Fiscal Responsibility Is The WOOOORST

Also, I hate accounting and book-keeping. I hate it like Gollum hates Bagginses. Like a lima bean and liver casserole.

Sadly, it’s a fact of life, and having officially reached a point with Patreon where I actually need to deal with that sort of thing in a more formal manner, I now have the dubious honor of shelling out part of my income for book-keeping software. I looked at a bunch of things and in the end, decided to say fuck it, and went with Quickbooks Self-Employed. They’re all more or less variations of the same basic thing, and at least I’m already familiar with Quickbooks.

I’ve spent the last 24 hours bashing my head against getting things set up, because it would have been SUPER EASY TO SET UP, except for the fact that my bank, in its infinite wisdom, doesn’t think that someone might want to, I dunno, BE ABLE TO DOWNLOAD THEIR RECORDS IN A CSV FOR MORE THAN 2 STATEMENT CYCLES, and converting a bank statement from a pdf to a csv is basically impossible, so I have to manually create the damned cvs to import into the damned thing, so GO ME I GET TO DO A YEAR’S WORTH OF DATA ENTRY BEFORE I CAN DO THE NORMAL SET UP PROTOCOLS.

Oh, and then I have to figure out how to deal with the Patreon/PayPal issue, and get all that entered without triple-entering a shitload of duplicate data that’s all the same data, from each step on it’s little way…

This would have been so much easier last spring, or if my bank wasn’t technologically brainless. The temptation to borrow money from somewhere to pay someone else to deal with this is a likely more efficient manner than I have the knowledge set for is strong, to be honest. Sadly, my $68 a month isn’t enough for that option, so here I am, bashing my head against it, hoping to manage enough in time for getting our taxes done, and uuuuuuuuugh.

Yes. I’m whining about this, because while it’s a “good” problem to have, it’s also one that I’ve got a smidge of PTSD around (thanks, Hell Job!) and the fact that I’m having no luck finding the information I need online isn’t helping. I suspect the answer is, in fact, going to be “figure out how to come up with money to hire an accountant to get this set up properly so I can maintain it from there”.

/rant

Monster Movie Blatherings: The Blair Witch Project

Ever watch a movie and realize, days later, that you still have Opinions about it?  Yeah, that happened, and so here we are, because I had to write about it.

(Note: If you’re like me, and hadn’t watched this before, there’s going to be spoilers, so read at your own risk, I guess?)

The other day I decided to watch “The Blair Witch Project” for the first time.  I hadn’t seen it when it came out, due to a combination of my annoyance at the existence of “Shaky Cam” filming and an aggressive dislike of hype.  At a certain point, something or someone becomes so popular that I get sick of hearing about it so much that I refuse to engage with them at all, and this movie had a serious case of both problems going for it for a long time.

Also, I am REALLY picky about horror movies.  I *love* them, but I consider a lot of the staples (excessive gore, jump-scares, gratuitous sexual assault) to be pretty much the pinnacle of lazy, boring writing and, sadly, this is usually the content of most horror movies, and just… *zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*.  Gore is gross, not scary.  Jump-scares are relying on the nervous system’s reflexes, not actual fear.  Sexual assault as a shitty plot device is an entire rant on it’s own.  Mostly, though?  I am highly critical of monsters.  I love nothing more than a good monster, but I very much insist that monsters be not only actually scary and also make logical sense.  “Because it’s a monster” as a reason for why it’s doing something is #1 of my Top 5 Worst Excuses For Bad Monster Writing. Finding a horror movie that doesn’t fall into these traps is depressingly difficult.  Everything I’d heard over the years about BWP led me to believe that the “monster” (witch) was going to be the kind that I despise, and so between that, the excessive hype, and the filming style, I just didn’t want to waste my time on that.  Recently, though, it was brought up in several unconnected places and something about what people were saying made me curious enough to check it out finally.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was wrong. In my defense, it had, much like the original Stargate movie, been positioned as something else, and I can only work with what info I have available.  I still don’t think it’s that great of a movie, and that it was very much overhyped, but I enjoyed it.

One of my favorite things is, weirdly, that it’s a monster movie that has no actual monster.  There is no witch.  There is only the creeping horror of watching three people literally drive themselves to madness through the power of their own imaginations, fueled by sleep deprivation and probably mild hypothermia, in an environment that they had no solid experience being in.  The penultimate scene, the guy standing in the corner, is viscerally horrifying not because of any supernatural influences, but because it’s such a brutally, painfully, stark display of just how far his psyche had broken in such a short amount of time.  It’s terrifying as a statement on the fragility of the human mind and how easily it can be destroyed.

As someone who has spent much of her life in woods far deeper and wilder than the ones the characters found themselves in, I know how sounds can carry strangely, and how animals going about their day are louder than one would expect.  Squirrels and rabbits make as much noise as you might think a deer should.  A deer sounds like something the size of a moose, especially at night.  I’ve seen suburban folks cowering in their vehicles, terrified, because they saw eyeshine peering at them from the undergrowth and were convinced it was something far more sinister than a family of raccoons eyeing their improperly secured cooler.  The characters in BWP were suburban folks who had already primed themselves to be looking for supernatural dangers and expecting witches and ghosts, before they ever set foot beyond the treelines, and were not thinking that maybe the screaming they heard were more likely the sounds of foxes dining on rabbits, and less the ghosts of dead children.  They lost their map and didn’t know how to navigate without it.  They were walking around in wet clothing, in the cold, for days, and hypothermia fucks with your ability to think clearly.  This is a dangerous combination even when one isn’t already primed to look for supernatural reasons for everything.

The fact that this movie could only have existed in that specific time in history, due to the way that technology works currently (it was the early days of the internet, and it was a much different place than it is now), makes it all the more delicious.  I’m not sorry that I didn’t get to see it when it came out, because I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate a lot of it then (I was only a couple of years younger than the actors, being all of 19), but I’m so glad I decided to check it out this week.

Still not ruling out one of them being crazier than the others and going on a killing spree, though…

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

Palimpsestic Cartography And Maybe A Little Necromancy, As A Treat.

In Which Our Heroine Finds Herself Retracing Steps And Reopening The Blog.

Patreon is, once again, making Choices about their billing cycles and fucking shit up. As a result, I decided that, even though I can’t really afford it right now, I’m reopening my own blog and working out how to maintain both sites in a functional manner. Really, I was planning to do it at some point, anyway, but I’d been hoping to have more funds available when I did so. Such is Life, though, so here I am. I’m keeping Patreon as long as it’s making me money and people are subscribing, but yeah, I’m also going to be working here so I’m not screwed if everything goes tits up over there.

Ugh. So much of this site didn’t survive the WordPress plan downgrade. Most of the posts vanished, and those that remained lost things like all of the images that were in them. Now I have to decide how much effort I’m going to put into trying to resurrect lost posts for reposting, and how much I’m going to just let go of and effectively overwrite with new posts.

One definite decision is that here is where all of the blogging type stuff is going to be. Patreon is going to be solely art and writing, which will then be cross-posted over when the early access period end and posts open to the public. This will be my primary “home”, Patreon will be the office. So, here will be where I put everything else that I’ve felt unsure of posting on Patreon… bits of daily life that don’t fall into neat Art Related Content boxes, musings about art-related things that aren’t fully formed enough to end up on Patreon yet, that sort of thing. Basically, what I’d originally been intending a year ago, before the Pandemic started and the country went to shit, torpedoing everything I’d been planning into a fine powder.

So, yeah. That’s where I’m at. Now, it’s time for me to go grab the duster and broom and start cleaning this place up…

Making Friends With Monsters: An Afternoon With Auntie Yaga

(At long last, the first installment of “Auntie Yaga’s Home For Wayward Monsters” is completed and ready to be shared.  I think I even tracked down all of the typoes, which of course means there are egregious ones hiding in plain site.  I hope you like it!)

A magazine page. At the top, a photo of a middle-aged woman with greying dark hair, sitting on a mildly worn clawfoot couch. She is somewhat heavy-set, dressed in a long batik-printed skirt and lightweight sage colored sweater, and is looking down at the floor toward her left boot.  The room is a typical old New England farmhouse; exposed beams and scuffed wooden floor covered with a large, multi-colored braided rug, modern pellet stove set into the old brick fireplace, floral print curtains that offset the faded blue-grey painted walls.  It’s a comfortable looking room, at first glance.

The lighting is somewhat dim, and the longer you look, the more you begin to notice that things aren’t quite what you initially thought.  The far corner beside the built-in bookcase has oddly distorted shadows, and something in the back of your mind nervously whispers that it is occupied, though you can see nothing definable.  The points of light on the evening-darkened window panes that you had dismissed as lamplight reflections look unnervingly like eyes looking back at you the more you look at them.  Your gaze is drawn back to the woman on the couch, or rather, to the shadows beneath it.

They are too thick for the amount of light in the room and as you try to see into them the darkness begins to resolve into something that sends a chill down your spine.  Deep in the shadow, you can just make out a pair of eyes shining a deep red and, worse, the faint glitter of too many barely concealed needle-sharp teeth.  An unnaturally long-fingered hand the color of lampblack and ending in stiletto-like claws is reaching out from underneath that couch and rests lightly on the woman’s foot and ankle, at which she is smiling fondly.  The scene is, overall, a blend of homey tranquility and deeply unsettling shadows in perfect balance with one another.  Something about it makes you sure that there are no camera or clever editing tricks involved.

Below the photo, in bold, black font, the headline reads:

Making Friends With Monsters: An Afternoon With Auntie Yaga, The Woman Behind The World’s Only Monster Outreach Program.written by R. Morganson

{Disclaimer: I’ll be straight; when I first set out to do this interview, I honestly thought that the whole thing was some kind of immersive performance art or something along those lines.  I was not expecting to find it to be exactly what it was presented as being. ~RM}

It was late in the September afternoon when I arrived at the entrance to Auntie Yaga’s Home For Wayward Monsters.  I had more than half expected it would be a grand and spooky Victorian mansion, perhaps with an ominous wrought iron gate covered in a bat motif, so it was  pleasant surprise to find a perfectly ordinary New England farmhouse, complete with a picturesque old horse pond in the large front yard and fenced around with neatly maintained fieldstone walls.  There was no gate at all, in fact, just a modest sign proclaiming the name of the organization, beneath which were hung two smaller signs.  The first stated that visitors are welcome by appointment only, the second that one should “Beware of Graswolves”.  The house itself was set back roughly an acre from the road, behind which the land slopes down toward the neighboring conservation forest.

There was a middle-aged woman sitting on a wooden patio chair on the wrap-around porch as I pulled up in front of the white and black-trimmed house.  Like the house, she looked nothing like my expectations. I was beginning to get the feeling that this was something I should get used to.  As I got out of my car, she came down the wide porch steps to meet me, and I got my first full look at the woman known as Auntie Yaga.

She’s about average height and looks to be in her mid-40s, with grey-green eyes and long grey-streaked dark hair that she was wearing pulled back into a simple braid.  She was dressed simply in an ankle length batik-printed skirt, lightweight sage green sweater, and laced-up brown boots.  What little jewelry she wore was equally simple.

“Not what you were picturing, huh” she said by way of greeting.  Sheepishly, I acknowledged that this was true.  She laughed, a warm, friendly sound.  “Don’t worry.  Almost everyone has the same thought the first time they come here.  It’s partly intentional” she explained.  “Since the majority of our residents tend to be a bit…intimidating…Glatis and I decided that it was best to make the rest of surroundings as comfortable and calming as we could.”

“Glatis is the co-founder, right?”  I asked as we walked up the stairs.

“He is.  He’s what we refer to as a Lurk.  He was originally the not-so-proverbial monster under the bed when I was young, but I got tired of being on the menu one day and decided to try and make friends with him.  It surprised him so much that it actually worked.  A couple of decades later, here we are, running a business together!” she laughed.

We were now at the front door, but instead of opening it, she stopped and her demeanor became very serious.

“Before I open this door, I need to ask you to be sure that you are okay with this interview being done the way you requested when we spoke on the phone.  If you aren’t, that’s fine, and we can stay out here on the porch, or we can reschedule and meet someplace that you feel more comfortable.  There’s no shame or judgment if you’ve changed your mind and would prefer not to.”

I told her that I was fine. (I was sure this was performance art, and I live for haunted houses at Halloween and all that, and so was eager to see what would happen when we got inside.  I was wildly incorrect in my assumptions.)  She looked at me appraisingly, with a hint of amusement, for a moment, then shrugged, opened the door, and went in.

How to describe that first moment inside the house?  Visually it is pure, cozy, New England charm; all wood accenting and warm, comfortable looking furnishings, the faint smell of freshly baked bread and dried lavender scenting the air.  It is the epitome of welcoming tranquility, and I was completely unprepared for the oppressive and almost overwhelming sense that something very, very dangerous was watching me from far too close by as soon as the door closed behind me.  Something was breathing, a soft, rasping sound that I hadn’t heard since childhood and had long-since forgotten, and I froze in panic.  I could feel my chest tightening as I instinctively started to hold my breath so as not to let the thing know I was there.  As I did so, I saw the large, misshapen figures in the too-solid shadows of the hallway and behind the doors.  A flicker of motion in the corner of my eye caught my attention, and as my eyes darted to look at it, an all-too-real tail of black fog slithered past the doorway of a room to my right. I felt my hands and feet flash cold with fear and go numb.  Every instinct was telling me to run screaming, and I started to wonder if I had made a terrible mistake in coming to this house alone.  I felt like I was a little kid again, afraid of the shadows in the closet and begging my parents to leave the light on because Something Was In There.

Just when I thought I couldn’t control the urge to run, I heard Auntie Yaga say to no one that I could see “That’s enough, I think. I don’t think he’s quite as ready to see you all fully as he thought he was, and we do want him to actually like us, after all.  Thank you.”

Immediately, the shadowed figures receded, the feeling of being watched faded to almost, but not quite, nothing, and I was left feeling more than a little shaky.  It had only been seconds, but I felt like I had just run a marathon, and was exhausted.

“Looks like you’re a bit less prepared than you thought you’d be,” she said, handing me a warm mug of tea.  “Chamomile and mint, with a little bit of meadowfoam honey.  It tastes like marshmallows, a bit, and it’ll help your nerves.”  I’m not ashamed to admit that I was deeply grateful for that tea and swallowed almost half of it in one go.  She was right, it tasted like apples and marshmallows, and I felt better for its sweetness.

“What was that?” I asked, my voice only shaking a little as I shoved the voice that was still gibbering about the shapes in the shadows into the back of my mind.  It could freak out later. Right now, I had an interview to conduct.

“That, my dear, was a couple of million years of evolution informing you that several large predators that you couldn’t see or hear were standing near you, staring, reminding you that you are not the apex predator civilization has told you you are.  Congratulations!  You have a healthy survival instinct!  Surprising, given your decision to go into journalism”, she replied, her tone light and teasing on that last part.

Despite myself I laughed at that and, in doing so, felt almost normal again.

“Now, if you’re feeling better, shall we move out of the entryway and into the living room where the chairs are much more comfortable, and get to this interview you came here after?”

I followed her through a doorway into the next room, and sat in the chair she indicated.  I glanced around nervously, expecting more too-solid shadows, but it was a perfectly pleasant, unoccupied room, as far as I could tell.  I took out my recorder, took a deep breath and another sip of tea, and started recording.

So, the monsters under the bed are, in fact, real and your business partner is actually one of them.  Isn’t this dangerous?”

That’s not really the question you wanted to ask, is it?  No, now that you’ve discovered that this isn’t the Halloween Haunted House attraction that you assumed it was, nor am I just some crazy lady in the woods making up wild stories for attention, what you really want to know is if this is all a set-up for some horror movie-esque deal where I turn out to be a villain who unleashes a horde of mindless, ravenous beasts on the world.

The answer is yes, it is dangerous, but no more so than it is for folks who work with, say, wolves or sharks.  They’re monsters, true, but no, they are not mindless, and we have no plans to terrorize small towns in the night.  Our goal is simply to facilitate a better understanding between our various species for those who wish to learn other ways to coexist.

“My apologies.  I made assumptions I shouldn’t have, and that was rude.  So, how does this work? How did you decide to start a boarding house and outreach program for the monsters of childhood?”

In order to answer that, you need to know a few things;  First, the world really is much larger and a whole lot weirder than our “civilized” society has conditioned us to believe it is.  Yes, monsters are real, and yes, they do hunt us and eat us, if they can catch us.  Second, they are just as intelligent as you or I.  They are not the mindless beasts that horror movies have led us to believe them to be.  Third, that most of the types of monsters who come here don’t typically eat humans.  It’s not unheard of, mind you, but it’s not as common as people think.  What they do eat, is fear.  This is important to know because I was one of those kids who was afraid of pretty much everything in existence.  Don’t laugh!  I’m not kidding.  Scooby-do cartoons were too scary and gave me nightmares.  It was ridiculous.

As a result, I had the dubious honor of attracting more than one monster to the feast, as it were.  Glatis, who took up residence under my bed, and another Lurk who generally hung out in the closet or behind the doors, primarily, but I’d also regularly encounter others outside of our house.  It was exhausting.  Eventually, though, I got mad about it, and informed Glatis that I wanted to make a deal with him.  I’d done the math, and decided that he lived closer, thus the biggest threat, and so the one that I needed to win over to my cause.  He agreed to my offer.  I think he was so caught off guard that he agreed out of confusion, but he’ll never admit it.  After a while, he decided I was sort of adorable and ended up becoming my guardian monster.  Usually they move on once we start believing the adults that there’s nothing in the dark to be afraid of, since we’re no longer good food sources, but by that point we’d gotten attached to one another and he decided to stay around.

“You said that his kind of monster eats fear.  If you weren’t afraid of him, dare I ask what he was doing about meals?”

Who was he feeding off of, you mean?  Children can be cruel by nature, and a strange, solitary girl who claims to be friends with monsters has no shortage of bullies, nor does she see a problem with having those bullies learn to be afraid to torment her.  It’s a bit brutal, but let’s face it, kids are feral little creatures before we get civilization trained into us and child culture is a fascinating study in human development. Now? There’s still no shortage of terrible people who like to harm others, and fear is fear.

Before you ask, no, they were not feeding on you a few minutes ago.  The ones you encountered are all long-term residents of the Home, and the rules of hospitality are that friends are not food, after all.

“I have nieces and nephews.  I can see your point about little kids and the casual cruelty. Also, I appreciate not being on the lunch menu!  You had originally started the outreach program during college.  How did that happen?”

By accident, really.  It turns out that college campuses have an astonishing number of scared people on them, and so Lurks and other types of monsters are attracted to them.  It also turns out that folklore majors are less likely to freak out than most when they stumble across you outside in your bunny slippers, in the middle of the night, explaining to a monster why it needs to leave your roommate alone, regardless of how her anxiety disorder made her the equivalent of a walking plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.  The Lurk was curious about the human who was under the protection of one of her kind and not afraid, and the other student was desperate to know more about the monsters, and somehow I found myself explaining each of them to the other, and me, and Glatis (who was also standing there, rolling his eyes), at 3 in the morning on the lawn.  It ended up not being the last time.

“Why folklore majors?”

Most already want folklore and fairy tales to be true, so it’s exciting when reality obliges and presents you with an honest-to-Grimm monster straight out of childhood nightmares.  Instinct makes you react like, well, much like you did, but they’re more likely to have their innate curiosity override it significantly faster than other people.

“What does a typical day look like here? I’m guessing it looks quite a bit different than it does elsewhere.”

To an extent, it’s not as different from a normal house as you would think. It starts a bit later than most, due to the majority of the residents being nocturnal, but that’s about it.  Get up, have coffee, take the Runalongs out for their daily run (there’s an old highway nearby that doesn’t get used much since the new one was put in a few decades back that’s good to take them down without causing accidents).  Come back, deal with any paperwork that needs attention, and the rest is mostly spent being available for the residents or host families, and dealing with any issues that may come up.

“Host families?”

Humans who wish to sponsor a resident who is interested in staying with other human families in a guardianship capacity.  Glatis and I accidentally became a kind of ambassadorial template for human/monster interactions spanning both communities.  There have always been a small percentage of monsters who are more inclined to view humans as something other than a mere food source, as well as humans whose fear of monsters is tempered by their curiosity about them.  We provide a way for both groups to interact with one another in a way that’s safe for each of them.  Most of the time, it’s a temporary arrangement, and our residents return here before going to stay with other families or exploring other options on engaging with humans.  It’s also not unheard of for a monster and a family to adopt one another, and the monster takes on the role of generational guardianship.  There are issues with integration, from time to time, but we have a fairly rigorous vetting process to minimize the chances of these occurring.

“One last question before we finish.   On the way in, the sign says “Beware of Graswolves”.  What is a “graswolf”?”

Graswolves are a subspecies of feldgeister.  They originated in central Europe, and live and hunt in fields with tall grass. Their cousins, kornwolves, are the real reason why people are afraid of cornfields, despite what a number of people on the Internet think.  There’s a small pack that lives on the property that ensures we don’t get trespassers. They’re smart enough to differentiate between guests, curiosity seekers, and actual threats, so they make an excellent security system.

                                                                               * * * * * * * * * *

After we wrapped up the formal part of the interview, Auntie Yaga allowed me to investigate the entry hall for theatrical tricks to try and explain what had happened when I had first arrived, and I found nothing.  I’d been too shaken up to remember to do it, initially, but as I could see the hall from where I’d sat, it was clear that no one could have tampered with the room during the interview without being seen.  Once I completed my search, I had the amazing opportunity to actually meet the co-founder, Glatis, and take photos with the residents that I had encountered on my arrival.  This second encounter was much easier on the second introduction, as I was more prepared and also allowed the introduction to follow the standard protocols, which I had originally, in my hubris, insisted be waived.

I could write entire novels about the rest of my experiences at Auntie Yaga’s Home For Wayward Monsters, but those are tales for another day.  If you have the opportunity to do so, however, I highly recommend taking the chance to meet them, and perhaps even sponsor a resident.

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

Glimpses From The Writing Desk

This past week has been a helluva long century.  It feels like 2021 looked at 2020 and said “Hold my beer”.  (Side note: I originally typo’d “Hold my bear” and to be honest, that also seems fitting.)  I don’t know about you, but trying to do anything besides doomscrolling and staring blankly into the distance is a borderline Sisyphean task.  I’m getting there, word by recalcitrant word, but it’s slow going. Since I don’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten you, I figured that I’d give you a quick little taste from what I’m working on dragging out of my brain while you wait…

                                                                             * * * * *

A magazine page. At the top, a photo of a middle-aged woman with greying dark hair, sitting on a mildly worn clawfoot couch. She is somewhat heavy-set, dressed in a long, dark skirt and lightweight sage colored sweater, and is looking down at the floor toward her left boot.  The room is a typical old New England farmhouse; exposed beams and scuffed wooden floor covered with a large, multi-colored braided rug, modern pellet stove set into the old brick fireplace, floral print curtains that offset the faded blue-grey painted walls.  It’s a comfortable looking room, at first glance.

The lighting is somewhat dim, and the longer you look, the more you begin to notice that things aren’t quite what you initially thought.  The far corner beside the built-in bookcase has oddly distorted shadows, and something in the back of your mind nervously whispers that it is occupied, though you can see nothing definable.  The points of light on the evening-darkened window panes that you had dismissed as lamplight reflections look unnervingly like eyes looking back at you the more you look at them.  Your gaze is drawn back to the woman on the couch, or rather, to the shadows beneath it.

They are too thick for the amount of light in the room and as you try to see into them the darkness begins to resolve into something that sends a chill down your spine.  Deep in the shadow, you can just make out a pair of eyes shining a deep red and, worse, the faint glitter of too many barely concealed needle-sharp teeth.  An unnaturally long-fingered hand the color of lampblack and ending in stiletto-like claws is reaching out from underneath that couch and rests lightly on the woman’s foot and ankle, at which she is smiling fondly.  The scene is, overall, a blend of homey tranquility and deeply unsettling shadows in perfect balance with one another.  Something about it makes you sure that there are no camera or clever editing tricks involved.

Below the photo, in bold, black font, the headline reads:

Making Friends With Monsters: An Afternoon With Auntie Yaga, The Woman Behind The World’s Only Monster Outreach Program.

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

A Charmingly Monstrous New Year

Happy 2021!  Welcome to Not Last Fucking Year at last!  Go us, we made it!  I’d meant to write yesterday, but I got lost in a book that one of my wonderful friends bought for me on writing monsters, and the contemplation of the different flavors of fear (and yes, I do mean flavors and not in a poetic way) because I’ve been noodling at “Auntie Yaga’s Home For Wayward Monsters” a lot lately, and have childhood monsters on the brain and I maybe lost track of time a little bit….

What is “Auntie Yaga’s”?  I know I’ve mentioned it before, and it’s something I’ve been playing with in various formats over the years to try and figure out just what the answer to that *is*.  It seems to be resolving itself into a story form at last, so we’re running with that to see where it goes.  

What’s the general concept of this story?  In short, it’s the story of a woman and her companion, originally the “Monster Under The Bed” from her childhood, running a sort of boarding/halfway house/outreach program for other “childhood monsters” who are trying to distance themselves from the stereotypes associated with their assorted species.

What do I mean by childhood monsters? I mean things like the monster under the bed, the monster in the closet, the thing that lives under the basement stairs, that sort of thing.  (IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: I VERY MUCH ABSOLUTELY DO NOT mean the horrible humans that do terrible things to children in the real world.  Like, seriously, at all.  I highlight this because I’ve had way too many people think that’s what I mean, and just…no.  I don’t deal with writing trauma. I write dark whimsy, and it genuinely pisses me off when people decide that’s what I mean and start to unload their childhood trauma on me because what the fuck. Anyway.  /rant.)  More Pixar, less Stephen King.

That’s not to say that my monsters are cute and fluffy and harmless.  They really are based on that shadowy thing that lies in wait in the blackness under the bed at night, with it’s long, sharp claws and needle-like teeth, drooling wetly on the floor, waiting for you to slide a foot out from under the blanket and over the edge of the bed, so that it can grab your ankle and pull you under to devour you.  Just smarter and with personalities and ya know, look, sometimes a monster decides it’s would-be dinner is actually kind of cute and gets attached and starts to reconsider its menu planning and that’s where Auntie Yaga’s Home For Wayward Monsters comes in.

Look, I was a weird child and I turned into a weird adult and in a way, I’ve been trying to write this story for most of my life, so here I finally am.

Still not 100% sure exactly what specific form this is going to be (could be epistolary installments! could be a full novel!  could end up being some sort of unfiction thing! could be all of the above!), but the bits are being written down and fleshed out and I expect to have something concrete to share shortly.

So that’s how my New Year is starting.  How are you all doing?

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

Recover. Reconstruct. Reclaim.

Well, my dumplings, we’re coming up on the end of the calendar year, and I’m both impatient and terrified for it.  This year has been, well… *gestures wildly at the air*  I will not be sad to see the end of this year, regardless.  The less said about it, the better.

The demise of the year, however, does mean that it is time to start considering what I want to work on in the coming year.  Those who’ve been around for a while know that I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions, but instead choose a word or three to sketch out a sort of road map to steer by for the year.  This year’s words were, well, honestly I don’t remember.  Everything got nuked from orbit at the beginning and I never really managed to get my feet under me.  At best I’ve managed a shaky holding pattern.  Throwing out an entire life direction and business plan is one hell of a monkey wrench and trying to course correct when half the road is just…gone…is an exercise in madness and chaos mathematics.  As y’all have seen, I’m not particularly great at math and there’s only so many times you can restructure your life from the ground up before you start running out of ideas.

Which brings me to this coming year and what I’m going to choose for a word.

Real talk, for a hot minute I seriously considered saying “Fuck it!” and not bothering, but decided that wasn’t an option and started thinking about it…

…For many years, I’ve dreamed in a house.  It’s always the same house, more or less, which is what makes it stand out.  It’s part old school New England Colonial, part rambling Victorian, part Gothic manor on the moors, with the most amazing attics and furniture (there’s a *gorgeous* hutch of golden tiger maple and blood-red cherry in one of the attics and if I ever find it in real life, I will sell several people’s souls to acquire it).  Until this year, when I randomly walked into one of the most insipid McMansion-style houses ever, and keep finding myself back there instead.

It’s awful.  You go in the front door and it’s like being in an aggressively generic Anywhere type of suburban house with a serviceable kitchen, nondescript living room, and weathered but functional 3-season porch running along one side, but then you try to leave and instead you go into another part of the house and you realize it shares a defining characteristic with the Other House, in that it keeps going indefinitely and you can’t find the door that will let you out.  Only this side is like walking into one of those annoying magazine photos that uses words like “contemporary” and “minimalism” and “classic neutrals”, where the only color is a single, palest pastel blue throw pillow and everything else is in “tasteful shades of eggshell and taupe” and you want to scream from the sheer, soul-killing monotony of it all.

This one is the Split House, and it’s just this side of being a nightmarescape.  Nothing good happens in the Split House; it’s all misfortune and atrophy and elegantly decorated rot.  To make matters worse, there’s a Homeowner somewhere in it, and I spend a lot of time trying to find the fucking door to get out while also having to avoid letting the Homeowner know I’m there, and it is exhausting.

I hate the Split House.  I hate it, and normally I’d want to burn it to the ground and toast marshmallows in it’s flames, but I’m not entirely sure it wouldn’t give me serious digestive troubles if I tried to eat them.

What do my weird-ass dream houses have to do with this year’s words?

I want to go home, back to the Other House, with its ivy-shattered courtyard fountain and carnival glass dishware full of apples and bramble-fruits, where I can open a door and find a library or a forgotten closet of boxes to be explored, where I belong.  I want to find and reclaim the things that I’ve lost that are mine and that are important to me.  I want to reclaim myself again.

So that is what I’m going to be working on this coming year, after too long spent mostly tumbling from crisis to crisis, running from room to room, trying to catch my breath, unable to pause long enough to try and find another way than the door I can’t find.  I’m reclaiming my time, and my brain, and my house, because I’m pretty sure that the Split House is being superimposed over the Other House and the Homeowner is just some asshole trying to gaslight me into thinking that there is no Other House and that I’m trespassing in my own damned dreams.

That is my word: Reclaim.

I’m starting now, because I’ve waited long enough as it is, and time has no meaning anymore, anyway.

What are your plans for the coming year?

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

A Crossroads Mystery

The day started off like any normal morning.  I woke up, crawled out from under the pile of snoring cats, staggered out to the kitchen, and started the coffee maker.  Leaning against the counter, waiting for it to brew so I could pour liquid consciousness down my throat and get my brain fully online, I poked blearily at Facebook on my phone.  I know, it’s a terrible idea, but it’s either that or I glare at the coffee slowly dripping into the carafe, and that’s not much better for my temper, to be honest.  As I scrolled, not exactly registering a lot of what was passing by, one image caught my attention.  I stopped scrolling and centered the image on the screen.

It was of a perfectly unremarkable hallway in a generic professional building- white tiles, neutral wall color, insipid landscape paintings, the usual- but in the middle of the floor there was a circle of reddish-brown bark mulch, neatly flattened and carefully shaped, with a large compass-like symbol drawn across it in some sort of yellowish powder.  Huh.  Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.  Weird meme?  I looked at the name of the person who posted it, to try and figure out what I was looking at.  It was my boyfriend’s post, and it wasn’t a meme.  It was a photo he’d taken in the building he was working in, and while it answered the location (the work site he was on was in Boston), it only opened up more questions.  For starters, what the chicken-fried fuck?  I dropped a Supernatural gif in the comments as a placeholder for later, to come back to when I had enough brain to communicate in words.  (The Supernatural fandom has a gif for everything, and it’s remarkably useful, especially pre-caffeination.)

Look, the coffee was still brewing, and I am not at my best mental capacity before I’ve caffeinated.  I wake up about as easily as a bear coming out of hibernation, and am about as personable and coherent.

Something about the symbol was bugging me.  A lot.  It looked really familiar, but I couldn’t pull the information out of my sluggish brain, and it was annoying.  I hate mysteries first thing in the morning.

The coffee finished brewing, finally.  I poured it into a mug and spent several minutes staring blankly out the window while I worked on drinking enough of it to kickstart my brain into a semblance of functionality.  I could feel the inner librarian in my head rifling through the stacks and card catalogues, trying to place the symbol.  It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember it, and would do so until I figured it out.

About halfway through the coffee mug, I remembered why it looked familiar.  The answer still made no sense, though.  Maybe I was mistaken?  Going to my office, I opened my laptop to double-check, and no, I wasn’t mistaken.

What the hell was the veve for Papa Legba, the Vodoun loa of crossroads and doorways, complete with proper ritual placement and components, doing in the middle of the hallway of an office building in Boston?!?

Yeah, this was going to need some looking into…

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

The Poppet Witch Speaks: A Song of Mourning

Been a while since I had a chance to sit down and write.  Meant to do it more often than this, but well, autumn is a busy time, what with getting ready for winter and all that.  I’d intended to pick up where I left off last time, but well, the poppets displayed a new behavior the other day, so I suppose I should write that down first.

I was in the workroom, measuring out ingredients for an herbal tonic I keep around for winter colds, when it occurred to me that I’d been hearing a single low tone ringing outside for some time. Setting the measuring things down, I went to the window to see what was going on.

The poppets were in the trees and along the fenceline all on one side of the property, looking fixed down the road, and chiming a single long note together in a chorus.  They’d chime the tone, it would ring unchecked and just as it would start to fade out of hearing, they’d chime again.  The same tone, over and over.  One of the poppets closer to the window saw me watching them, and bowed its head at the tilted angle that signifies sadness for them, before looking back down the road and rejoining the chiming.

I left the window and got my boots.  Something was going on, and I didn’t have a good enough angle to see where they were looking properly.

When I stepped out onto the porch, I could see clear what they were looking at, and understood.

The house down the road is a good ways through the trees, but close enough to be seen from ours.  Usually there was a light on by this time, but that night it was dark and no smoke came from the chimney.  The old man who owned it had passed away earlier that morning, and so there was no one to light the fire or turn on the lamp anymore.  The poppets were mourning their friend, who had been the inspiration behind their chiming voices, in a ritual they were creating just for him.

I bowed my head, and grieved with them.  He’d been a good neighbor, sweet and friendly, easy to laugh, and the windchimes he’d hung on his porch had been what had given me the idea to use the small, poppet-sized chimes to allow the poppets to “speak” and expand their vocabulary beyond clicking and postures.  He’d always been kind to them and sometimes I think he taught them some of the mischief they get into from time to time. We are all going to miss him, though it’s a comfort that he’ll always be remembered wherever my little poppets go.

                                                                       * * * * * * 

This was not the next installment I’d planned for the Poppet Witch’s journal or her poppets.   Really, it wasn’t a post I was planning to write at all, but well, Life happens and sorrows, too.

My next door neighbor, Dan, was the original inspiration for the poppets.  Or rather, the windchimes on his porch were.  I’d hear them ringing softly in the distance at night, when the neighborhood was quiet, and well, one night a small poppet story wandered into the room and it turned into a bit of ambient microfiction and then one thing led to another and here we are.

Dan passed away this past weekend.  As I write this, his family are in his house, working on the next steps to deal with the stupid, mundane details of life and death and what to do with the things we leave behind when we leave the world.

I can’t do anything to help them, but I can write a bit of a world that he helped inspire and make sure that he is remembered in my own small way.

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)

Vampiric Fruit, Folklore, and Other Floral Oddities

I’ve developed a new obsession that combines my love of obscure folklore, fruit, and weird vegetation into one glorious rabbit hole, and I suspect I’m going to be here a while.   Send coffee and snacks.

The other day, a friend of mine tagged me on a post on the Book of Faces about an obscure bit of folklore that hails from the Romani people of the Balkans region, and it is a delightfully charming bit of lore.

Watermelon vampires.

No, not vampires that eat watermelons, but watermelons that turn into vampires.

Naturally, given my fondness for obscure and somewhat ridiculous monsters, I had to know more, and well, I might have lost most of the day poking the internet for more information.  I may have also done some light sketching, because reasons…

I couldn’t help myself.

The basics of the lore goes that if you leave a watermelon out for 10 days (or on a full moon, or for too long after Christmas, depending on the information source), it will turn into a vampire.  Apparently pumpkins also harbor aspirations of vampirism.  There seems to also be some contradiction over whether it’s all melons and just pumpkins, or all gourds and only watermelons.  (No, I’m not at all thinking about getting my hands on a selection of melons and gourds to test each of the theories, and I’m *shocked* that you would assume such things of me.  This bag of squash is totally for soup, I swear…)

*ahem*

Now, once the warned-of timespan has passed, the fruit is said to make a kind of growling noise and go rolling off to chase people down and I don’t know, try to trip them or something and be generally a nuisance.  The poor things have a small problem and that is they have a distinct lack of teeth, so they’re not exactly a particularly threatening sort of vampire.  You can identify them by the small amounts of blood they’re said to have on them, though how they get hold of blood seems to be lacking in information. I have a suspicion of someone tripping over a watermelon vampire in the dark and scraping their knees or something, which the melon then rolls around in.

They’re also rather easy to get rid of, unlike their more bitey cousins, in that to dispatch it, you just have to catch it, throw it in a pot of boiling water, scrub it with a broom, and then toss the vampire, water, and broom out.  No holy water, or stakes, or anything!

I love them.  I also may have read the original Bunnicula books a few times too many as a child, and have had “The celery stalks at midnight!” (read in a tone of voice that implies some sort of conspiratorially coded message that’s probably replied to with “The watermelons bathe in moonlight!”) wandering through my head all day…

I did discover an interesting thing about the actual plants themselves, because I had questions about the watermelon and pumpkin deal.  See, pumpkins are a “New World” plant, and watermelon isn’t exactly endemic to Eastern Europe, either, which I suppose could lend itself to interesting stories about them, or it could also be a case of a mistranslation and assumption that any gourd was a pumpkin.  Sort of like how corn used to be the generic word for grain, and it’s only recently been confined specifically to maize, or something along those lines.  One thing that I was not aware of until this all crossed my path is that squashes, melons, cucumbers, and loofah are all the same family, which is pretty cool. Yay Science!

I’m now really, really tempted to do a series of vampiric fruit paintings, because, well, vampire fruit is clearly something the world needs more of.  I’m also totally not going to do the experiment thing with the fruit, either, no matter what this notebook and pen in my hand makes it look like…

(Originally posted on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/riversdaughter.)