text:
Ever since his son was old enough to walk, Kenin had been troubled by the
boy. Pon did not play well with the other children. He seldom laughed. He
had few friends. All of Kenin's efforts to impress upon his son the virtues
of work and play had failed, falling on indifferent ears, and Kenin had
never had the heart to beat the boy, even when the folk of Barafel made
subtle suggestions that he should do so. Perhaps Kenin had wanted his son
to know that one person, at least, did not mean him any harm. All of the
townsfolk muttered about Pon. This was troubling to Kenin, but it was not
what really frightened him. What had always truly frightened the new mayor
of Barafel was when his young son ran off every day - starting as soon as
he could walk - to stand at the town's western border which was marked by
no fence, river, or wall. His son would stand at the top of the hill before
the forest, just where the land began to fall away. Into the forest the
little boy would peer, between the trunks of trees often shrouded in mist.
Pon would point and talk, babbling on and on as he stared into the woods.
Kenin never saw anyone waiting among the evergreens and the mist, when, day
after day, he ran to drag his son away from the border. As Pon grew, his
speech improved, and Kenin's son would stand at the edge of the woods and
carry on conversations with people no one else could see. Kenin sometimes
worried that his son was mad, but that thought scared him less than the
other possible explanation.
The town of Barafel had been a large, rich town tucked within the
sheltering arm of the Willow River. The river wound nearly all the way
around the town, only breaking away its grasp at the doorstep of the forest
to the west. The willow trees all around the riverbank that gave the river
its name drooped down, their slender arms covered in tendrils of pale green
leaves, and with their willow-arms they swept along the surface of the
river. It had been pleasant, once upon a time, to take a boat down the
river, pushing the hanging branches aside with the insistent prow of the
vessel, writing poetry, fishing idly in the river, singing songs. Kenin
still remembered going down the river in a fair spring that was so distant,
both in time and nature, as to seem unreachable: he in the little wooden
boat, and his darling wife Elira, and their son Pon who was then only an
infant swaddled in his mother's arms. Kenin found it hard to believe that
the sun still shone as brightly in the sky, in distant places, as it had
shone in that memory of the river. Compared to the world he woke and lived
in, every night and day, that afternoon on the riverbank was a perfect
moment, unspoiled by time, frozen forever in a golden beauty. It seemed
like a vision from another world, or perhaps a moment from somewhere one
comes to after their time in the world is over.
A few years later, Elira drifted down the river, alone in a wicker boat
built just for her, still pale from the sickness, with flowers twined in
her hair.
A few years after that, the Karazans came.
Kenin and his surviving warriors ran up the darkened streets, past the many
abandoned houses, farther up the hill. Ahead and above them loomed the
spire of the temple of Barafel, grand and beautiful beneath the moon, and
Kenin could not help but think of the precious treasure guarded within. The
warriors of Barafel would have gladly given their lives to defend it, if
there was any longer a chance of saving it in battle. There was no longer a
chance, now that fate had turned against them. They were tired, and some
were bleeding, yet on the survivors ran, drawing ragged, rapid breaths,
through a town soon to be consumed and lost. The moonlight swept down on
them as they ran up the hill of Barafel, away from the smoke and the fires
which had not yet come high enough to envelop the hill. The fallen gates of
Barafel were far below them now. The world was still pretty, beyond the
town, and there was still some magic to the endless night around them, but
little time could be spared for such thoughts. Though the clouds above were
thick and dark, the moon sailed placidly through an empty swath of sky as
though over a vast and darkened road disturbed only by the crowding stars.
As the hill rose, it narrowed and distanced itself from the land below, and
the few fortunate surviving warriors seemed to be running through a world
at once shrinking and rising. All the land was revealed below them: the
great whole of the world, running off asleep into the nighttime distance
beyond all thought of armies and fallen walls. Both of the gates were great
fires burning, and when Kenin looked into the town below he saw the dark
waves of the Karazan host assembling in the streets, and he thought he
might have seen a few furtive figures dashing through the lower parts of
the town as if pursued. Nothing could be done to aid them now.
Enough torches still burned from the gates of the temple and from the
courtyard within to cast a good and honest light over the street before the
temple. The few guards posted outside, alarmed at the sight of Kenin and
his men dashing towards them, lowered their halberds but did not speak.
Perhaps they were prepared for a final stand to protect the precious
treasure guarded in the church, but soon enough Kenin and his men came into
the light of the torches and the identity of the newcomers was revealed.
"Councillor!" cried the foremost guard. "How fares the battle?"
"The town is lost, Mellen," Kenin said, as he halted to catch his breath.
He saw the terror in the faces of the guards, but quickly spoke to drive
such thoughts from them. "Do not delay now; let us in. I must speak to
The guards hastened to draw back the great iron doors that guarded the
inner courtyard of the temple. With a creak the doors swung inward to
reveal the clear and peaceful courtyard of the temple in Barafel. Kenin and
his men, brisk and upright, strode through the doors, and the two guards
remained at their post, turning once again to face the town beyond and
below. Inside the courtyard the air was moonlit, with soft, pale light
shining down from the great opening in the centre of the vaulted ceiling.
Ornamental plants decorated the outside of the courtyard, and sheets of
cloth, once fine and now neglected, hung from the rafters that crisscrossed
the open ceiling, but nothing could interrupt the path of the innumerable
and indistinguishable moonbeams.
Through the moonlight Kenin strode, and his surviving men followed in his
wake. They went right for the closed door of the temple, and the guards
posted at the door stood silent and alert at their approach. The guards at
the inner door stood aside to let them through, and so Kenin and his men
crossed over the threshold of the temple of Barafel and came into the
presence of the precious treasure guarded within.
Around the pillars that held up the roof, and over the wide, open floor,
and hiding in the shadows, were many women and children and such men as
could not fight. All of the fear and hope was gathered there as Kenin came
in to meet them. Every eye turned to him; every voice was silenced, and
every ear was tuned to his voice and his voice alone. Kenin paused before
the treasure of Barafel. He took a deep breath. He spoke with true courage,
even if it was only felt by himself alone. The town had fallen. Their only
choice was to run, but the path of their escape was far more in need of
courage than the battle had ever been.
"The town has fallen," Kenin said, wishing to spare them the agony of
waiting. To forestall the cries of fear that might arise from that
announcement, he quickly continued: "Do not fear!" and his strong voice
held them all together, kept their fear in check, kept them anchored to
order by the force of his presence among them. "I will lead us from this
place. There is nothing more for us in Barafel. We must leave, and we shall
all leave together now."
They all rose together and crowded around him, questioning, wondering.
Kenin's men spread out among the crowd, keeping order, as men and women and
children rose from their seats or came forward to gather in the middle of
the room in the Temple of Barafel. They stared at him with frightened eyes,
and clutched their meager belongings. How strange it was, Kenin thought,
staring at the people gathered before him, that this was the greater part
of Barafel. This was what had made the town so great, but with the fruits
of their labor taken from them they did not seem as great as the town. They
seemed such a smaller thing. Barafel could perish, and if these people
remained, the greater part of it would be saved, but without the people
"Where can we go?" they asked. Surely, they all knew the answer, unless
they had put it from their minds for so long that they had truly forgotten.
"To the forest, I fear," Kenin said, and though he spoke sadly and softly,
his voice carried across the crowd. "We must pass through the haunted
forest to our freedom." He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments,
seeking some shelter in the darkness that was suddenly wrapped around him,
as the babble of the frightened crowd rose and grew in his ears. There was
no use in hiding. He could not hide from this.
Kenin opened his eyes. He was aware of a conversation occurring behind him,
between the guards at the door and his own men. If the Karazans had not yet
realised where everyone had gone, if they were still searching through the
houses in the lower part of town which Kenin could only hope to be
abandoned, the deception would not last for very long. They might even now
be moving up the road towards the temple. Kenin and his men would hold them
off, but they could not do so forever. Without Kenin to guide the people
through the woods, none of them would survive. Not because Kenin was so
necessary, but because another among them was so necessary, and Kenin was
necessary only through that single soul. Kenin left the guards and his
soldiers at their whispered discussion. Into the crowd he plunged, and even
as some of the townsfolk crowded around him to question him and forced him
to push them aside, others were calmly getting all of their things
together, and determining what they could and could not bring, sure that
their councillor would not lead them astray. Kenin felt their desperate
hopes weighing heavily on his shoulders. It was a reassuring weight. He did
not call out the name he sought. If the guardians of the one he looked for
saw him approaching, they would understand. Kenin pushed through the crowd
until he saw a woman who held a young boy close to her. The eyes of the
young boy were dark, and they did not brighten as Kenin approached, but
beheld Kenin coming near with the coolness and peace of the night. Yet as
Kenin approached, his son looked up at the tall, broad man who towered
overhead, and the boy said:
"Are we going to see the ghosts, father?"
Kenin's breath caught in his throat. He embraced his son and held him
"Yes, Pon," he said. He found it hard, suddenly, to speak. "I will need
your help tonight, little one."
Now for some reason unknown to mortals yet known and decreed by the far
away gods who dwell beneath the earth and sea and up among the many stars,
the host of Karaz assembled in the lower part of the town before beginning
its march upon the temple. The townsfolk gathered out in the cold night,
some shivering, many afraid, some few carrying torches which they did not
yet light. Kenin stood at the edge of the hilltop, where the air was cool
and clear, and he stared down in hatred at the dark hosts gathered among
the fire and the smoke and the ruin they had brought to Barafel. There were
bodies abandoned down there; people of Barafel who had not even been
properly laid to rest on the Willow River, as was the custom in the town.
It was like staring into a vast, vile pit. From the summit of the hill
Kenin stared down at the army of Karaz, and in that moment he wished he had
some weapon with which to strike back at them and scourge them entirely
from the earth. Of course, he had some weapons. He had his passion, and his
arm, and a blade, and others still with him had the same, but Kenin knew
now that he could not throw away all hope of the salvation of his people in
some dark and hopeless sortie of vengeance. With a private and titanic
effort Kenin turned away from the horde below, away from his wish to do
battle with them, away from his darker dreams. His men followed him as he
walked back to the waiting crowd.
"Can you imagine why they have halted?" Maxas asked, looking back over his
shoulder. The guard captain was tall and blonde and lean, and his face had
an angular, handsome aspect.
"I reckon they fear the temple," Barok said, stout and broad and
middle-aged. He waved at the spire that, so close by, towered over
everything. "They fear that our patron god Lapos will strike them down if
they venture against it before they are fullest in strength."
"I had not thought of that," Maxas admitted, staring again with worry at
the hosts assembled below. "Yet it makes good sense, my friend. Perhaps the
Karazans prepare some dark magic to strike at the spire of the temple and
cast it down. We should be gone before that happens."
"We will be gone," Kenin said. "It matters little why the Karazans have
halted. We can count it among our few and scattered blessings. Can I depend
upon the two of you in the dangers ahead of us?" They spoke together,
separate from the crowd, with only the loyal ears of a few other soldiers
around them. Many were not really soldiers, but men taken from the town.
They were able-bodied men given weapons and what little armour there was
for them. They were men who had, whether by strength of arms or strength of
spirit, or from the favour of fortune alone, survived the last few days and
nights. The others who had fallen had fallen too quickly for even their
bodies to be sent down the river, as was custom in Barafel.
"Without reservation, sir," Maxas said simply, and Kenin looked into his
face and saw the truth of his words.
"As if I would be afraid of the forest!" Barok exclaimed, and chuckled. "To
confess, sir, I've never believed in it." The other men did not laugh, and
before their silence Barok's chuckle died away. Slowly, his smile faded as
well, and his face, because Barok was not a man to feel fear, became once
more warlike and grim.
"You should learn to believe, Barok," Kenin said quietly. "It is the safest
Kenin looked ahead and saw his son standing near the edge of the crowd.
Kenin walked through the crowd to meet his boy. Pon was short for his age,
and thin, and very pale. He had hair far darker than Kenin's. It came from
his mother. Kenin was relieved to see that Pon was not whispering to
something no one else could see--not at the moment, at least. Kenin knelt,
and clapped his son on the shoulder, being very gentle, as he had learned
to be, with his strange, quiet son. For a moment Kenin could find nothing
to say, and so Pon's gaze turned back to the forest in the distance.
"Stay beside me, boy," Kenin said, more roughly than he meant, and he rose
and cast his eye back across all his gathered people.
"You are saddened to leave your homes!" He called to them, and they fell
silent in the darkness, listening: women, children, the elderly, the ill
and the wounded, those few warriors who had survived. "I know you do not
wish to abandon your town. It may seem that we flee only into greater
danger. Yet I believe that if we all stay together, we will find our way to
safety. Our fate will not be decided for us by the butchers of Karaz!
Follow me now, people of Barafel! Listen to the words of your guardians. We
must take care to stay together, once we reach the trees." Holding his
son's pale hand, Kenin led his people through the night.
There were only a few buildings between the temple of Barafel and the edge
of the forest. Those few buildings were humble and unadorned, and now
abandoned and unlit. At the first news that the Karazans were pressing in
upon their borders, the clerics of Lapos, who was the patron god of
Barafel, had fled the town while some escape could still be made. This was
why the Karazans' likely fear--that the patron god would strike against
those who sought to destroy his guarded town--was groundless, for Lapos had
certainly turned away from those who no longer worshipped him.
The slow train of townsfolk wound down between the few remaining buildings,
guarded by the vanguard of the soldiers in front, shepherded on by the
soldiers following behind. The fleeing townsfolk were quiet, and they cast
frightened glances all around them. Occasionally they spoke softly to one
another. Their feet pattered softly on the dirt between the buildings, for
they disdained all roads in their flight. Kenin looked all around and saw
nothing dangerous waiting for them. The Karazans might yet be making their
way up the hill, however, and time was of the essence. The night was quiet,
but the smoke from the fires of the town below had finally reached the
hill, and the clouds of smoke drifted up into the air. The people of
Barafel, or at least those few who thought to gaze up into the night, saw
that no matter how fearsome the fires that grew from beauty burnt by the
evil of men, no smoke from those fires, even from the greatest of those
fires, could ever hope to obscure the distantly shining stars.
So with those stars looking down on them and perhaps blessing their flight,
the townsfolk of Barafel left the shelter of the last of the buildings of
the town and they came out into the open, unmarked ground at the top of the
great barren hill before the Haunted Forest. The trees began a mere dozen
paces away. The first of them sprouted from the ground. Its thin branches
were heavy with evergreen needles, but the branches did not bend from the
weight. The night was not overly dark, with the moon now shining brightly
on everyone on the hilltop. The faintest suggestions of the dawn brought a
lightness to the eastern horizon, yet the moonlight did not pierce fully
into the spaces between the trees, and it seemed that it was not only the
canopy of the forest that prevented the moonlight from shining through.
There was a kind of darkness there that came and went between the trees, a
shadow--cast by an unearthly light--that lurked among the straggly trees.
Pon, at least, did not seem troubled. Kenin, his heart sinking, felt the
boy tugging insistently at his coat and his arm. Without a word spoken
between them, Kenin released his son, who walked forward, small and alone,
yet unafraid, to stand at the edge of the haunted forest. Pon stood there
for a moment, and no one spoke loudly, though Kenin heard a few mutters
from the crowd which were not loud enough for him to hear. He was glad that
they were not loud enough for him to hear, for if he had understood them he
was not sure what he would have done. The little figure stood there, ahead
of everyone else, staring into the woods. Pon swayed back and forth, and
Kenin's breath caught in his throat from the fear that Pon would suddenly
walk forward and vanish into the trees. He had always lived with that fear,
though in all the times he had ever had to run and grab his son and drag
the strange little boy away from the border of the forest, Pon had never
tried to move past the border. Now, however, if Pon ran forward, Kenin
would not be able to chase him without leaving his people alone. He would
have to choose between them, and he was not sure of the choice he would
The forest lurked: still, silent, and inanimate. Kenin had heard stories,
from time to time, of people who strayed into the forest and survived, but
he had heard just as many stories of people who had gone in and never
returned. Certainly, nothing had ever come out of the forest in many years.
As Kenin waited for some signal, for a sign from his boy that the way ahead
was clear, the trail of his thought ran back to a much earlier memory: to a
heated argument in the meeting hall on the hill below the temple.
"The western border must be secured!" Aphos shouted, in Kenin's memory.
The previous leader of the town was an intimidating man, with a devious
mind and an imposing manner--but Kenin faced him down, for too much
was at stake to allow fear.
"We can build the wall twice as strong on the east, in front of the
river, if we leave the western side alone," Kenin said calmly. A
council of the most powerful folk of Barafel had gathered in the town
meeting hall, the long, low structure that lay a little farther down
the hill from the temple. A great wooden window in the ceiling was
thrown open, letting in a great beam of sunlight that slanted in on the
dais where Kenin and Aphos, among others, argued. Through the open
window, Kenin could see the spire of the temple above them at the top
of the hill of Barafel.
"The armies of Karaz are near-certain to come from the east," Kenin
continued. "Are we to devote as much effort to the western
fortifications as to the east?"
"They are most likely to approach from the east," Aphos conceded, "but
there must be something in the west to hold them at bay."
"What will there be, then, Aphos?" Kenin asked, staring around at the
crowd in an appeal to them. "Will there be a paltry barrier, made of
whatever scraps of work and material we do not dedicate to the river
wall? If so, we might as well never build it. If you are so certain
that the armies of Karaz can pass through the forest, what use is a
token defence? I suggest," he said, for the fifth time, addressing the
rest of the hall, "that we leave the forest alone. Its reputation
itself will serve as a barrier. We can hold the armies of Karaz at the
Willow, until the forces of our Lord Misterial arrive. We might do
this, if we put all of our efforts to the eastern border."
"The Karazans do not follow our superstitions," Aphos said, through
clenched teeth. "You put your faith in stories they are not stupid
enough to believe, Kenin. If we do not secure the forest border, the
enemy will come through behind us!"
"Good!" Kenin cried, his temper giving way. "I hope they all travel
through the haunted woods, to be eaten alive by the ghosts!"
Kenin came back from his recollections. He walked forward slowly, yet
gained in speed with each heavy step until he towered over his son. Kenin
ruffled the boy's hair.
"Will you help us, boy?" he asked, and looked up briefly at the forest, as
if hoping to see something among the darkness and the waiting trees.
"Of course, father."
"Will you guide us among the ghosts to safety?" Kenin asked, looking into
his son's dark eyes. "If you do this, you must do it well. You cannot make
a single mistake."
The son's face lit up into a smile which warmed the father's heart.
"A game?" Pon exclaimed. "Oh papa, I will not make a single mistake--I
"All right, then," Kenin said, smiling back for his son's sake, and he
looked back at his people gathered to wait for his words to lead them on.
"Come on, everyone," he said, at last. "My son will guide us on."
Though many of the townsfolk hastened forward, there were a few dissenting
murmurs, and a greater number of people who were silent but stayed put and
did not move at all. Kenin's heart grew hard; he clenched his fists, seized
by a sudden anger.
"If you do not believe him, do not follow us. It is not worth the risk to
your life if you do not believe." He stared around at those who would not
follow, and many of them met his hard eyes with hard eyes of their own. "If
you think my son is crazed, stay here. You can die to the Karazans, instead
of the ghosts."
There was no turning back from those words, though it was too late to turn
back at all. Kenin stepped back, closer to the forest, and his son waited
beside him, showing no emotion, no reaction. Some of those who had
hesitated at last moved forth and joined the crowd at the edge of the
woods, but nearly a third of the townsfolk stayed put. Most were families
led by those who did not trust Kenin nor his strange, shunned child.
There was a moment of silence as the two groups separated, and kinfolk
stared at kinfolk across a suddenly impassable gulf. Kenin was the first to
turn away, turning his back on a third of those he had sworn to guard,
giving up one third of the gold of Barafel in the uncertain hope of saving
the rest. Slowly, the faithful beside him turned as well, and Kenin heard
the people who had chosen to stay retreating to the shelter of the
Every moment the air was growing lighter, for dawn was not far away.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the dawn crept up over the world, in a lightening of
the air that could not be tracked or noticed. Slowly the darkness was
banished, piece by piece, as the sunlight stole into the air and bathed
even the haunted forest. The shadows were banished yet the woods remained
obscure. Within the wood lay no longer a flood of shadow but a deep layer
of greyish mist. Into the lightening mist the trees marched, one by one,
utterly alone, betraying no secrets in their eternal, immobile march into
the unknown horror. The farthest ones were so shrouded in greyness that
they seemed to float in the air. Kenin stared at the spaces between the
trees. He was not his son, for he saw nothing, and he could not even
imagine that anything was there.
"Right," said Kenin, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. He
raised his voice to speak to the crowd. "Now, follow me into the forest,"
he cried. "If we stay together, I promise you, we will come to no harm."
With the impossible promise he had just made to his people still weighing
heavily on his mind, Kenin started forward into the woods. His son Pon
trudged beside him.
Kenin heard the shuffling feet of dozens of people moving behind him, as
one by one, family by family, they followed him down the hill. There were
scattered murmurs among them, and parents urged their children to stay
beside them, and some of those murmurs were mutterings of doubt, but if any
of the remaining flock chose to turn back and face their certain deaths in
the town, Kenin did not bother to see if it was so.
As they went down the hill, the mist in the deepness of the forest seemed
to rise up the hill and race across the ground to meet them. Kenin knew
that he could not look back over his shoulder. No matter how much he
desired to, even if only to see the last of Barafel that he was likely ever
to see, he could not now look over his shoulder at the town. He had made
his decision, and it was now his obligation to follow it.
They passed the first tree. It was smaller than the others, and it stood
apart. The rest of the haunted forest lay ahead, but as Kenin, with his
little son at his side, walked past the first tree, he felt a shifting in
the air, a loss of grounding and balance as though he had just walked off
the edge of a cliff and plunged into deep, dark, sudden waters. This
feeling existed only in his heart, for his feet trod solid ground, and
there was nothing around him but the slope of the hill, and the trees, and
the grass, and the mist. Kenin heard the townsfolk murmuring behind him as
they passed the first tree and felt the haunted forest claim them.
They passed another tree, and then a third. Kenin's heart beat rapidly and
heavily in his chest. For a moment--though his feet never wavered and his
progress never slowed--Kenin cherished the thought of turning and leading
his people out of the woods. As he teetered on the edge of the few seconds
in time when that decision could still be made, his feet never stopped
moving forward, and the train of Barafellens followed in his wake, and his
son was lurching on clumsily beside him. Soon he had no choice. The trees
were all around them. A mist suffused the air.
Kenin waved his hand through the air as he walked. It was foolish to
attempt to part the mist, for it was not solid. Still, he thought that some
of it, almost invisibly, parted as his hand swept it aside. There was clear
air in front of him, and Kenin stared at it, yet swiftly, as he moved on,
the haunted mist swept back in and filled the space that Kenin's movement
had briefly cleared. Trails of mist ran away from his body like water. The
trees were everywhere, and the mist surrounded them like water. There were
currents in the mist: the substance flowed from tree trunk to tree trunk
like the waters of a strange, shallow, pale sea, even more permeable than
water, and unlike seas and rivers, carrying no life. Around the trees, the
mist pooled and swirled. The mist ran away from Kenin's arms and legs and
chest and it clung to the fabric of his coat, though he could not feel it
at all. The air in the forest was no cooler than expected. Kenin and his
son stepped over the tangled roots that ran between the trees. Kenin,
certain now that the town would be gone from sight, chanced a look back.
The long trail of townsfolk followed Kenin and his son loyally, never
straying from the path. The Barafellens spoke very little, often clinging
to each other's bodies or clothing or arms. The townsfolk wound down past
and often between the trees, and their faces were pale and grey in the
light of the mist of the woods. They cast worried glances to either side,
but Kenin saw nothing that they might have seen in the woods. Kenin stood
on a ridge in the forest, feet planted on tangled roots, and he looked out
over the remainder of his people as they fled and followed him in flight.
The mist swarmed around them, and they parted it as they struggled on. Mist
streamed away from their bodies, and eddies and currents of it swirled
around them and streamed away.
The air was cold, and all thought and sight of Barafel was gone. They had
not travelled very far. It was strange, Kenin mused while passing another
silent and shrouded tree, that they had gone such a little way yet now
seemed to be far beyond the place where Barafel had ever been. All around,
in every direction, nought met his gaze but an endless smoky sea in which
the trees stood silent and thoughtless. The ground ran up and then down,
over and down the hills and through vales and past ridges and bluffs and
boulders. His son kept an eye out, and the survivors of Barafel went on.
With every hundred paces, the path behind them vanished, and more of the
path ahead of them was revealed, but it was all identical to itself. They
moved through a changeless, endless world of forest and mist. Nothing
crossed their path; even the sounds of animals were absent.
To the west the Barafellans went, trusting in Kenin, as Kenin trusted in
the part of his son that he had never been able to confront. The boy said
nothing as he strolled along, though Kenin saw from the way Pon's eyes
searched that he was looking very intently for the things which he alone
could see. Pon must have realised that Kenin was staring at him, for the
boy turned his eyes up to his father.
"It is so quiet, papa," the boy said. Kenin thought nothing of the remark
at first, until he considered that Pon might not be speaking of the same
silence that everyone else was familiar with; that, although it was silent
in every other way, when the boy said that it was silent, he might be
speaking of the absence of a certain sound which only he could hear.
Straining to catch any sound at all in the forest, Kenin eventually began
to hear something which had not been there a moment before. A faint sound
stole into the world, a sound like many voices softly whispering. And Kenin
knew at once what the sound indicated; it was not the whispering of ghosts,
if they whispered, or indeed existed at all. At the head of his fleeing,
frightened people, he strode through the woods with a much renewed purpose.
Soon enough it came into sight, and if Kenin could not feel joy, he felt
something sounder and stronger.
They had risked being lost in the woods; they ran that risk no longer; they
had found the Willow River.
From the east it ran, away from the doomed town of Barafel, babbling down
westward. It was wide in breadth, babbling down a shallow slope and
coursing between trees that overhung the river and did not touch it. The
surface of the water was glassy and smooth, and wholly opaque like liquid
silver. Kenin stood at the edge of what could almost be mistaken for a
river of fog. He looked east and saw a faint hope of sunlight shining, far
beyond the mist and trees of the haunted wood.
It was cold, on the riverbank, colder than it had been in the woods away
from the misty water's edge. This could not be explained. Kenin shivered,
and looked away, and stepped back. The townsfolk huddled near the river,
gazing upon its hidden, cold, pale surface with wary eyes. The trees along
the riverbank were dark and grim.
We sent her down the river,
Kenin thought, with flowers in her hair.
"We must follow the Willow River west," Kenin declared. "It is known that
the river leaves the woods on the western side, and heads out into the
fertile lands beyond. Therefore, we will follow its course, and find our
way to safer, open lands." He looked around at all the faces, hoping for
someone to agree with him, perhaps expecting someone to challenge him, but
no one replied.
Seeing no choice but to take the lead, Kenin started along the length of
the riverbank. The soil beneath his feet was soft, for the grass ended just
before the bank. It was a silent journey for a while, and Pon walked beside
Kenin, seeming not to tire, hardly making a sound. Kenin glanced down at
his son from time to time to see if he could find any hint in the boy's
quiet eyes of anything alarming. The mist flowed past their feet, and crept
over the river, and crept from the river to the land, and hung over and
around the high forest canopy like a vast, permeable spider's web built by
ghost spiders, out of ghost-silk. The trees grew thicker as the Barafellans
followed the river to the west. Soon it was hard progress, for the trees
around the riverbank became very thick. Kenin had to clamber over roots and
squeeze between tree trunks and struggle through thick vegetation. The
healthy adults remaining among the townsfolk stopped to help their children
and those too ill to go on their own through the tangled brush. Kenin could
not lead his people away from the river, though the forest seemed to grow
more opposed to their progress with every moment passed, and with every
step taken. Kenin was worried that if they deviated for a moment from the
path of the river westward they might never find it again; that if the
swirling mist that shrouded the water passed from their sight even for an
instant, they would look for it once more in vain, and then they would be
lost in the woods forever.
Maxas and Barok were at the head of the group, clearing away as much brush
as they could, whether with their weapons or with their bare hands and the
strength of their arms and bodies, and other able-bodied townsfolk were
spaced through the group, helping others along. Still Kenin saw that they
were struggling. Nothing lay ahead but impossible tangles of foliage.
People began to complain of feeling trapped, and Kenin was seized with the
sudden fear that the ghosts might come upon them now, when they had no
chance of escaping--but Pon looked all around and the boy said nothing
about seeing any ghosts.
Kenin could hardly move; he was stuck in the brush, and he had to struggle
to get free. All around him he saw foliage that had suddenly come to
surround them, as though it had rushed forth in a vast, sudden ambush and
seized them in its clutches. He looked ahead, desperately, sure that they
could not turn back now, hoping to take stock of his surroundings and
determine where they could go.
Through the tangled branches Kenin saw the ground sloping up ahead, up
until it peaked in a ridge-line that was cut in half by the river that
coursed between the sundered hills. Trees hung precariously from the edge,
over the water. They seemed about to fall into the water, but Kenin could
not imagine anything ever changing in the haunted woods. Leaning against
the trees that hung over the river, standing on the summit of the high
ground, arrayed around the hilltop, utterly still, like statues, very dark,
with mists swirling around them, were the obscure forms, featureless at a
distance and in the odd light, of human figures with spears in their hands
and shields beside them and helms on their heads.
Kenin's breath caught in his thought; the possibility of speech was robbed
from him. He wanted to cry out but he could say nothing, and perhaps that
was for the best, for if he was able to speak he might only have cried out
in despair. The figures on the hill were utterly in shadow, and they could
not be made out. They did not move. The longer Kenin looked, the more of
them he saw. A host of phantom figures crowded around the hilltop. Kenin
did not, perhaps could not move. As he wondered whether he should call for
his people behind him to halt, for he wondered whether the ghosts had seen
him and he did not wish to draw the attention of the devouring spirits, his
son spoke, quietly and clear.
"Father, do you see the ghosts?"
And Kenin's heart became as ice. All this time, he had hoped that they were
not real. All this time, even while preparing for the worst, he had hoped
that the stories were only stories which most had believed. All this time
he had secretly hoped that there were no ghosts in the woods and that it
was simply a strange, shrouded forest where nothing changed or grew. Now
that the truth had come to him so suddenly, his hopes were laughable. There
was no other forest like this in the world. He was to blame. He had led his
people into this forest. Here, as expected, were the spirits to claim them.
Would it be better or worse, Kenin wondered, to die at the maw of a ghost
than at the spear of a Karazan?
Yet perhaps they could hide from them. As soon as he thought this, he
realised its foolishness. The forest belonged to the ghosts. His son had
seen them flitting about, invisible to all others. It was only at his
moment, Kenin supposed--his heart still pounding away, his mind racing to
find something other than terror to occupy it--that the ghosts had seen
fit to make themselves visible to the eyes of mortals. For what cause could
they do this, if not to strike terror into their prey? Mortal men and women
had no hope of running or hiding from the spirits in their own domain. All
along, everyone had thought Pon a strange child, a weird child, a mad
child. Perhaps there was some truth to that, Kenin thought ruefully,
staring down at his son who for some reason was gazing anywhere but up the
hill where the host of phantoms waited. Nevertheless Pon had been right in
his strangeness; Pon's madness had been true. Kenin had to be strong for
his people, now. He had to be strong for his son. He grasped the boy's
shoulder with a single hand.
"I see them, son," he said.
"There are so many of them, papa," Pon said, clearly frightened of the
ghosts, for he was looking off to one side.
"There are many," Kenin acknowledged. "Wait here, boy."
Maxas was close behind him; the rest of the townsfolk had not yet come far
enough or looked in the direction needed to see the ghosts waiting ahead at
the top of the riverside hill. The sudden hiss of breath from his captain
told Kenin that Maxas had seen the dark figures at the top of the hill.
"Here," Kenin said curtly. He picked up his little son and thrust him into
Maxas' waiting arms. "Take the boy back to the people. Tell them to turn
back and find a clear space."
"But father--" Pon began to protest.
"Quiet, boy." Kenin said. "Do as I say, Maxas. I will meet the ghosts on
our behalf. If they are truly the spirits of men, perhaps they still retain
some memory of what they were. I will speak to them as what they have
"As you command," Maxas said, though his true wish to accompany Kenin was
plain on his noble face.
"Father, I don't understand," Pon was saying, but Maxas quickly hushed him,
and turned back, and strode away, crossing with some difficulty through the
crackling shifting brush.
Kenin waited until he saw that the townsfolk had met Maxas, and, ordered to
do so, had turned back to the clearer spaces in the forest by the river.
Upward through the thick brush Kenin struggled, matching the flow of the
shrouded silver river. His hands and skin were scratched by branches, and
he stumbled over roots and rocks, yet on he went. The air seemed to grow
darker as he approached the presence of the spirits, though it might have
been a dark fancy. They were dark, obscured figures which he could hardly
make out. The brush did not let up as he came near them. Kenin found
himself reciting, in his mind, the speech he would give to spare his life.
He found no words that seemed honest, nor eloquent, nor noble enough. He
could only hope that the spirits still spoke the tongues of men; he could
only hope that the spirits had once been men. He was sure that his cause
was not hopeless. He would ask only a little thing; only that the spirits
spare some hundred-odd humans passing through their woods.
The spirits were vaguely glimpsed through the branches and trees and mist.
From time to time he saw another one, appearing or revealing itself from
behind a tree, closer than he had expected. The ghosts wore armour, and
carried weapons in their hands, and did not move, and he could not see
their faces or flesh.
There was a little clearing at the top of the hill. Kenin burst into that
clearing, relieved to be free of the forest for a time. In the clearing, a
single tree stood alone and tall. Against that tree, arrayed in arms and
armour, with a spear clutched in a gauntleted hand, there stood the figure
of a man. It was facing away from Kenin. It did not react to his approach.
The phantom in armour watched the forest beyond.
Kenin knew he should speak. He could find no fitting words. The ghost did
not seem to breathe. It did not seem to move. Kenin stepped forward very
carefully. As quiet as he was, surely the ghost knew he was there.
Hesitantly, Kenin crept around the great tree trunk, around the unmoving
figure, to get a better look at its face. He walked around to the front of
it; he could now see clearly into the figure's face.
A rotted visage met his gaze, with eyes long bereft of their purpose. An
open, grinning mouth held yellow, broken teeth. The cheeks still held
flesh, yet it was bloodless flesh, drained of the substance of life, gaunt
and grey like some foul never-human thing. In an image that was forever
afterward burned into Kenin's memory, he saw that the face was contorted in
fear and pain.
A wild impulse overcame him; drawing his sword from its sheath with such
fury that it seemed to leap into his hand of its own will, Kenin came
forward and struck terrifically against the horrific figure. No great
battle was waged. The figure made no reply. The blow of Kenin's blade sent
it toppling to the side, depriving it of its precarious perch, and the
armoured figure fell to the floor of the glade. It fell clumsily and
heavily, and on impact with the ground the figure scattered into pieces,
and the helm and head went rolling along the ground.
Whatever fear and fury that had overcome him suddenly passed. Kenin looked
down at the body on the ground. The shield that had been propped up against
the side of the ghost had fallen to the soft floor, face up, bearing its
ensign clearly for Kenin to witness. He took a step back, astonished.
Piecing the truth together, he dashed about the glade.
Now as though a veil or a shroud of unnatural, clinging mist had been
lifted from his eyes, Kenin saw clearly, for the first time, the many
figures lurking in the mist and the shadows of the tangled woods at the top
of the hill. Each and every one of them was deathly still, and they carried
spears or swords or axes in their death-grips, and their flesh was pale and
bloodless, and they sagged against trees or rocks or each other, or the
strength of their armour held them up. Kenin looked from each to each and
for the first time he saw them for what they were. He looked down at the
ground then, and at the low places in the undergrowth, and he saw the
crumbling remnants of the men. They all wore the same armour and carried
the same sorts of weapons, and many had shields, and the designs on the
shields were all the same. Everywhere he looked, Kenin saw nothing but
dead, devoured men bearing the arms and armour of Karaz.
He left them in their eternal rest, suddenly understanding what had
happened. If a present fear fled from him, a deeper fear set in.
When Kenin struggled back down the tangled slopes and came out into a
clearing where his surviving people waited, his son, released from Maxas'
arms, ran forth. Kenin knelt and embraced his dear little boy. All around
them the mist swirled, and it trailed from their arms. All around them the
mist was parting and swirling as though unseen forms were passing through
"What were you doing up on the hill, papa?" Pon asked.
"Never mind that, son," Kenin said. "I should not have left you alone. I
should not have left any of you alone," he repeated, raising his voice,
addressing the townsfolk, but from the looks on their faces he saw that his
gathered, huddled people were confused and did not understand. Even the
bravest and brightest of them did not understand. In the strange light of
the woods their faces seemed like the faces of fragile, beautiful spirits.
"Were you looking for ghosts?" his son asked, and Kenin looked into Pon's
black, shrewd eyes. In that moment, his son seemed much older than ten-odd
"Yes, Pon," Kenin said gravely, rising to his feet. "I thought they were up
on the hill."
"But they're not up there, papa!" Pon chuckled. "Only I can see them."
"Yes, son." Kenin sighed. "Only you can see them, and you said you could
see them. Where are the ghosts, Pon?" as he asked, he knew the answer.
"All around us, father. Everywhere."
The mists swirled together and apart as invisible forms passed through
them. Kenin found it difficult to look at those swirling trails of mist.
Some of the townsfolk, hearing Pon clearly, began to murmur, and word
passed from ear to ear. Kenin turned to his son once more.
"Will you talk to them for us, Pon?"
"What should I say, father?" Pon said, suddenly grave and serious again,
seeming so much older than he was.
There were gasps, quickly hushed, from those of the nearby survivors who
quickly understood the meaning of that quiet conversation. Maxas turned and
surveyed the mists and the woods all around, and his quick eyes seemed to
be searching for some hint of those spirits which only Pon could see.
Barok, like a dread phantom himself in the strange light of the woods,
glowered at figures he could not see. Kenin could almost imagine the ghosts
moving near. He almost felt the air growing colder as they passed him, as
the mists nearby swirled apart. But if, indeed, as Pon claimed, the spirits
were all around them, they chose not to come down in their unnatural
killing fury upon the helpless, scattered townsfolk. Instead, invisible to
all but one, freely, they flew through the air, separate from the mortal
world, little different from mist.
Kenin fell to his knees, overwhelmed by his dark journey through the alien
woods. The grass was soft beneath him. Everywhere he looked he saw no way
out of the forest. He cast a careful eye over his people and saw them
waiting and watching for his words. He took a deep breath. The idea of
speech came back to him. He pieced the words together bit by bit, knowing
that what he said next might save them, or damn them, or perhaps accomplish
both at once. There was no choice but to speak, and to speak now, and to
speak in full. He raised his voice. He made sure it was clear and loud.
"Tell them that we come from Barafel, Pon. Tell them we are fleeing from an
army of Karaz which has come to our town to destroy it. Tell them that the
lord who promised to protect us gave no effort to defend us. Tell them that
we held the enemy back, for one night, for two nights, for three nights!
Tell the ghosts that our spirits and our bodies fought bravely, that our
defence of Barafel was glorious, and that every man and woman proved
themselves worthy of myth. Tell them that our little town, for three
nights, was the greatest fortress in the mortal world, but that we could
not hold for a fourth. Tell them that the greater part of our people, most
of them by far, are dead already, or in chains. Tell them that we fled
through the woods, even knowing the danger, for it was better than a
certain death."
"The town is gone," Kenin continued, and as he spoke he felt the memory of
himself and his wife and their strange little Pon floating down the river
in the sunlight fading by his own admission of the hard truth, until it was
no longer a memory but an image indistinguishable from a dream. All of
Barafel became that dream, in his mind: all the proud buildings and the old
families and the crowded streets and markets faded slowly into a spectral,
unfelt mist. "There is nothing left," he said, little above a whisper,
mostly to himself. "Tell the ghosts that we few who survive want nothing
now but to live. Let us through the woods to our safety in the west.
Please. We have nothing at all to offer you. We have nothing else to ask."
Kenin expected his son to repeat his words to the ghosts, but instead the
little boy cocked his head to one side and was silent, listening to
something no one else could hear. There was a silence, or at least, there
seemed to be a silence, spreading over the vast woods. No one living spoke.
All was silent. Kenin, alone in his grief, tried to hold on to the last
pieces of the memory of floating down the Willow River with his wife and
son in the summer, but try as he might, he felt that memory slipping
farther and farther away with every second, like a boat down a river in the
sun. How strange it was, that so much beauty could depend upon a cluster of
buildings and a few human lives.
"Father," Pon said, and he turned his dark eyes upon his sire, and Kenin,
kneeling, at a level with the boy, felt as though a man was looking at him
who was much, much older than he. "She wants to see you."
Through the crowd there were a few murmurs, of "who is she?" and "who is
she?" but Kenin did not wonder. Kenin already knew. He looked from his boy
out at the swirling mists, out at one particular spot in the swirling mists
where the mists swirled apart. It almost seemed that someone was there,
almost that a human form was there, almost that the mists sweeping apart
almost made the outline of a shape, and Kenin stared. As he stared he began
to believe that he could determine a shape surrounded by the mist. It was a
human form that Kenin could never, ever have mistaken for anyone else.
"Elira?" Kenin asked, with greatest pain, staring into the places where
there was no mist. We sent her down the river, as we did with all of the dead.
"Mother says she has missed you," Pon said. "She says I have grown up so
"He has, Elira. Oh, he has." Kenin's hands shook. His whole body shook.
"Can she hear us, boy?"
"They can all hear us, father," Pon said, as if amazed that Kenin did not
"How many, boy?" Kenin said, glancing away from his invisible phantom wife,
looking at the places all around where the mist swirled.
"Very many, father," Pon said. "There are too many for me to count."
Kenin rose to feet, on unsteady legs. He stared at the absent form ahead of
him. The mist in front of his face, which was thick, parted slowly, as
something unseen passed through it. He saw the outline of a form passing
through the mist, coming near to him.
"Elira," he said, surrounded by the strangeness of the moment and the
strangeness of the wood. "Elira, Elira, my dear. How I have missed you."
She could not reply, and Kenin did not want Pon to speak for her. Yet,
though he could not feel it, the mist parted in front of his face, and he
was certain, though it was neither seen nor felt, that the phantom form of
his wife came right up to him, and that, on his shivering lips, his
long-lost Elira planted a soft, single kiss.
Then she was gone, and she drifted invisibly away from him, and the mists
swirled around. Kenin understood: the request would be granted. They would
be spared. Only….
There are times when one man or woman has a chance to make a single choice
that, while determined and tied to other decisions, nevertheless, in that
choice's moment, has the power to change the future in vast, unimaginable
ways. Kenin Caral would never know, unto his death, the full extent of the
effect that his decision, made with passion, with desperate hope, would
have on Barafel and on lands far beyond. It cannot be said that he made the
wrong decision. It cannot be said that, even if he had known the full
future that would tumble out from his choice, even then, that he would have
been wrong in making the same decision--for no one would ever know what
the alternative world might have been. Kenin Caral stood in the woods, in
the aftermath of death, in the midst of fear and hope, and he made his
"Wait," he called, to the spirits retreating through the woods. Not wanting
to wait, not wanting to waste his chance, he continued, speaking in
blindness, with strength. "It is not too late for Barafel. To the east,
beyond the woods, the Karazans still ransack the town. They still kill and
enslave the inhabitants. They still plunder it with their malevolent wills!
If you are truly the Ghosts of Barafel, if who are who I believe you to be,
know then that we few here and those who might still survive in Barafel are
the remnant of all that the town is and will ever be. We few might survive,
might remain, might rebuild the town. Yet we cannot do this without
defeating the foe, and…" here he made his fatal choice, here he cast
the world's dice, "we cannot drive out the Karazans on our own. Help us,
phantoms," he pleaded to them. With his eyes wide, staring from each unseen
ghost to each unseen ghosts, he pleaded with them. "Help us, Ghosts of
Barafel. There is still time to save the town. I know not if phantoms can
ever be persuaded to interfere in the affairs of the mortal world, but
surely you recognize us as your own, as your people, your cousins and
children, the descendants of the flesh you once were. Will you honour our
They did not speak, or, if they did speak, Kenin was not blessed and cursed
as his son was to hear them speak. If they spoke, only his little son heard
them. If the ghosts spoke, their words went whistling overhead and soaring
through the brightened mist without landing and catching on mortal ears.
But while he watched the mists shifting, Kenin saw that the outlines of
human forms which must have been floating through the air seemed to be
turning, to be rising, to be leaving the survivors of Barafel. The ghosts
were slowly drifting to the east. The townsfolk, still understanding little
of what had occurred, huddled together, bound by fear and comfort. Kenin
turned to his dark little boy. In his son's face Kenin Caral sought a
confirmation of his own unexpected hopes. But his son had turned, and was
staring, off at where the ghosts must have been, to the east.
"They said nothing, father," Pon said, as if disappointed that for once
they had not spoken to him. "Where are they going?"
"Oh, Pon," Kenin said, and he knelt before his son and gripped him
fiercely, and he tried to look at the same ghosts his son was watching,
though of course he saw nothing, just as everyone else in the wood saw
nothing, just as the Karazans who had tried to pass through the forest had
seen nothing before they died. "To Barafel, my boy. They are going home."
So Kenin Caral held his son as the people of Barafel gathered around them
and spoke amongst each other, and Kenin would soon rise and speak to them
all and put an end to their confusion and explain what had happened, but he
was not ready for that, not yet. The mist thickened around them and grew as
still as the surface of an infinite sea. To the east it was still swirling,
still parting and shifting wildly as innumerable invisible figures went
floating through it, as the Ghosts of Barafel went drifting, perhaps
marching, off to vengeance and to war.
Bio: I am an aspiring fantasy writer from Victoria, B.C. Canada. I have studied
creative writing and philosophy at Camosun College. I prefer to write high
fantasy and science fantasy stories. I also write formal poetry and have
been published in the 2014 "Island Magic" anthology by The Poetry Institute of Canada and Young Writers, for the short
fantasy poem "Giants".
E-mail: Rory Angus
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text:
In a global survey from 2013 SDL interviewed over 700 professionals to explore the state of CXM in todays marketplace. Out of the surveyed 20% stated that media and video technology was a key factor when implementing CXM.
Joyfully 55% of those had already implemented technologies to support Video & Media Management and an additional 16% had put it down as a top 3 priority.
However more than 80% of the respondents had not mentioned Video & Media Management as an important factor. This shows that knowledge of the importance of video in the next 5-10 years needs spread.
Especially considering that as much as 80% of all online content by 2020 is likely to be made out of moving media and for reasons like the importance of video in the sales process, both with-in B2B and B2C.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
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Educational Board GREEN TURTLE - 50x70 cm - 170gr paper
Illustration #09 - GREEN TURTLE / ENDANGERED
By purchasing this board you make possible to advance the SAVE ANIMALS project. This project involves raising children's awareness of the protection of wild animals by broadcasting the 12 educational boards directly to schools in countries where these species subsist.
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text:
The exhibition "Warhol: Headlines" is now a Rome at the Galleria d'Arte Moderna, after it has been at the National Gallery of Washington and at the Museum für Moderne Kunst of, Frankfurt.
The show defines and brings together works that the artist based largely on headlines from the tabloid news. Warhol had a lifelong obsession with the sensational side of contemporary news media, and examples of his source materials for the works of art will be presented for comparison, revealing Warhol's role as both editor and author.
The rich headline motif will be traced through about 80 works representing the full range of its treatment in Warhol's practice—from paintings, drawings, prints, photography, and sculpture to film, video, and television. A major, yet previously unexplored theme that ran through Warhol's entire career, the headline encompasses many of his key subjects, including celebrity, death, disaster, and current events.
Wherever one places him, Warhol's influence is indisputable. His visual vocabulary has become a part of the vernacular from which it originally derived. Even his purported 1968 statement "in the future everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes" has become as ubiquitous as the 24-hour news cycle.


text:
UNESCO has formally recognized a Parsi community for their choice to restore and preserve historic enclaves.
Architect Vikas Dilawari, under the guidance and advice of the Garib Zathostiyona Regethan Fund, restored the Sethna Buildings, which consists of five buildings that house many of the poorer Parsi families in the area. Restoring the Sethna Buildings not only preserved the historic nature of the enclave, but also avoided a huge raise in property taxes that would have occurred had it been rebuilt. This allowed the tenants to continue to be able to afford the housing.
UNESCO has made this award despite the fact that Mumbai does not even recognize the district in its own heritage list.
The Mumbai Heritage Conservation Committee is now offering incentives to restore historic buildings as opposed to rebuilding them. This will undoubtedly preface a conservation movement for historically relevnt buildings in Mumbai.


text:
I usually only get sick once a year, so this is my once a year reminder of how awesome it is when you are not sick!
BUT, I have come up with some good things about having a cold:
1. You can stay in bed all day without people judging you for it.
2. You don't have to get dressed up, Pajamas and sweat pants are acceptable.
3. If you need some alone time, peeps don't want your germs so they stay far far away!
4. You really don't have an appetite, so it saves you money on groceries.
5. Your voice has that sexy rasp to it that makes you sound mysterious.
6. You can blame being in a bad mood, forgetting things, etc. on your cold, "Sorry I just have a Cold so I am not myself".
7. When you get over your cold, you are very thankful so not be sick anymore and it changes your perspective on how lucky you are to be healthy!.
I can't stay home all day thou, I broke the car lock on the drivers side of my car awhile ago, so I am taking myself and my germs on a little outing to the Honda Dealership to get a new lock. Wish me luck!
Hugs and Zinc Throat Spray,
Brittani Taylor aka Rhonda Anthony Tanner/R.A.T. Coaching aka B-RAT :)


text:
Office Bullies
Related Articles
–Moses Obroku
If you haven't experienced working under a cantankerous, highly irritable, generally obnoxious boss, believe me, fate has been extremely kind to you as you have been spared one of life's greatest trauma. To the people whose lot in life it is right now to be working with such bosses, I can only hope that something happens about that situation real soon before permanent damage is done to whatever is left of your dignity.
And as you know too well by now, this special breed that your boss is, do not need any external stimulus for him/her to get real nasty with you. On their own, they can generate a negative energy minefield to ensure your every work day of the week is unbearable for you.
Often times, they create unnecessary tension around them at the work place. They seem to hold this twisted view that the boss has to be stern looking with this 'don't –joke-with me', 'I -am- tough' kind of disposition; like that is when they can command respect quickly. These bosses do not realize that when subordinates work with the apprehension of being given verbal jabs indiscriminately, they end up making more mistakes as the fear of what is anticipated soon materializes.
The most amazing thing is that, these kinds of bosses almost never give a word of commendation to their subordinates, even when such subordinates have performed extremely well on the job or saved the department some embarrassment. Such achievements sadly, usually go unacknowledged. But when these same champions make little mistakes, a barrage of verbal missiles are hauled at them.
You just never know with these kinds of bosses. Whatever you do, you will end up being wrong. If you get proactive, it will be deemed you are taking decisions without authorization. If you get reactive, you will be judged for being slow or negligent. It is generally a lose -lose situation for the subordinate. If you do, you will be blamed. If you don't, you will be blamed. These bosses are plainly double edge swords; either way they swing you will be cut to pieces. And the way they talk down on subordinates is unimaginable. Often times, they will leave the real issue on hand and start attacking your personality. They may even take it to your home or upbringing, leaving you defenseless as you swallow it whole, humiliation and all.
By the time they are done with verbally bullying you, whatever self-esteem you may have gone to work with is usually left in shreds, leaving you feeling inadequate and sorry for yourself. I have seen full grown men reduced to fervent sobs when they are being lampooned, over misunderstanding a directive.
But I ask myself, is all that necessary? Why should a subordinate get walked all over just so a point can be made, when there is a more humane way of addressing the issue whilst letting that junior colleague keep his/her dignity? But why am I not surprised at the way these superiors act? That is what bullies do. They pick on you because you are regarded as the weak one. As it concerns the office, you cannot talk back because they are your superiors. If you do, it will be deemed 'rudeness to superiors', if not 'insubordination'. So, latching on their corporate advantageous positions, they scream at you, rain invectives, if they think you deserve it. There is no sparing what they can say to you. They simply revel in the fact that you cannot talk back, or shouldn't.
The bosses who treat their subordinates badly, ironically almost never apologize or own up to ever making mistakes. They think they are as close to perfection as mankind can get. In their delusion, even when they make shameful mistakes, they will insist they are right and their gigantic egos would prevent them from acknowledging it, let alone apologizing. They are in sync with the saying that 'the queen can do no wrong' and they strongly remind me of the tyrant 'comrade Napoleon' in George Orwell's 'Animal Farm' 'who is always right'. Otherwise, how does one explain the infallible position they always assume?
When shown very obviously embarrassing mistakes they have made by subordinates who would have used high degree of politeness in doing so, these 'high and mighty' managers would sometimes go on the offensive, blaming that junior colleague as the cause of that mistake or contributing to it. You need to experience this behavior to fully understand what I mean here. And when this happens, such subordinate is left with his confidence eroded and regret in doing what he thought was right.
When bosses vacillate in approbating and reprobating, demonstrating high erratic behavior in the office in dealing with people they manage, frankly, from an objective point of view, the only message they succeed in passing across is that they are borderline cases of extreme megalomania and ridiculousness.
Unfortunately, top management hardly ever knows about these behaviors, as most establishments don't have a system of 'feedback' in place, where employees can make these abuses known.
While I am not a psychology major, I suspect that most bully bosses have deep seated personal health or family issues that are plaguing them. Their unsuspecting subordinates are just ready subjects to vent on, so they can feel the power once again that whatever is plaguing them is robbing them off.
Another explanation I can offer about their behavior is obsessive fear. They fear failure in carrying out their responsibilities as unit, divisional or group heads.so they drive themselves hard and subordinates twice as hard. Nobody wants to lose a position already attained for lack of performance; but I think it should not be at unbearable cost to the people that serve under them.
A boss will say, 'we need this job done on this deadline'. After the people involved have stayed extra hours and almost killed themselves to meet up with such deadlines, to their dismay, such task that was announced as 'so urgent' would still be lying around the boss' table many days afterwards. What is that? Why make me close so late and endanger me on Nigerian roads with all their attendant risks at unreasonable hours only for the so-called 'deadline' not to be urgent anymore?
Sometimes I feel sorry for the bosses. It must really be hard for them, balancing their top positions with family and the other myriads of issues confronting them. But I am also certain they can make their points clearly and firmly without all the drama of shouting, name calling people, and generally creating tension at work places; or even going about threatening subordinates with scoring them low during appraisals!
One thing that is not common in this part of the world now is anger management classes. Quite frankly, people managers who have a proclivity for losing their cool over small stuffs should enroll. To be sure, most bosses ought to keep having refresher courses on anger management and advanced certification on civilized conduct, before they start collapsing from stroke resulting from unnecessary tension and excess brain activity during shouting sessions with junior colleagues.
But what can be done about these hard to please bosses, or is one condemned to stomach all these insults for as long as you remain under them? I think not.
You can start by getting your act together. Step up your competence level; be at your optimum in the level of work you churn out. Do quality work. Will this keep your fault finding boss off your back? Of course not! But it will prepare you for the next step to reclaiming your dignity at your work place – which is 'going on a diplomatic offensive'. It is taking the talk to your boss, and you must be ready to lead the charge! Martin Luther King said freedom is never given voluntarily by the oppressor. It must be demanded by the oppressed. To reclaim your right to be treated like a human being, you will have to demand it.
A warning though: there is absolutely no guarantee that your boss will appreciate that kind of talk. It may not change anything. As a matter of fact, his/her behavior towards you may take a turn for the worse. You may come off this adventure vigorously battered. But you would have made the point. Your boss will discover something new about you that, you are the one who will not take the blows lying down anymore. And because you have stepped up your work, the boss will not have a reason to nail you. You will eventually get your dignity restored.
But after you have done all and the situation does not improve, do not despair. You will have to endure until you or your boss leaves that unit or establishment. Afterall, it is properly called a 'work place'. Not a 'social gathering' of friends.
At the moment, I am very fortunate to have a very excellent boss. He is exceptional in how he treats people who work with him, from the drivers to the colleagues in management staff. He doesn't bring anyone down. A very striking observation I made is the fact that, even though he jokes with everyone and tries to make the work place as lively as possible, we know not to mess with him or try to take him for granted; because, like a true scorpion, my boss can also sting with deadly consequence. I like to think office bullies can learn how to manage men and materials from him. A word is enough for the wise… let it be.
- Mr. Obroku, a legal practitioner. You can email him at firstname.lastname@example.com


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In The Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith wrote: The liberal reward of labour, as it encourages the propagation, so it increases the industry of the common people. The wages of labour are the encouragement of industry, which, like every other human quality, improves in proportion to the encouragement it receives. A plentiful subsistence increases the bodily strength of the labourer, and the comfortable hope of bettering his condition, and of ending his days perhaps in ease and plenty, animates him to exert that strength to the utmost. Where wages are high, accordingly, we shall always find the workmen more active, diligent, and expeditious than where they are low.
And in another place, he explains the advantages that the business owner has over the workers, being able to dictate the wage negotiation, while the worker has no means of making demands. If the worker does not like the agreement, he is welcome to be replaced by another, and leave his own family to starve:
A landlord, a farmer, a master manufacturer, a merchant, though they did not employ a single workman, could generally live a year or two upon the stocks which they have already acquired. Many workmen could not subsist a week, few could subsist a month, and scarce any a year without employment. In the long run the workman may be as necessary to his master as his master is to him; but the necessity is not so immediate.
In Marx's description of the same truth, he is more blunt:
Wages are determined through the antagonistic struggle between capitalist and worker. Victory goes necessarily to the capitalist. The capitalist can live longer without the worker than can the worker without the capitalist.
In other parts, Marx very critically describes the destruction of the capitalist imposition upon its workers:
But political economy knows the worker only as a working animal — as a beast reduced to the strictest bodily needs. "To develop in greater spiritual freedom, a people must break their bondage to their bodily needs — they must cease to be the slaves of the body. They must, above all, have time at their disposal for spiritual creative activity and spiritual enjoyment. " Money, then, appears as this distorting power both against the individual and against the bonds of society, etc., which claim to be entities in themselves. It transforms fidelity into infidelity, love into hate, hate into love, virtue into vice, vice into virtue, servant into master, master into servant, idiocy into intelligence, and intelligence into idiocy. Since money, as the existing and active concept of value, confounds and confuses all things, it is the general confounding and confusing of all things – the world upside-down – the confounding and confusing of all natural and human qualities.
- capitalist: the false "owner" of production who has purchased a piece of land, been given a "title of ownership", invested collected wealth to build a production facility, and then employs poor workers as slave animals to create more wealth for himself.
- political economy: the conditions under which production or consumption within limited parameters is organized in nation-states
Alienation is a major subject of Marx's writings. It begins with the fact that in our current system, unnatural ownership of land and production rights have been delegated to the wealthy, while in truth, the workers have as much right as any to utilize our earth for home and creative production. So, the worker has been alienated from his/her natural right by a government document that consigns those "rights" to wealthy individuals. Alienation continues in that the worker has a nature that enjoys creative and beautiful production. However, the worker has been separated from that right and human nature by being forced into a "job" of repetitive actions that are dictated by the owner and factory manager. The worker is not allowed to enjoy the full and natural process of transforming raw materials into a beautiful product. They're only allowed to screw on a piece of it. The worker is further alienated at the time of getting paid. Instead of receiving the pile of items he/she has actually worked to produce, they are instead given "money", which is always a fractional value of their actual product. So, from beginning to end, workers are deprived of those rights that are dictated by human nature – equal ownership and productive rights, creativity, and reward – are all stripped away.
So, it would make sense, what we see in our society, the endless pursuit of amusements, chemical abuse, mental illness, and even suicide. We live in a system that does not allow most humans to be natural humans. And the disgusting reality is that the system in its entirety depends on THE WORKER ! Not on the fat-ass capitalist sipping champagne on his yacht.
The existence of capitalist organizations like ALEC (the American Legislative Exchange Council) is the continued and expanded collusion of capitalists with false "government" to extend the privileges of their "ownership" of society. They bust union efforts, keep wages below the poverty level, eliminate environmental responsibility measures, and purchase the politicians who will enact their privileges into Law. Since the 1950's, the U.S. has engaged in no less than 50 covert actions to assassinate leaders, topple governments, and destroy nations. Hegemony is the idea of dominating all of humanity and leaving no alternatives. So, anytime a nation of people is developing along alternative lines, or is "uncooperative" with the U.S., they can expect to be annihilated.


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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post6358890246541801705..comments2018-06-20T12:50:54.166-04:00Comments on Olive Tree Genealogy Blog: Is Genealogy a Hobby?Lorine McGinnis Schulzehttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-26197990865023015252010-09-13T15:36:40.939-04:002010-09-13T15:36:40.939-04:00Lately I've been feeling it is more of an &quo...Lately I've been feeling it is more of an "addiction" than anything else....especially since I search for new dates and names and newspaper articles and census records and death certificates without fully recording and documenting the ones I've found. It's the rush of the new discovery that I'm seeking.

And as with most addicts, I'll sign myself as email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-24903446891125557132010-09-05T20:07:03.940-04:002010-09-05T20:07:03.940-04:00I agree that genealogy for most is a hobby, but ju...I agree that genealogy for most is a hobby, but just like any hobby; there are those that take there hobby very very very seriously and God forbid anyone do anything wrong in that hobby.

For me it did start out as a hobby, but I had such a passion for it that I began helping others and found many asking me to help them. I soon began to pursue it as a profession. I'm still working amyrebbahttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-49992407373297674302010-09-05T19:38:26.772-04:002010-09-05T19:38:26.772-04:00I believe that most people begin researching their...I believe that most people begin researching their family and history as a hobby, but with time, it becomes an obsession.Yet Another Carroll Familyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-43554333341620891062010-09-05T19:37:09.027-04:002010-09-05T19:37:09.027-04:00I believe that for most people genealogy begins as...I believe that for most people genealogy begins as a hobby, but as you begin delving into your family and their history, it becomes an obsession.Yet Another Carroll Familyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-45052332299453852492010-09-03T13:24:31.045-04:002010-09-03T13:24:31.045-04:00I've been struggling for the right word. &quo...I've been struggling for the right word. "Hobby" just isn't it -- it's more than that. The closest I can think of is "Sacred Trust."The Grandmother Herehttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-7486144576678954862010-09-03T01:38:06.457-04:002010-09-03T01:38:06.457-04:00I do not use the word hobby, personally. That sugg...I do not use the word hobby, personally. That suggests to me an activity that brings pleasure to oneself - but genealogy, at least the kind I do, while not making money (in fact, it TAKES money), is much more. I am preserving documents, letters, photos, etc. by collecting things from relatives and archivally scanning and storing all the materials, as well as photographing objects, writing their Debhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-10472145082818000122010-09-02T10:42:22.279-04:002010-09-02T10:42:22.279-04:00In my presentation, the Seven Stages of Genealogy ...In my presentation, the Seven Stages of Genealogy Growth, I discuss how an individual progresses from hobbyist to highly educated and effective professional researcher. The very first level is familiar to all -- Collector. While this is certainly germain to hobbies, it is also essential to serious researchers.

IOW, I agree with you AND Lisa. For me, it isHappyDaehttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-9773953525967110962010-09-02T09:11:53.538-04:002010-09-02T09:11:53.538-04:00LOL! I probably should have worded my original com...LOL! I probably should have worded my original comment as "Genealogy is not JUST a hobby", that would have been more precise to my way of thinking. I said it the way I did because I am often made to feel guilty for spending so much time on something that I don't make money at. The older I get the more concern I have over our family stories and photos being lost forever. I live in Lisa Wallen Logsdonhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-13966244120433181922010-09-02T08:36:23.188-04:002010-09-02T08:36:23.188-04:00Many years I played with computers as a hobby. Thi...Many years I played with computers as a hobby. Think Commodore 64. I later turned that into a 30 year career that supported me and my family quite well. Just because it's currently a hobby, doesn't mean it can't be a profession. I'm currently working on turning my genealogy hobby into a second profession and plan to eventually start by own genealogy research business. Then it won&Jackiehttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-41929882754308683362010-09-01T22:18:17.815-04:002010-09-01T22:18:17.815-04:00Ditto what GeneBugGrams said. I think of genealog...Ditto what GeneBugGrams said. I think of genealogy as my avocation (= hobby) and languages as my vocation. I love them both, but prefer to earn my living at languages.Greta Koehlhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-25751979254454091552010-09-01T20:45:02.664-04:002010-09-01T20:45:02.664-04:00Even my husband and I disagree on this one. He inh...Even my husband and I disagree on this one. He inherited all the photos, letters and feels it is his duty to be archivist, not miss a thing (he'll be finished sometime next century); to me its fun, interesting, and I'll do it sometimes along with my other hobbies!Flowershttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-49521574082907405792010-09-01T15:36:59.212-04:002010-09-01T15:36:59.212-04:00I have always called my genealogy research my avoc...I have always called my genealogy research my avocation.
noun - An activity taken up in addition to one's regular work or profession, usually for enjoyment; a hobby.GeneBugGramshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-56666923664025457252010-09-01T14:47:26.341-04:002010-09-01T14:47:26.341-04:00I agree with you, in that i do my genealogy as a h...I agree with you, in that i do my genealogy as a hobby, i also agree with lisa in that its a lifes work!

I have been doing mine on and off for about the last 15 years, currently i am helping other people do theres, unpaid, in a weekly group, but to me, its still a hobby.

Now i would love for someone to offer me a job doing this, as the skills i would learn researching other DinkyJennyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-17184704924027701342010-09-01T13:50:49.127-04:002010-09-01T13:50:49.127-04:00Don't knock button collecting. There are peop...Don't knock button collecting. There are people who make a living buying and selling buttons. Check out the National Button email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-55087386381593480632010-09-01T13:33:48.861-04:002010-09-01T13:33:48.861-04:00This comment has been removed by the author.Jameshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-91914496543416998972010-09-01T13:32:45.230-04:002010-09-01T13:32:45.230-04:00In my opinion, genealogy research is a hobby for m...In my opinion, genealogy research is a hobby for most who pursue it. For some, their level of interest may hover around that of curiosity; for others, it may be more of a passion or even, possibly, an obsession. But I think "hobby" is an appropriate word to use.

It is not surprising to me that many family members have no interest in genealogy as a hobby because, as has been Jameshttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-71479820283713087692010-09-01T13:17:43.378-04:002010-09-01T13:17:43.378-04:00I define it as a hobby for myself. The thing I go...I define it as a hobby for myself. The thing I go by is the fact that, in spite of my obsession, I still have to put research on the back burner for making a living and raising children - much more than I would wish to do.Sadiehttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641680.post-24625701956226566442010-09-01T12:33:43.202-04:002010-09-01T12:33:43.202-04:00For most of us, hobby it is. Unlike grandma's ...For most of us, hobby it is. Unlike grandma's button collecting, its artifacts potentially have special value for others. On second thought, that button collection gave me hours of fun as a child, so add it to the "special value" category as well.pugbughttps://firstname.lastname@example.com


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It is considered bad form for journalists to refer to the US government as a "regime." Apparently, that moniker is reserved for our country's enemies, of late Russia, North Korea, Iran, and Syria. Maybe Myanmar too; that's still being sorted out. But what is a regime, really, and is it really true that we don't have one here? Continue reading "One Regime to Rule them All"
Tag: Artificial Intelligence
A.I. Enablers Gear Up to Assault Intellect
Perhaps you haven't noticed the investor class getting all gung-ho these days over Artificial Intelligence (AI). Only a couple of decades ago, these same people dismissed AI because it wasn't very useful yet. But that's all changed due to advances in machine vision and learning, and now VCs, hedge funds, and most of the rest of the usual big-money suspects are salivating over prospects of automating most of the rest of the economy, even including agriculture.
Thanks to its clot of institutions of higher learning, Boston—my fair city—is littered with tech startups and factories that churn them out. They and the Hub's cloud of serial investors have created a knot of compressed energy, the nexus of which one can find at a suite in Kendall Square—epicenter of Boston's tech scene, featuring outposts of Google, Oracle, Facebook and Amazon, pharma firms like Merck and Novartis and a host of biotechy startups fed by MIT's biomedical research complex, augmented by its AI and Media Labs—where every Thursday evening prime movers get together for suds and savvy strategizing at private oasis called Venture Café. Continue reading "A.I. Enablers Gear Up to Assault Intellect"


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Back to school! Getting up before sunrise, hurriedly finishing homework, walking around the crowded hallways and all before you have an ounce of caffeine. Awe! What a great time of year.
All joking aside, this year is off to a great start (better than the last three years, at least). I can tell that it is going to be a very fun and productive year. My teachers have already dove in to their lessons in creative ways that help me understand, which is a fairly new concept for me. It's been really fun to connect with old friends and take over on the offices of the many clubs that I now manage (whoops). I can't wait for you all to see what I have in store for this blog including merchandise, vlogs, and giveaways. Thank you all for subscribing, let's make this a great year!
What do you guys want to see more of this year? Any reviews that you want to read or things you would like as a prize? Tell me below! Don't forget to like, comment, and click subscribe. I post every Saturday and sometimes I surprise you. Like my Facebook page for chances of give-a-ways and news straight from my HQ. Click the page "Shop" to buy Guilty Angels and (soon) merchandise! Also, if you would like to be apart of a video for "Guilty Angels" or "Falling Into the Third Reich", go to the "Contact Me" page and contact me for more information. Check out "The Almighty Partners" page to support the great people that keep my dream up and running!
Stay Strong. Stay Beautiful.


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Government has a "new lease on life", thanks to the positive decision by ratings agency Moody's to upgrade the country's...Monday, 26 Mar, 2018
It also provides money to improve school security, strengthens the system of background checks on gun buyers, and provid...Monday, 26 Mar, 2018
It has underperformed by 10.47% the S&P500. David Costen Haley increased its stake in Golar Lng Ltd Bermuda ( GLNG ) b...Monday, 26 Mar, 2018
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The stock had a trading volume of 421,817 shares, compared to its average volume of 533,151. Sanderson Farms, Inc . (NA...Monday, 26 Mar, 2018
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We also have a good coach (Adenor Leonardo Bacchi, popularly known as Tite) right now. "Brazil is a team you can never...Monday, 26 Mar, 2018
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A good investment return
'Character Strengths Interventions: A Field Guide for Practitioners' by R.M. Niemiec (Hogrefe; Pb £40.32)
The application of positive psychology and strengths is growing in organisations, education and in the clinical setting. But the published literature supporting that and offering guidance has been trailing. This book is therefore a really valuable and welcome resource to go some way towards filling that gap.
The VIA Survey has been around for a number of years now and is one of the few academically sound strengths diagnostics that is available at no charge. This book acts as a '
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text:
Hi All,
I'm using ArcView 3.2 and I'm have difficulties with projections. I
have received some files from a Federal Agency, some in .shp others
in .e00 format. When I converted the .e00 files, I ended up with
choices of polygon, arc, labelpoint, annotation, and route.xxxx, all in
one .shp folder. However, the .shp and converted .e00 files don't
align correctly. The larger problem though is when I try to use the AV
Projection Utility, I get an error message saying that the file (the
converted .e00) "cannot be loaded because of an incompatibility problem
with the file format or projection information. The file will be
skipped." So, how am I supposed to get these files to project/align
Thanks again,
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Before you buy.


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(CHATSWORTH, CA) -- Offering something extra to its growing base of fans, Sinsation Pictures will offer a limited number of autographed copies of its latest release, MILFs Night Out, through online retailer GameLink.com.
Although MILFs Night out will be available everywhere on Jan. 10, 2007, signed copies can be purchased at www.SinsationPictures.com or on the GameLink.com web site.
MILFs Night Out, directed Dee and the first title produced and edited by the noted veteran performer, revolves around a group of older women, once called the Virgin Marys, who set their town on fire with age and experience. The title stars Demi Delia, Kristal Summers, TJ Powers, Kitty Langdon and Brooke. Summers, cover girl for the title and a veteran performer, signed the slipcovers of the discs.
"I love how the cover turned out," Summers said. "I'm also elated to be part of the success of MILFs Night Out. Sinsation Pictures is a joy to work for and having my long-time friend Dee direct, produce and edit the movie made it even more special."
Dee, who also directed the Adventures of Squirt Girl and the 20 Year-Old Virgin for Sinsation, said she's impressed with the company's dedication to production value and quality.
"It's great to be a part of a company that isn't putting out more product that's like so much of what's on the shelves now," Dee added. "Sinsation Pictures isn't afraid to put something more in a scene and to dress up the frame so it's as sensual as it is sexy. I've had a great time working with them and I look forward to working on future productions with Sinsation."
Sinsation owner Paul Marco said offering extras -- like the autographed copies of MILFs Night Out and its bonus scene starring Nicki Hunter -- are part of the fan-centric approach his company takes.
"The fans have responded very well to the titles we've released over the last year," Marco said. "We offer beautiful women in gorgeous scenes that emphasize sensuality and it's a combination that's been a constant through our titles. Adding personal touches, like Kristal's autograph to Milfs Night Out, are a great way to offer something special to those fans who appreciate our productions.
"If you want the autograph copies, get 'em early!"
For more information visit www.sinsationpictures.com. Sinsation Pictures is exclusively distributed by Wicked Pictures. Contact Bonnie Kail for domestic DVD sales and Steven Vlottes for international DVD sales at 818-349-3593.
About Sinsation Pictures:
With a dedication to high production values and couples-oriented titles, Sinsation Pictures is committed to consistently bringing high-quality adult movies, such as Milfs Night Out, the 20 Year-Old Virgin, Teenage Sensations and Anal Sensations, to the marketplace.
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Eros, a Short Film
Lee Signs Victoria June
Maxine X Voted #1
Czernich Releases Heavy Rubber 37
Legal Panel: Weinstein, #MeToo
Consent Checklist
Nice Girls Swallow 10
Paradise Wins Best Condom
Paradise, Astroglide StorErotica Nom
Paradise Marketing New Website
Dennis Paradise Inducted
Avengers XXX2: An Axel Braun Parody
Lisa Ann is Back
Severe's Corrupted Screens at CineKink
Gamer Girls on DVD
Black Loads Matter
Baumgartners Wins Best Polyamory
Ryder Wins Best Screenplay
Burlesque Documentary
Bad Babes Inc
Bush is Back
Phillips, Valentina Deliver BJs
Royal Empire Productions
Vivid's Sex Tape Wish List
I Love 80s Porn Contest
Bunny De La Cruz AVN Nom
2017 XRCO Date, Location
Not Traci Lords XXX
Diesel Hits Anna Bell Peaks
Young Girl Auditions
Meanbitch's 'Femdom Jessa'
Airerose 4 NightMoves Noms
Lust Loves Big Boobs
KM's Morning Joe
Karen Fisher 2 New DVDs
Amateur Introductions 23
HoloFilm Release Poké a Ho
Film News Section Index
Ella Nova Covers Hairy Teens
August Ames Covers Beautiful Tits 3
Nadia Ali: No to Trump Scene
Sheri's Ranch Sex Tape
Cum Swallowing Auditions
Raven Bay Hammered
Briana Banks Returns
Gina Valentina's 1st IR
Deadly Famous
Amateur Allure 4 AVN Noms
Public Sex Adventures 2
Women Seeking Women Visited
Charles Manson to be Released!
Romantic Moments Revealed
Adult Film Festival
A French Documentary Like No Other
Night at the Erotic Museum
Lex's Tattooed Vixens 2
Lesbian Training Day 4
Ashley Sinclair Sex Tape
5X Raven Bay