not, but eventually he lost the strength of his voice and the surrounding room went back to its normal routine using him as a simple background.
He had done all he could, now it was time to find out if Sunny had made it or not.*
[…]
”If it would be up to me, that bastard would be so fucking dead, like series bullshit, fucking laws! Why can’t we just off this motherfucking motherfucker!?”
The door hissed open, and the Prodigum turned his groggy head towards the light spilling across the floor.
He was surprised at that moment as a small shape scuttled into the room.
”And all this bullshit about I how I should stay logical, I don’t FUCKING care! I’m sick of this bullshit! The marines get to kill people all the time, but if I ask if I could bathe a goddamn Prodigum in acid and they say “nooo you can’t to that its unethical”… Fuck off!”
A Vrul?
But those didn't come here?
Number one they couldn't stand music, and number two, they were never involved in the slave market.
”Fuck off goddamn ethical laws, its not like they uphold them!”
The strange sight pulled him out of his trance enough to get up and scoot in that direction, to find out more about this uninvited guest.
It was a small creature, a brownish grey in color with large orange prismatic eyes.
He wondered how it was still walking, but then noticed the large noise-canceling headphones it wore.
”Really I am so fucking done! Fine have it as you want I will NOT kill him… there are other ways to give him what he deserves…”
It scuttled closer to him, pausing at his feet before looking up.
”Hey asshole!? Yes I am talking to you!”
That was strange, it didn't seem scared?
But the Vrul were always scared!?
"Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?"
The Prodigum was totally baffled about what was going on and just answered truthfully.
"I am."
"Jolly good."
The creature said, reaching out with a hand and gently tossing something in his direction.
The Prodigum flinched for a moment as the tiny devices stuck to his arms legs and face.
"What is that?"
”What you deserve bitch!”
The little creature raised a hand and pressed something with a click.
His world erupted in pain, as lightning and electricity surged through him.
And then the world turned black.
[…]
Dr. Krill stood over him, hand still, still every now and then pressing the button as humans and Drev erupted into the room from all angles.
”I hate the fact that because of YOU Adam got captured AGAIN!”
He pressed the button again.
**”I hate the fact that because of you I had to captain a FUCKING human ship for two weeks, you hear me!? TWO WEEKS!!!”
Another button press, followed by more painful twitching from the Prodigum.
”But do you want to know what I hate most of all?”
He leaned down to the twitching Prodigum, holding down on the button.
"I…”
”HATE…”
”Fieldwork!"
He looked up from where he stood,
"You are ALL under arrest."
Another Prodigum hissed:
”You can’t just do that!”
”Oh, what I can’t do is surgically cut you a thousand times and then bathe you in salt, because SOMEONE apparently decided the Geneva convention should also apply to scumbags like you. But what I can do is arrest you fuckers! Just watch me!”
”Wait what was that first part?”
"Thank your gods I didn't have final jurisdiction."
Previous First [Next](link)
Want to find a specific one, see the whole list or check fanart?
Here is the link to the master-post.
Intro post by me
OC-whole collection
Patreon of the author
Thanks for reading! As you saw in the title, this is a cross posted story written by starrfallknightrise and I'll just upload some of it here for you guys, if you are interested and want to read ahead, the original story-collection can be found on tumblr or wattpad to read for free. (link above this text under "OC:..." ) It is the Empyrean Iris story collection by starfallknightrise. Also, if you want to know more about the story collection i made an intro post about it, so feel free to check that out to see what other great characters to look forward to! (Link also above this text). I have no affiliations to the author; just thought I’d share some of the great stories you might enjoy a lot!
Obviously, I have Charlie’s permission to post this and for the people already knowing the stories, or starting to read them: If you follow the link and check out the story you will see some differences. I made some small (non-artistic) changes, mainly correcting writing mistakes, pronoun correction and some small additional info here and there of things which were not thought of/forgotten or even were added/changed in later stories (like the “USS->UNSC” prefix of Stabby, Chalar=/->Sunny etc). As well as some "biggemajor" changes in descriptions and info’s for the same stringency/continuity reason. That can be explained by the story collection being, well a story collection at the start with many standalone-stories just starring the same people, but later on it gets more to a stringent storyline with backstories and throwbacks. (For example Adam Vir has some HEAVY scars over his body, following his bones, which were not really talked about up till half the collection, where it says it covers his whole body and you find out via backflash that he had them the whole time and how he got them, they just weren't mentioned before. However, I would think a doctor would at least see these scars before that, especially since he gets analyzed, treated and goes shirtless/in T-shirts in some stories). So TLDR: Writing and some descriptions are slightly changed, with full OK from the author, since he himself did not bother to correct these things before.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fslE1PK78Jo
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
​

​
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fslE1PK78Jo
On a social media page, I was asked if I knew John Mack MD. Here is my reply:
We were active together in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I sat with him briefly in Moscow in 1985 while he was having a drink during the celebration of IPPNW’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I attended a MUFON meeting that he addressed a few years before he tragically died. I asked him a pointed question from the floor, and I was dealt with rather curtly by him. Still, I admired him so much in so many ways when I was a physician peace activist and finally as a contact experiencer. Although we looked at challenge of flying saucers in different ways, I still miss him.
Below is an excerpt from a detailed Vanity Fair article about life and death of this remarkable human being, John Mack MD.
· “ In Newport with the other experiencers, a Tom Hanks look-alike who wanted to be known as “Scott,” the way Mack referred to him in Abduction, remembered their last meeting at Cuvelier’s villa, in the summer of 2004. Mack was excited about his new book, on the survival of consciousness. Scott confessed his own fear of death. Mack reassured him. “You never know when it will be your time,” he said. “We could all go at any time. I could walk out on the street and get hit by a car.”
Raymond Czechowski, a 50-year-old computer technician, had spent three-and-a-half hours at the Royal British Legion, a military charity in north London, planning the latest poppy drive to aid the troops, in the course of which he downed five or six pints of shandy—beer mixed with lemonade and ice. Then, on that mild, clear Monday night of September 27, 2004, he pointed his silver Peugeot north and started driving home.
Just ahead, shortly after 11 P.M., in the north London suburb of Barnet, John Mack climbed wearily out of the Underground station at Totteridge and Whetstone. His talk had gone well, and many in the audience had brought copies of his Lawrence biography, which they asked him to sign. He had also spoken about the death of his father, Edward Mack, who, 31 years before, almost to the day, had been driving home with the groceries to their summer home in Thetford, Vermont, when his car collided with a truck. In London, Mack was staying with a family friend, Veronica Keen, a widow who told him she had been receiving messages from her deceased husband—more evidence, Mack thought, of survival of consciousness. She had said to call her from the station, and she would pick him up, but Mack decided to walk. He crossed a divider and stepped into the busy street. His American instinct was to look to the left.
Czechowski hit the brakes, but too late. Mack’s body flew into the air, shattering the Peugeot’s windshield before traveling over the roof and landing heavily on the ground. “He just stepped there, bang,” Czechowski told the police, who registered his alcohol level at well over the limit.
Mack never regained consciousness. From a crumpled paper with an address on it found in his pocket, the police learned his destination and his identity.
Keen, who sat with Mack’s body at the morgue, said he materialized and told her, “It was as if I was touched with a feather. I did not feel a thing. I was given a choice: should I go, or should I stay? I looked down at my broken body and decided to go.”
At Mack’s funeral, many recalled one of his favorite quotes, from Rilke’s Letter to a Young Poet (as translated by Stephen Mitchell): “That is at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter. That mankind has in this sense been cowardly has done life endless harm; the experiences that are called ‘visions,’ the whole so-called ‘spirit-world,’ death, all those things that are so closely akin to us, have by daily parrying been so crowded out of life that the senses with which we could have grasped them are atrophied. To say nothing of God.”
Barbara Lamb and other friends also reported visitations.
Roberta Colasanti, one of Mack’s research associates, said he communicated to her a cryptic message on the abductions they had been studying: “It’s not what we thought.” Colasanti waited breathlessly for the solution to the mystery, but it didn’t come. Mack promised to return with more information. So far, he hasn’t.”
·
· I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit. Joseph Burkes MD
VANITYFAIR.COM
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting…
Inside the Alien-Abduction Support-Group Annual Meeting in Newport, R.I.
Social Media
We were both active in the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, IPPNW. I still think about this wonderful man, the doctors' peace movement and how in the 1990s on different paths, we became involved in the mystery of flying saucers. I believe that he is still with us in spirit.
https://underground.contact/2022/12/11/i-remember-john-mack-md/

In an ideal system, we would have discussions between opposing sides where we're able to, through the process of dialog come to conclusions or at least create the lines of demarcation between certain issues. This isn't to say that democrats or Republicans are objectively wrong, as that's wholly a misnomer, and rejects the political ambitions and goals of political parties, but it has become increasingly popular to make relatively realistic sounding claims, and via the power of echo chambers and repetition make said claims appear as a form of truth. Himmler mentioned the effectiveness of this propaganda method, but ATM it's deployed by both us parties.
I think what would be useful is a scalable and fair version of the following.
The creation of a university like body composed of non idiots of various political persuasions who act as a kind of meta thinktank to investigate and discuss online political claims. If found to be true, the collective body would be responsible, while sectioned to explain their verdict on the truthfulness of a situation. (For example; a political truth could be something that has nuance, such as Reagan funding the mujadin, but it could be explained within context by Reagan supporters as being a result of a desire to win the cold war etc) if found to be false, it could be barred from being repeated with a breakdown of the discussion of why.
This would allow politics to exist at a level that would remove the soundbite-ization of certain talking points, and make everyone more educated about said topic. And while I don't think the penalty should be severe for your everyday person. I could see value in a kind of "you must admit you were wrong in public" type deal when someone spews something that is blatantly false. News networks or "news networks" could be heavily fined for such violations.

Clark kept thrashing and pulling through the water as massive waves climbed higher above his head. In the moonlit hours of the morning, the ever-expanding sea closed in on him. The currents grasping at his legs, attempting to rip him below the surface. Massive storm clouds spread amongst the sky and poured heavy rain upon the powerful waves.
His body was exhausted, aches spreading throughout his arms and legs. Each desperate croon for breath filled his lungs with a dissatisfied sting; and when he mistimed it, a mouthful of saltwater. He couldn't figure out how this had happened. How had he spilled off of the boat? It all happened so quickly.
Did a single one of the crewman notice he was gone?? Or his Captain?
He urged his mind to work, as the warm pain on the top of his head pounded. As his pain fought against his efforts, he finally drew memories back into focus.
The crew had become unorganized and hurried amidst the turmoil and confusion of the sudden storm. They raced to adjust their respective areas for certain disaster. Clark tripped on a stray rope laying across the deck of the ship. The deck, slick with rain and the crests of the waves. While trying to regain his balance, he slid, hitting his head on the metal railing. Clark weakly, slunked off the ship and into the water.
Now, he is without his flashlight or radio, and miles out to sea. Clark paddled sloppily dazed and bleeding amongst the deep.
Until.. He couldn't do it any longer. The fear clawing at his mind and daring him to stop fighting. Each wave lulling him into exhaustion, while mysterious shadows lurked below.
Then came a wave,larger than any other, tossing whitecaps and rising high. Outstretched, as if grasping at the storm clouds above. Clark felt the water beneath him rush towards it. He did his best to try to swim into the base, but the incredibly strong wave collapsed over his head. It flipped and spun him violently, pulling him down below the surface.
He opens his eyes under the water, the salt stinging. He peers through the water growing in every direction, while above his head, a bright light came into view. Clark figured It had to be from a ship. This lit a fire within him, he tapped into the rest of his energy, from an unknown place within. Adreline pumping, he squirmed and kicked towards the light. Edging through the currents, desperately trying to reach the surface for his next breath.
It was then he saw the shark. It wasn't very close, but it certainly wasn't far enough to leave him be. He clocked it just out of the corner of his eye, it's as if it were puppy-guarding the light above. He had a choice to make. As the black spots in his vision grew, he shut his eyes tightly. He pushes his way past the shark, practically strangled by his exhaustion. His lungs were screaming for breath. The more he swam towards the light the smaller it became. The beam had been huge. How is this possible??
The shark neared him and swam off quickly.
It was then he realized, that it wasn't the light of any ship. No, it was much smaller.
The light came from his flashlight.
Clark wasn't swimming towards the surface at all, but rather towards the bottom.
Holding his flashlight, a muck-covered humanoid stood amongst the sea floor. As Clark opened his mouth, accepting his fate and the seawater into his lungs. The creature latched onto him. It tore into his neck, feasting like any other creature amongst the deep. Violently thrashing and tearing off pieces of his flesh. Clark struggled in insurmountable pain. He pushed and shoved, his hand brushed against his attacker's face. As Clark's hands found the face once again, he weakly scratched and clawed at it's face.
The muck floated up in dusty clouds to reveal
His Captain.
Four more muck-covered beings dug their way out of the bottom of the sea, claiming bites of their feast and former crewmate. The flashlight sank to the sand, revealing the sunken ship buried nearby.
They were never found.

Clark kept thrashing and pulling through the water as massive waves climbed higher above his head. In the moonlit hours of the morning, the ever-expanding sea closed in on him. The currents grasping at his legs, attempting to rip him below the surface. Massive storm clouds spread amongst the sky and poured heavy rain upon the powerful waves.
His body was exhausted, aches spreading throughout his arms and legs. Each desperate croon for breath filled his lungs with a dissatisfied sting; and when he mistimed it, a mouthful of saltwater. He couldn't figure out how this had happened. How had he spilled off of the boat? It all happened so quickly.
Did a single one of the crewman notice he was gone?? Or his Captain?
He urged his mind to work, as the warm pain on the top of his head pounded. As his pain fought against his efforts, he finally drew memories back into focus.
The crew had become unorganized and hurried amidst the turmoil and confusion of the sudden storm. They raced to adjust their respective areas for certain disaster. Clark tripped on a stray rope laying across the deck of the ship. The deck, slick with rain and the crests of the waves. While trying to regain his balance, he slid, hitting his head on the metal railing. Clark weakly, slunked off the ship and into the water.
Now, he is without his flashlight or radio, and miles out to sea. Clark paddled sloppily dazed and bleeding amongst the deep.
Until.. He couldn't do it any longer. The fear clawing at his mind and daring him to stop fighting. Each wave lulling him into exhaustion, while mysterious shadows lurked below.
Then came a wave,larger than any other, tossing whitecaps and rising high. Outstretched, as if grasping at the storm clouds above. Clark felt the water beneath him rush towards it. He did his best to try to swim into the base, but the incredibly strong wave collapsed over his head. It flipped and spun him violently, pulling him down below the surface.
He opens his eyes under the water, the salt stinging. He peers through the water growing in every direction, while above his head, a bright light came into view. Clark figured It had to be from a ship. This lit a fire within him, he tapped into the rest of his energy, from an unknown place within. Adreline pumping, he squirmed and kicked towards the light. Edging through the currents, desperately trying to reach the surface for his next breath.
It was then he saw the shark. It wasn't very close, but it certainly wasn't far enough to leave him be. He clocked it just out of the corner of his eye, it's as if it were puppy-guarding the light above. He had a choice to make. As the black spots in his vision grew, he shut his eyes tightly. He pushes his way past the shark, practically strangled by his exhaustion. His lungs were screaming for breath. The more he swam towards the light the smaller it became. The beam had been huge. How is this possible??
The shark neared him and swam off quickly.
It was then he realized, that it wasn't the light of any ship. No, it was much smaller.
The light came from his flashlight.
Clark wasn't swimming towards the surface at all, but rather towards the bottom.
Holding his flashlight, a muck-covered humanoid stood amongst the sea floor. As Clark opened his mouth, accepting his fate and the seawater into his lungs. The creature latched onto him. It tore into his neck, feasting like any other creature amongst the deep. Violently thrashing and tearing off pieces of his flesh. Clark struggled in insurmountable pain. He pushed and shoved, his hand brushed against his attacker's face. As Clark's hands found the face once again, he weakly scratched and clawed at it's face.
The muck floated up in dusty clouds to reveal
His Captain.
Four more muck-covered beings dug their way out of the bottom of the sea, claiming bites of their feast and former crewmate. The flashlight sank to the sand, revealing the sunken ship buried nearby.
They were never found.

Clark kept thrashing and pulling through the water as massive waves climbed higher above his head. In the moonlit hours of the morning, the ever-expanding sea closed in on him. The currents grasping at his legs, attempting to rip him below the surface. Massive storm clouds spread amongst the sky and poured heavy rain upon the powerful waves.
His body was exhausted, aches spreading throughout his arms and legs. Each desperate croon for breath filled his lungs with a dissatisfied sting; and when he mistimed it, a mouthful of saltwater. He couldn't figure out how this had happened. How had he spilled off of the boat? It all happened so quickly.
Did a single one of the crewman notice he was gone?? Or his Captain?
He urged his mind to work, as the warm pain on the top of his head pounded. As his pain fought against his efforts, he finally drew memories back into focus.
The crew had become unorganized and hurried amidst the turmoil and confusion of the sudden storm. They raced to adjust their respective areas for certain disaster. Clark tripped on a stray rope laying across the deck of the ship. The deck, slick with rain and the crests of the waves. While trying to regain his balance, he slid, hitting his head on the metal railing. Clark weakly, slunked off the ship and into the water.
Now, he is without his flashlight or radio, and miles out to sea. Clark paddled sloppily dazed and bleeding amongst the deep.
Until.. He couldn't do it any longer. The fear clawing at his mind and daring him to stop fighting. Each wave lulling him into exhaustion, while mysterious shadows lurked below.
Then came a wave,larger than any other, tossing whitecaps and rising high. Outstretched, as if grasping at the storm clouds above. Clark felt the water beneath him rush towards it. He did his best to try to swim into the base, but the incredibly strong wave collapsed over his head. It flipped and spun him violently, pulling him down below the surface.
He opens his eyes under the water, the salt stinging. He peers through the water growing in every direction, while above his head, a bright light came into view. Clark figured It had to be from a ship. This lit a fire within him, he tapped into the rest of his energy, from an unknown place within. Adreline pumping, he squirmed and kicked towards the light. Edging through the currents, desperately trying to reach the surface for his next breath.
It was then he saw the shark. It wasn't very close, but it certainly wasn't far enough to leave him be. He clocked it just out of the corner of his eye, it's as if it were puppy-guarding the light above. He had a choice to make. As the black spots in his vision grew, he shut his eyes tightly. He pushes his way past the shark, practically strangled by his exhaustion. His lungs were screaming for breath. The more he swam towards the light the smaller it became. The beam had been huge. How is this possible??
The shark neared him and swam off quickly.
It was then he realized, that it wasn't the light of any ship. No, it was much smaller.
The light came from his flashlight.
Clark wasn't swimming towards the surface at all, but rather towards the bottom.
Holding his flashlight, a muck-covered humanoid stood amongst the sea floor. As Clark opened his mouth, accepting his fate and the seawater into his lungs. The creature latched onto him. It tore into his neck, feasting like any other creature amongst the deep. Violently thrashing and tearing off pieces of his flesh. Clark struggled in insurmountable pain. He pushed and shoved, his hand brushed against his attacker's face. As Clark's hands found the face once again, he weakly scratched and clawed at it's face.
The muck floated up in dusty clouds to reveal
His Captain.
Four more muck-covered beings dug their way out of the bottom of the sea, claiming bites of their feast and former crewmate. The flashlight sank to the sand, revealing the sunken ship buried nearby.
They were never found.