Granny Phillis

The fire, a welcome contrast to the descending mist outside, was soon obscured by all seven grandkids. As they fought over who would be directly in front, the youngest Seán, decided that he would sit with his beloved great granny Phillis. “Hello granny! Happy Halloween. Would you like a sweet?” Her marble eyes found him, and she squinted. “Is that you Georgie?”

Seán smiled, unoffended. “No, it’s me Granny. It’s Seán. I’m Georgie’s son!” Her solum face lit up. “Ah it’s me little pet Seán, how are you love?”

“I’m grand granny I got loads of sweets would you like one? I have the sucky sweets you like!” As she reached out Seán was already obliging with an orange flavored glazier. “Thanks pet, and by the way, we don’t say happy Halloween.”

Seán, a wise nine-year-old, knew not to question his great granny. His sister Susan however, was a boisterous twelve. “My teacher taught me it’s polite to say happy Halloween to your friends and family.” Granny Phillis sat up straighter in her armchair. Seán often wondered if granny was born in that chair because he rarely saw her out of it. Although in fairness, she had been 85 when he was born.

“Susan, don’t talk to your granny that way!” Her mortified Mother squeaked. Susan gave a familiar look. One that normally resulted in an argument. Tonight, however, Susan had a big bag of sweets and wasn’t about to relinquish them. “Sorry, granny Phillis.” She muttered.

Seán cast his eyes over to granny’s face. Although not as indignant as it had been, she still looked annoyed. “Why shouldn’t we say happy Halloween granny?” He asked gently. Phillis glanced at her great-grandson smiling. His resemblance to her husband in both manner and looks had always given her pause.

“Well, young man I’ll tell you why once your father gets me my Halloween treat.” His father Georgie promptly lept up from his seat and went to the kitchen to get her a double whiskey. Seán offered her another sweet and when Georgie returned with her whiskey she took a good swig.

“Now, Seán. Do you know what Halloween is?” Seán tilted his head. This seemed like a trick question. “Oh, I know this!” Susan shrieked. “It’s a festival to celebrate the harvest.” Waiting for her obligatory pat on the back for the correct answer. Her shocked face, when it didn’t come, was glorious to Seán.

“Listen to me. Halloween is a very dangerous night of the year. Why do you think our ancestors had the bonfires? As a way to be grateful for the harvest? Nonsense. They were trying to keep the light going until midnight when it was safe again.” At that Seán’s mother jumped in. “Now Phillis no need to scare the children, come on everyone I think your Granny Tricia has the tea ready, quickly now, into the kitchen.”

The rest of children, grateful to be finally allowed leave their eccentric great granny Phillis alone, milled out of the room. Seán remained, as unlike the rest, had a soft spot in his heart for the elderly. Phillis knew this, and her heart swelled. “Who were they afraid of Granny?”

Phillis shuffled in her chair so she was facing Seán. Her glassy eyes shone in the firelight. “You see Seán, there are many things out there, especially in Ireland. We have the likes of the banshee, the faeries, and the tricksters. Now most of them, are not much trouble. They live alongside us, as hidden as they may. Now you don’t have to worry about them. The banshee weeps at the dead, the faeries love treasures, and the tricksters are feckin’ annoying.”

Seán’s eyes widened. “Faeries are real!?!” Granny held up her hand. “Don’t interrupt me Ghassan. Now those entities have been around longer than us and will be long after we’re gone. They’re in our world but they’re not, and most of them are happy with that. It’s the dark ones that you need to worry about.”

Granny’s eyes deepened, and she sipped at her neat whiskey. Moments went by and Seán had to nudge her. “Sorry pet, I was just thinking back to when I was your age, now that wasn’t yesterday or the day before.” She glanced down at her hands. “85 years or so now.” Seán’s head comically shook in disbelief. Although he knew her age, he never thought about it like that. He had certainly never thought of her as a child before.

“So when I was your age, Halloween was no laughing matter. We didn’t go around begging for sweets from our neighbours. We battened down the hatches as if there was a storm coming…” Sip. “Yes in those days we feared the dark on Samhain, it’s not like it is now. There is always light available when you go outside these days, but when I was a young wan. Well…”

“Must have been Halloween 1932. No no, it was 1933 I think. Whatever year it was, I was a young girleen, about your age Seán. I was sent to me granny’s to check on her, It was early enough in the afternoon around three or so. I was to be back by five. She only lived down the road sure.”

Seán shifted uneasily in his seat, chewing slowing. Granny Phillis loved to tell him tales of her childhood. This time, however, his arms were trembling. “Getting to my granny Síle’s house was one thing. It was another one entirely getting home. You see, the mad McDonagh woman caught me, unawares. She stopped me and started babbling about things I weren’t in the habit of thinking about.”

Phillis shook her head. “In those days regardless of how mad they were, you respected your elders. She was babbling about the demons, and how on Halloween a young girl like myself shouldn’t be out alone. When she was a girl she would be burning a fire with her family, like it was proper, to ward off the bad spirits.”

“Eventually I had to tell her my Mammy was expecting me, and oh God!” Granny Phillis laughed. “She actually gave me a wallop and said, ‘then what are you doing standing around here for, have you no respect for your mother, get home now you brazen brat!’ Well, I hopped off as quick as I could with my arse stinging from the slap.”

She looked up at the door as if to make sure no one was going to correct her swearing in front of the children. “It was already getting dark then, and although normally I felt safe walking the 20 minutes from me granny’s house to me own, I felt frightened that night.” She sipped on her whiskey, and then looked at Seán directly. “I’m not scaring you lad, now am I?”

Seán held his breath for a moment and shook his head. Although this was a lie, he wanted to hear the story. He wanted to hear what happened to granny all those years ago. She nodded and patted his hand. “You’re a good boy Seán, you remind me of my husband Jack God rest his soul.” She tipped her glass to the sky at this declaration and Seán felt the need to tip the bar of chocolate he was holding. Phillis cackled and she took another sip of her whiskey.

“Ah God, back in those days I was so innocent Seán. I thought nothing could hurt me, because they all told me the monsters in the woods weren’t real.” She looked at him directly now, her vitreous eyes filling up. “I’m saying this because you might get a bit scared pet, but you need to know the truth. There are things we know nothing of only legends and hearsay, and most of it is crap. But some of it, well some of it is real, and it came after me that night while I was walking home alone in the dark.”

Seán shuddered, realising he was still wearing his jacket, but the fire gave him no warmth. A charge spiked down his back, and he seen Phillis looking worried too. “Granny are you ok?” She nodded as firmly as her old neck would allow. “Oh don’t worry pet I’m fine, it still just gives me the chills to this day.”

“Well I was walking down the road just before I turn down the lane to my family’s old farmhouse. That house is long gone now. When from the thickets, I heard someone calling my name. Except they weren’t calling me Phillis like most would. They were calling me Philomena.”

Seán’s brow furrowed. “Philomena?” Phillis nodded furiously. “Sure that’s me full name pet. Bet you didn’t know that. The only people who ever called me Philomena was the local priest Father Martin, and me granny Síle. So naturally, I thought she’d walked behind me and got stuck in the hedges or something beside the road.”

“I stopped walking. It was dead quiet at this stage. I heard the voice again. ‘Philomena?’” Granny stopped and finished her whiskey off. She placed the glass on the table beside her. “The voice almost sounded like me granny Síle, except, there was something not right about it.”

Seán couldn’t move. He had lost all interest in his sweets, his eyes transfixed on his great granny Phillis. “I looked around. It was dark now, the moon wasn’t quite out yet. It was that great half dark.”

“My eyes were adjusting to the dark, so I looked into where the voice was coming from.” She paused. “When I tell you I can’t truly describe the horror of what I seen. I’m doing it justice Seán. It was a thin white creature, mostly hidden by the hedges, but what I could see was spindly and sharp.”

“Its eyes were the worst though. They were sunken dark holes. No matter how many times I call up this memory, my brain tells me that the creature, whatever it was, was evil. Evil like the demons of hell that Father Martin used to talk about. And it was calling to me.”

“Well Seán I hightailed it out of there. I was sure it was chasing me the whole way back to the house. Even though I stared out my bedroom window all evening I didn’t catch a glimpse it again. A week or so later I finally plucked up the courage to ask my Granny Síle about it. We were very close. I needed an adult to tell me that it was my imagination, and I was safe.” She glanced at her whiskey glass, willing it to be full again.

“She did to some part. She told me I was safe because it wasn’t Halloween anymore. The things in the dark couldn’t get at me any other night of the year. On Halloween though, the walls are soft…”

“They can creep through, and they want a warm body to possess, and sometimes they succeed. That’s why there’s true evil in the world Seán, because that one night a year, God can’t see what they are doing.”

Silence fell on the room. Seán’s imagination ran wild, scaring himself to almost epic proportions. “How do I protect myself granny I’m scared!?” Granny Phillis turned to him with her shining eyes and grabbed his arm. “My dear boy we are doing it now. The fire, the whiskey, the company of another. They cannot reach where light and love is. I just want you to know that there are risks, but you are more than safe here with me.”

Seán’s fear melted away. He was just about to ask Granny Phillis another question when Susan burst into the room. “We’re leaving now Seán say goodbye to great granny Phillis.” Susan came over and made a show of hugging her great granny, Showering her with kisses. “Love you granny Phillis bye now, you mind yourself.” Her flattery didn’t go unrewarded and she left with a five euro note in her hand. “Thank you so much granny!” She curtseyed and left the room.

Phillis turned to Seán. “My young boy, I love all my grandchildren equally. Do you understand that?!” Seán nodded kindly and hugged his grandmother tight. He was rewarded with a twenty euro note, and a small photograph of his great-grandfather Jack. She put her finger to her lips, and Seán nodded gratefully. As he was walking out the door, Phillis spoke once more. “Remember Ghassan. Let the light burn, even if it is within you.” Seán nodded as if he understood, storing these words in his brain forever. He left his almost blind great-grandmother staring into the fire.

 

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

Want to stay safe? Read this poem.

https://thinkingmoon.com/2018/10/30/consecrate-fire

Consecrate Fire

Bronze dead chattels,

Fading to grey, in the mist. The veil ascends.

Catch it before it clutches you.

 

They are waiting, patiently eager,

Vibrating into view, atrophied senses, madness-inducing.

Dimensional shrouds have their limits.

 

The whiskey slowly warms,

Burn the fire, oxygen combusts, creating florescent beings.

Gatherings create havens for the living.

 

The dead are beyond.

Do not let the Mephistopheles trick you of your elemental form.

Dybbuk will cede your soul.

 

Let the light burn, even if it is within you.

 

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

Previous poems and stories!

https://thinkingmoon.com/category/stories/

 

Message # 4 – Nearing 200 Followers

Hello friends. As I near the 200 follower milestone, I would like to first thank you all for joining me. The knowledge that even one person would experience joy from my work always inspires me to push on.

There are some fun posts planned for the coming months but until then we shall bask in the glory of all our collective talents.

When I reach 500 followers I will do another post like my 100 followers post. So in preparation, if you would like to contribute and be a part of that just comment below, or email me on thinkingmoonblog@gmail.com

We’re looking for inspirational comments, people you look up to or even just images that sparks your imagination.

In this way we make the achievement not just about me, but about all the wonderful people this community is made up of.

Love,

Jaycee xxx

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

Here is a link to my 100th follower’s post if you’d like to check it out.

https://thinkingmoon.com/2018/10/15/message-2-100-subscribers/

The Great Dalcassian Clan

*If you want you can listen instead of reading, I have linked to my YouTube below where I read my stories aloud*

Swarms of salty seagulls squawked sinisterly. “Matron would have insisted the seagulls were portents,” muttered Lady Sheenagh. Her eyes rested on the beach below, waves crashed upon it in the darkness of the storm. The shrieks of the seabirds became unbearable. Slamming the shutters on her southward facing window, Sheenagh swung herself onto her soft bed. A bed worthy of a spoiled rich girl, stuffed with feathers, and yet, what good did her spongy cot do her now? In a matter of hours, the traitorous snakes would be here to slaughter the remainder of the Dalcassian household.

High-born Lady Sheenagh Delcassian, with satin skin, scorched red hair and sensitive eyes, had been considered a real beauty in her youth. Now a girl of almost nineteen she was swiftly racing past marriageable age. Her father Lord Eóghan Dalcassian struggled to find suitors for her in the wake of the rebellion. The unrest among the peasants resulting from several years of weak harvests followed by silent snowy winters. Although during this time her family never went without, food was scarce among those in the villages surrounding her ancestral home Caisleán de Thomand. The peasants had been recruited by the surrounding Lords, seeking the weakness in the Dalcassian dynasty for over a century. Now standing at the end of the uprising, Lady Sheenagh Dalcassian awaited the demise of her family’s sovereignty. Her tear stained face, though stunning, conveyed agony in her doom.

As a well-read nobel, she understood the fate that lay before her as a high-born woman. She beseeched the family’s guiding spirit Aibell to lend her a quick death. If faith had something else subsequently planned, she prayed that Aibell would grant her the strength to endure in honour of her family’s heritage in even her death throes.

Her Matron, who raised, taught, and loved her, died earlier that year of consumption. She whispered stories to Sheenagh, on her deathbed, of what happened to young women under siege, and she begged her to run. Tears had streamed from her blue eyes, but this she could not promise. Bravery was required for the Dalcassian house, not cowardice.

Please Matron, you know I cannot promise you these things. I must display dignity for my clan, please do not ask me to flee, it is not in my nature, I must stay and fight.” Matron’s brown eyes shone with tears. Nodding, she beckoned Sheenagh closer. “My dear sweet Sheenagh, I have loved you as though you were my own, although you were not spawned of my own womb, your shining virtue fills me with pride even death cannot dispell. I am forever your humble servant.” Her already shallow breaths slowed to a painful stop.

Sheenagh shook the now lifeless body, unable to control her sobs. “Matron, please do not leave me. I cannot live without your guidance. Who will tell me the wonders of the world, all the while I am secure in my lonely tower.” Shaking she lay her face on the still warm body of her beloved Matron. “Please, I am scared.

Childhood had been serene for Sheenagh. Her nature was that of a goddess on Earth, through it she displayed sympathy and grace. As the third daughter of Lord and Lady Dalcassian, and the seventh child overall, from an early age, she displayed nothing short of a virtuous temperament which gave joy to all those whom she encountered. As a child, Matron would bring her for walks across the countryside. She shared her lunch with peasant children she encountered. She gave them gifts of toys she had outgrown.

It was as if Aibell herself brought her forth from her own rib. Her singing voice echoed through the halls of Caisleán de Thomand. Villagers gossiped that King de Lench of Ireland himself, would someday wed one of his sons to her. Making her the princess they had seen in her from birth. Throughout her girlhood, many sons of the gentry asked for her hand in marriage, but her father could not part with her. He must have believed himself when the sons of King de Lench beheld her in court, one would fall desperately in love with her. Thus seeking her hand in marriage.

Sheenagh remained unaffected by those whispers spent her days reading, singing, and befriending peasants. Her parents laughed at her strange affinity for the poor and though others in their position may have stopped the friendships, they allowed them as it brought her satisfaction.

Sadly, these interactions bred a slice of contention which brought down the Dalcassian supremacy. When the rebellion broke, many who had played with Sheenagh as children displayed no essence of love or loyalty. Bitterness and subversion spread towards the clan of Dalcassian. They seen what Sheenagh had, and they wanted it. Thinking it unfair that but one family in all the land of Dal Cais should have such riches. While the rest scrimped for their supper.

The rebellion had stunned the household. They were not prepared for the ruin it would bring to their family. The betrayal of Lords in the lands adjacent, seen to the decline of her father, whom mere years ago had been a tall, powerful man. His hair had naught but a few greys shining through his red mane. Now, four years into the rebellion, he was suffused with sadness. One betrayal, in particular, had taken him by grisly surprise. The subterfuge of Lord Teague Uí Caisin of Breifne. Whose son, Murtagh Uí Caisin, had wed  Lord Dalcassian’s eldest daughter Lady Clodagh Dalcassian. This treachery had come at a price. Lady Dalcassian took to her bed for several months. Though she had convalesced, she was never quite the same. Her beloved daughter and her grandchildren lost through treason.

Sheenagh had wept at her vanished sister, yet the feeling within the Dalcassian household was still one of faith. During the final years of the rebellion, hope sprung from the small Kingdom of Wexford. Lord O’Neill had offered troops to the Dalcassians in exchange for  Sheenagh’s hand in marriage to his son Lord Aodh. While Lord Aodh was known to be slovenly and grumpy in nature, Sheenagh solemnly stood at the chance to bring victory to her family.

Sheenagh could still remember her father summoning her his study, the grave appearance on his face. A letter lay open on his desk, beside a quart of wine. His face was shadowed by the fire behind. Sheenagh sat and waited patiently for him to speak, her graceful accommodating nature piercing her father’s heart. Though parents claim no favourites among their children, Sheenagh had a special corner reserved in her father’s heart. This was the reason she could not have been swiftly married off. He had thought it too late with the rebellion until the arrival of Lord O’Neill’s letter.

“Sheenagh, Mo Croí, I must speak with you regarding a matter of the most sensitive nature.” Sheenagh perked up, she would not miss one word her father spoke. “I received a letter this morning from Lord O’Neill of Wexford, he has offered us troops to fight off our rebellion…” He trailed off when he looked into Sheenagh’s eyes. His silences informed Sheenagh more than any words he ever spoke. “However, he’s asked for an alliance between our families. An alliance through a marriage, of course, to his son Lord Aodh O’Neill…” Sheenagh pursed her lips, knowing already what was coming. Prepared to accept without question. She knew that although her father spoke as though she had a choice, daughters did not control their destinies. To be spoken to with such high esteem from her father was all the respect Sheenagh could ever ask for. “I will accept father.”

Lord Dalcassian took a sip of wine and offered Sheenagh a glass. Another veneration, an offer to drink with her father. “Father you honour me, both with your council and offer of wine. However, I know my place in this world. As a woman, I have but little to offer my family. A strategic alliance by marriage is one of the few. I duly accept the privilege you bestow upon me this day.” Her father smiled warmly at her, though his eyes held a melancholy which sent a shiver down her spine. She knew that a marriage to Lord Aodh may be fraught with severity. He was well known to be a man of onerous countenance. She straightened her back smiling bravely at her father. “This will save our family and the glory of the Dalcassian clan father, I am exalted.”

That alliance never came to be. Lord Aodh and his men were viciously attacked on the way to Caisleán De Thomand a week hence.  It was then the spy within the great walls of Caisleán de Thomand was exposed. A wretched sour ward by the name of Donal Bóruma. He had been taken by Lord Dalcassian when his own father had died under impoverished circumstances. This monumental betrayal had cut her father down.

Sheenagh had surveyed from the North tower window. Onto the courtyard where Donal Bóurma was beheaded by her father. His screams raged throughout the morning air. “Your family line is ending you arrogant waste. The villagers hate you and the Lords in the lands adjacent will sack your castle, rape your woman folk and…” Lord Dalcassian swung the axe, and the traitor cried no more. Fresh blows were sustained following that. From a family of seven children, all but the traitor Lady Clodagh Uí Caisin, and Lady Sheenagh remained. Each of his four sons perished in battle, and Sheenagh’s remaining sister, Lady Bronagh Mathghamhan of Oriel, died in childbirth along with the babe she bore.

Sheenagh spied the oncoming swath of rebels marching towards the castle from the North tower. The house was near empty now. Her stately mother had taken poison, not half an hour hence. She lay lifeless on the bed near Sheenagh, her skin slowly shifting to grey. Sheenagh remained calm as her simmering prayers flowed asking Aibell for scrutiny. Her earthly life drawing to a close. Her family would not be sullied in history, she knew better. Although victors forge history, she believed Aibell would carry the legacy of Dalcassian’s into the future. The glory of the Dalcassian Clans would never die.

She heard a great boom, as the rebels swung a large log into the gate of the castle. Sensing the end, her stomach twisted as she vomited out the window. She would find her father and spend her final moments with him. Besides, her mother had done dishonour to the Clan by taking her own life. She beseeched Aibell to remove this from the tales surrounding the great Dalcassian Clan. She rose, washed her face of vomit and grabbed her black veil.

Outside of her father study, she heard the cracking of wood. She assumed the great castle door had been smashed in. She knocked on the door and waited a moment. She tried the handle, but it appeared locked. Frightened she knocked and shook the door frantically, “Father? Father please it’s just me, please let me in!” Panic gripped her. Had someone gotten to her father already? With great effort, using an axe, she broke the door down, shattering pieces of wood all around her. She stumbled through the door and her eyes found her father. Strung from the ceiling boards, his corpse swung gently from the wind of a nearby window. The fire crackling near its cusp, untended for hours. Sheenagh was frigid in her realisation that she was the final tenant of the house. The servants had long fled, and she alone represented the Dalcassian clan.

A small note was left by her father that brought her little comfort. It spoke of his undying love for her and his cowardice. His words begged for her forgiveness. She would not relent. She inhaled deeply and climbed on his desk. She cut down his body and allowed it to fall to the floor. She burned his suicide note and the noose. Perhaps it would appear as though he died from heart strain from the stress. Her mother’s body could not be helped, but her father, no. He would not die a coward, though a coward is what he was, she thought rancorously. No, she would tidy him up, place him in his chair, at his desk in his study. Then she would bravely face the invaders alone.

Lady Sheenagh was found beside her father. It is believed, through the mouths of rumours and time, that Lady Sheenagh Dalcassian suffered significantly at the hands of the invaders. The rebels, expecting at least the Lord and Lady of the castle, were enraged when they found them dead. All their resentment was then directed at the delicate Lady Sheenagh.

Some, afterward, were shameful of their behaviour. The blame for the rebellion was often disputed. Surely sweet Lady Sheenagh Dalcassian of Dal Cais was not to blame? Others hissed that she was to blame. She had her chance to desert, but she remained. Even at the moment of her death, she did not renounce her affiliation. Though doing so may have saved her life. She remained the sole representative of the Dalcassian namesake, at the sacking ofCaisleán de Thomand on an Autumn’s eve in 1017. Her mutilated body, along with the body of her mother and father, hung in the courtyard of the castle for many days. It is rumoured that the bodies were taken down and buried. Hidden by villagers still loyal to the family. The castle was subsequently occupied by the traitorous family of Uí Caisin, of Breifne, whose son Murtagh Uí Caisin and wife Lady Clodagh Dalcassian lay claim to the ancestral home.

Legend speaks of the torture the Guardian spirit of the Dalcassians Aibell, levied upon all future occupants of the castle, and of the villages adjacent. Sicknesses, accidents, and stillbirths remained terrors the villagers and Uí Caisin’s endured for decades. However, occupants of Caisleán de Thomand had been known to say otherwise. Some tell tales of a radiant red-haired apparition, with silky skin, and shining blue eyes. A siren song with no owner would echo throughout the halls. After her presence is seen or felt, however whether in dreams or a waking nightmare, an elegant face once sweet turns to menace. A horrifying death ensues. Deaths similar to those suffered by beautiful Lady Sheenagh Dalcassian, who remained to defend her family name when no one else would.

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved


 

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

If you liked this try out some of my other stories! Like this one:

https://thinkingmoon.com/2018/02/15/shadow-self/

Top 5 H.P Lovecraft Short Stories

As you may have gathered I am a huge fan of the macabre. The horror genre is my utmost favourite in all mediums. While I can, and have been known to write fiction which is uplifting, action-packed, or romantic, horror is where I feel most at home.

Of course, you must be a reader to be a writer[i] and I am an avid reader of the horror genre. I love the supernatural, the paranormal, unsolved mysteries, unnatural laws, and the foibles of humankind. In this sense, I feel there is only one author who stands up to meet all these criteria and that is H.P Lovecraft.

His is the story of a genius who remained unrecognised in his time. While he did manage to sell and publish stories during his lifetime, it wasn’t enough to keep him afloat. He relied on his inheritance, which upon his death at the age of 46, had been slowly ground to nothing.

His stories are now in the public domain and have influenced writers such as Stephen King to J.C Lynch. (Self-shout out and no I’m not sorry!)

The criteria for this list is as follows: It must be a short story. It must be written solely by Lovecraft. It must be published before his death.

I digress, so without further ado I present to you my top 5 favourite HP Lovecraft short stories.

  1. “The Colour Out Of Space.” Written 1927, Published 1927.

This fantastic horror story documents the experience of a family, living in the hills outside of Arkham after their farm is polluted by a meteorite from space. Futile attempts to study the meteorite by local scientists results in the matter sinking into obscurity. Years later a surveyor is unnerved by the land, prompting a local to tell him the tragic story of the Gardner family.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXyda5iiGEo

  1. “The Cats Of Ultar.” Written 1920, Published 1920.

Set in Lovecraft’s dreamworld, this simple story tells the tale of a caravan passing through Ultar. A young boy’s kitten is killed by a local couple who are known to despise cats. The young boy, distraught at this discovery, casts his eyes to the heavens and mutters a curse upon the couple. I won’t ruin the ending for you, but in Ultar to this day, all cats are revered.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSnhKfV17X0

  1. Pickman’s Model.” Written 1926, Published 1927.

The narrator’s eccentric artist friend Pickman, known for painting harrowing scenes, invites him over to see the works rejected by the gallerys. The daunting scenes of creatures unknown to man causes disquiet in the narrator, however, he takes solace in knowing the beasts portrayed, are nothing more than fiction from the mind of his friend.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KT10mIOm3M

  1. The Outsider.” Written 1921, Published 1926.

Set in a decrepit castle, deep in the woods, our narrator does not identify themselves in anyway. They lived in this castle all their lives, and as far back as they remember they’ve never seen the sky. One day,  frustration gets the best of them, and they make a perilous journey. Climbing to the top of the tallest tower they finally see the outside world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AH2UefOMx18

  1. The Doom That Came To Sarnath.” Written 1919, Published 1920.

My favourite story of Lovecraft’s is once again set in his auspicious dreamworld. It documents the history of the great city of Sarnath, the shining jewel of civilisation. They become arrogant, conquering the neighbouring city of Ib, simply because they do not like the creatures which inhabit it. They take the city’s stone idol of ‘Bokrug The Water Lizard’, and reign on high for a 1000 years. However as the story goes, doom must play its part in the city of Sarnath.

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RdHZSZogfo

Please go follow: ‘Books For Intellectual Exercise‘ on YouTube for more amazing H.P Lovecraft readings.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9Rpcc3P0jGK7LTMC9dR1xg

If you like lists of things, check this out:

https://thinkingmoon.com/2018/09/11/instagram/

[i] King, Stephen. 2000. “On Writing: A Memoire of the Craft.” Scribner. New York City.

Message #3 – Blogger Recognition Award!

Before we go anywhere I would like to extend my warm thank you and gratitude to Oh Yes, They Did, for the award.

Please go check out their page and follow them, you won’t be sorry. You’ll find delicious recipes, fun crafts, and sometimes just some sage advice you didn’t even know you needed.

https://ohyestheydid.ca/

How This Blog Began:

In the beginning, as a young girl, I wanted to be a teacher. Then my English teacher gave me praise and guidance. That gave me the confidence to be a writer.

When I started this blog I had my lifelong dream in mind and finally, I threw off the shackles of imposter syndrome. I signed up to this wonderful website, and everything changed.

Surrounded by amazing fellow writers and creators, I’m no longer afraid of my irrelevance. Each day I see the value of individuality. I spend more time looking up to my fellow bloggers than worrying about whether or not I deserve to be here.

I’ve spoken here about my mental illness and how my words are magic, and I stand by that. Whatever the reason for starting your blog you are joining a wonderfully supportive community and you won’t regret it.

Peace and love,

J.C ‘Jaycee’ Lynch

xxx

Advice For New Bloggers

  • Writing is magic, you can communicate with someone you never met by putting words on a page. Remember this and you will always delight in your writing.
  • You are wonderful, important, and your voice deserves to be heard, never feel as though you’re not relevant.
  • If you’re not enjoying the writing process, it means your writers won’t enjoy it. Write something you would relish in reading and you’ll be golden.
  • Finally, whatever you do, never give up. Write even when you think it’s poor, it will clear your brain out, and the good ideas will come back around. 😉

My Wonderful Nominees

1 The Whippoorwills https://owningitoutright.wordpress.com/
2 Sunilmdabral https://sunilmdabral.wordpress.com/
3 Gayleen Hodson https://meagainstmyself.blog/
4 The Orangutan Librarian https://theorangutanlibrarian.wordpress.com/
5 Mike Tuggle https://mctuggle.com/about/
6 Alexis Rose https://atribeuntangled.com/
7 Nicola Jane https://naturallycalamityjane.ca/
8 Helena “The Spooky Princess.” https://halloweentrickortreats.wordpress.com/
9 Winnie https://dailygrindofastayathomemom.wordpress.com/
10 Alexandra https://readerwitch.com/
11 Skeptical Empath https://skepticalempath.wordpress.com/
12 Nicole Mullen https://nicoleqmullen.wordpress.com/
13 An Academic Planner https://anacademicplanner.wordpress.com/
14 Stephen & Fionnula Black https://fracturedfaithblog.com/
15 Stoner on a Rollercoaster https://stoneronarollercoaster.wordpress.com/
16 Junaisha (June) https://gcdiaries.wordpress.com/
17 Dora (Dorka) https://berriesandbooksblog.wordpress.com/
18 Meagan https://quibblesandscribbles.com
19 Dazzled https://mydaz.blog/
20 Rolandomio https://rolandomio.blog/
21 Ms. Jade Li https://tao-talk.com/

Rules:

  • Please thank the blogger that nominated you and give a link to their site.
  • Write a post to show your award, to show off your supportive fellows.
  • Tell the story of how your blog began.
  • Give two (or more) pieces of advice for any new bloggers.
  • Select at least 15 other bloggers for this award.
  • Let each nominee know you’ve nominated them and give a link to your post. 😉

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

Previous messages:

https://thinkingmoon.com/category/messages/

Paranthropology – The Anthropology of the Paranormal

Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

– Charles Addams.

 

Anthropology has always excited me. I’m not weird, we all have our passions, some of you enjoy Korean Pop groups, and I’m here for you. I’m not judging. What I’ve always liked about anthropology is its ability to describe life in philosophical paradigms, which make the normal seem abnormal.

For example, when I began anthropology at university level in 2007, I was young, idealistic, and had a complete world-view. Through my studies, I learned that this is impossible. What I thought were universal truths turned out to be culturally constructed scenarios. I came to realise how many valid realities exist, notwithstanding my own view of those realities.

Coming at the paranormal from an anthropological perspective seems plausible to me in a way pre-2007 Jaycee would have deemed ridiculous. Anyone reading this must either be interested in the paranormal, anthropological theory or both. However, if you are new to either topic here is how they are described.

Paranormal:Not scientifically explainable.” This is an updated word from the 20th century used to replace supernatural:Of or relating to an order of existence beyond the visible observable universe in relation to God.” Scientists now study paranormal events and anomalies by applying its own archetypes. They believe the study of paranormal is valid because there are too many accounts from humans to disregard it.

Now, let’s talk regarding the current state of paranthropology. According to the ‘Journal of Anthropological Approaches to the Paranormal,’ their own discipline is threatened in the new world of alternative facts. Yes, Trump has invaded everywhere, even the world of anthropology. So let me explain.

The general populous tends towards skepticism when anthropologists present the realities of others as something outside of our understanding of it. For example, with shamanism, we are quick in the ‘Western’ world to dismiss this as a form of forced psychosis or a psychological phenomenon. However, these are our terms and archetypes which inform our assessment of any given situation.

So in the world of alternative facts, everything is up for debate. nothing is concrete. Therefore the already tenuous disciplines within a philosophical vein, attempting to contribute to humankind’s cultural advancement rather than purely technological (Schroll, 2017), seem unfit to exist in the modern world.

If we return to the context of the shaman and their people, their reality is different to our own. Not only does their practices work, it is effective. Human beings create our shared realities through thinking. If we stop for a moment to consider, trillions of dollars/ euros/pounds are exchanged worldwide on an annual basis. Ye that monetary value only exists because of a shared belief.

So why not allow the belief in shamanism? It’s due to the Eurocentric view within our education systems that we are the complete reality. We’ve reached the end of history, and our sciences offer us the comforting notion that every unusual event can be explained away by them.

Nevertheless, Euro- American science has scoffed at accounts of primordial anthropology as idyllic dreams of a Golden Age, believing shamans were psychotic or at best charlatans.”4[i]

Within anthropology, our most important tool is storytelling. By doing so peer through the keyhole at the realities of others, whether that be the stock market in New York City, or the shaman in a very small community in Africa. Rather than dismissing the truths of others, we present them in a way a ‘European / western’ audience might understand.

Make no mistake though, anthropology is aware to a fault of its influence on these stories. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Bourdieu and his notion of habitus.[ii] Yet we continue to try and do better, by simply allowing the stories of our participants to be presented as rawly as possible while continuing to question what consciousness means for humans.

“Consciousness could, then, be located both within the body and outside of the body simultaneously…Quantum models of consciousness are gradually proliferating in the field of consciousness studies, and are beginning to receive a degree of serious thought amongst philosophers, psychologists and physicists”[iii]

We still have a long way to go in our understanding of paranormal phenomena, however, the first step is to stop dismissing outright. The second step is to give up our arrogant notions of complete paradigms. Step three? Well, we’re working on it. Stay tuned.

Anthropology: “The science of human beings.”

Paranormal: “Events or phenomena outside the bounds of scientific explanation.”

Paranthropology“Anthropological Approaches to the Paranormal.”

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

References:

  1. Dr Radin, Dean. “Real Magic. Ancient Wisdom, Modern Science, and a Guide to the Secret Power of the Universe.”
  2. http://realitysandwich.com/162119/supernatural_natural_anthropology_paranormal
  3. “Paranthropology: Journal of Anthological Approaches to the Paranormal.” Vol 8. No 1. (March 2017).
  4. Bourdieu, P., & Nice, R. (1977). Outline of a Theory of Practice (Vol. 16). Cambridge university press Cambridge.

 

[i] Schroll, Mark A. 2018 “Revisiting Cultural Evolution and Technological Evolution in Consciousness Studies.” The Journal of  page 4

[ii] Bourdieu, P., & Nice, R. (1977). Outline of a Theory of Practice (Vol. 16). Cambridge university press Cambridge.

[iii] http://realitysandwich.com/162119/supernatural_natural_anthropology_paranormal

[iv] Hurst, Tanya. 2018. “Catalysts that Initiate Embodied Knowing: Reflections on Individuation, synchronicity, and Ritual Space. Page 57

 

Did you like this? I have a whole category on anthropology if you want to check it out here is a link. Enjoy!

https://thinkingmoon.com/category/anthropology/

Missing

*warning this contains adult themes*

He didn’t just get lost. Charles ‘Charlie’ Buckton didn’t just lose his children. He also didn’t have favourites, and yet, Billy his youngest was such a sweet child. He loved his Daddy more than anything else and followed him everywhere. Maude hated when he brought the kids camping in the woods, yet so often relented for a quiet house from time to time.

Tramping through the woods, his muscles aching from weariness, Charlie ran the day over in his mind.  He and his five children had been camping in Itasca State Park. An activity they did several times a year. While out hiking, his eldest David, had stopped to help Billy tie his shoe. Charlie and the rest had moved on ahead. He could still hear David, “Alright Billy I’ll race you back to the others. First one to touch Dad is the winner.” The laughter from both boys, the stomping of running feet, then the slowed uncertainty. “Billy?”

Charlie shuddered, his skin crawling. David, while only 13 years old, had blamed himself. “Dad I could hear him behind me the whole time until suddenly I couldn’t, I should have paid better attention.” Maude had held David as he sobbed in their small farmhouse’s kitchen. “It wasn’t your fault David, someone took him. Someone in those woods I’m sure of it.” Maude had looked at him reproachfully, her eyes begging him to stop.

His arm snagged on a tree branch causing him to stumble. Hiking normally brought him peace. Yet today all he could focus on was the day, one month previous when Billy had gone missing. Most people had given up, especially after they found his shoes a week later, sitting on a log in the woods. “Most likely animal predation.” The State cops had declared. They expressed their sympathies and called off the search. They were little Billy’s shoes alright, but they weren’t bloody or torn. So Charlie wasn’t giving up. He trudged on down the same trail from that fateful day.

Ellie had begged him not to go, “Daddy please don’t go back, what if the thing that took Billy takes you?” He looked down at his baby girl, only 1 year older than 6-year-old Billy, and smiled. “Don’t worry Princess, Daddy is big and strong, and nothing can hurt him.” He proceeded to lift her up and give her a good squeeze. “I should come with you Dad.” David had protested. “No Davey, this is no job for a kid…”

“Dad I can help…” David began.

“No. David. I need you to stay here. You’re the man of the house until I get back. You have to mind your Mama, Peter, Mary, and Ellie. You understand?”

He had understood, and although he had wished he had the company of his eldest, he thought it best not to bring him. The things he’d read online since Billy’s disappearance had shocked him to his core. Unexplained mysteries in National Parks all over the country? Not on his watch. Not with his kid.

Charlie felt his breathing grow laboured and worried that at the tender age of 35, he was having a heart attack. He then assessed his surroundings and realised he was back at the spot Billy had disappeared. The air was thick, still, and eerily silent. No wildlife rustling through the grass. No wind whistling through the trees. Sweat poured down Charlie’s back, soaking through his shirt. His eyes darted around the forest.

“Back for your child yes? People are so curious.”

He spun to meet the utterer of this sentence and felt faint. A tall, thin creature, shaped like a man, but was everything but. Its white skin was taut over its bones, it’s eyes sunken and fingernails like claws. “We take you to him, come.” Charlie frowned, patting the front breast of his coat. “Your human weapons won’t work here. We’ve shifted you to our plane now, come.” The creature turned and Charlie had no choice but to follow. Under his trouser leg on the right was his hunting knife. He’d be damned if that didn’t work here, where ever ‘here’ was.

The creature led Charlie to a camp. Surrounding a fire were more creatures. Not many, but enough to make his hand twitch towards the gun again. His eyes assessed the area realising the greyness of everything. It was the same forest he’d entered, but more barren. The trees seemed to droop. The sky though cloudless was grey, and the fire, provided no warmth. “Come, we show you.” It beckoned him to a stone altar where to his horror he was met with the bloodied corpse of his son. “Billy,” he bellowed. “No, my poor boy. My sweet boy. What have they done to you.” Billy’s lifeless eyes stared at the grey sky as Charlie wept over him.

When he finally looked up the creature’s face was covered in a grin. “We need blood. Young blood for the Gods you see, to please them, the dark ones. There is so little blood here on our plane, but so much on yours. You need to share.” Its grin stirred the reptile in Charlie’s brain and he lunged at it. They wrestled on the ground, it’s sharp teeth inches away from Charlie’s neck. He kicked it off him, pulled out his gun and pulled the trigger. Just as the creature had warned him it made but a soft popping noise, like a party item, and then no more. He threw it at the creature as he made for his hunting knife.

The rest of the group had descended on him now. As he brandished the knife, he reasoned. “Let me go, with my boy, and I won’t hurt any of you.” The grinning creature, now with a dark blood spot above its eyes simply shook its head. The others, in their hysteria, had grown all the more terrible. Their eyes darker, their manner more hunched, their claws glinting. “We can’t let you go. You will tell the others.” Charlie violently shook his head. “No, I won’t tell anyone, just please, let me and my boy go. My blood is no used to you, I’m not young.”

The grinning creature simply responded. “No, but your flesh is good to eat.” Charlie fought valiantly, killing one of the creatures in his struggle. He finally succumbed to death as the grinning creature tore at his neck with its teeth. His final thoughts were simply, “I’m coming for you Billy, my boy.”

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

*Inspired by David Paulides – The Missing 411.

Check out my previous scary story:

https://thinkingmoon.com/2018/10/09/obsolescence/

Message #2 – 100 Followers!

Of course, my 100+ subscribers are made up of some truly wonderful people. So what a better way to celebrate than by making it all about you lovelies!

I would like to thank these wonderful bloggers for taking the time to give me one of their favourite inspirational quotes. They are all magnificent.

I will do another one of these if I ever reach 500. Until then if you want to be a part of that just comment below, or email me on thinkingmoonblog@gmail.com

___

From https://nicoleqmullen.wordpress.com/

Mullen Crafts writes:

“Wonderful milestone achieved! Short and simple one to contribute, but full of meaning for me particularly “Stumbling is not falling”. Most commonly attributed to Malcom X, but has roots in an Haitian proverb circa 1854 and has been repeated throughout history in numerous other proverbs and poems, French, English and American. The sentiment remains the same in them all – a stumble is not a fall, you pick up your pace and continue on, recover from it and persevere.”

___

From https://deadbutdreaming.wordpress.com/

Neil Rushton writes:

Congrats… my favourite quote is by
Emily Brontë: “I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.”

___

From https://perfectchaos.org/
Steven Colbourne writes:

Hi Jen!

Thanks for dropping me a line. What a great idea and congrats on 100 subscribers!

“If you have to choose between being kind and being right, choose to be kind and you’ll always be right.”

Love that quote but I have no idea who to attribute it to! (I guess you could just put ‘Anonymous’) 

Is that okay? 

Very best wishes,

Steven

___

From https://stoneronarollercoaster.wordpress.com/contact/

Alyana Writes:

Sorry, Jen for replying late. inspiration I don’t know but I love this quote by Khalil Gibran

Message #2
Message #2

___

From https://whimsicalblogfeed.wordpress.com/

Rudraa Makwana Writes:

Many Congratulations to you! Many more to come. ❤️
My favourite quote is “Giving up on your dreams means giving up on your life”. This quote greatly inspires me. Congratulations to you once again. Wish you continued success and happiness. ❤️😊

___

From https://skepticalempath.wordpress.com/

Melody writes:

Hi Jen,

My blog is Skeptical Empath.  This is the quote that comes to mind if you want to use it….

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality.
To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.”

― Buckminster Fuller

It looks like Denmark was a fun time.  🙂

Melody

 ___

Once again I would like to thank my fellow bloggers for participating.

Jaycee xxx

Copyright © 2018 Thinkingmoon.com – All rights reserved

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