February 13, 2009

Issue No. 2
February 13, 2009
Goth 101
An
An Introductory
Introductory Course
Course
That Time of the Month
Fiction Bites (Part 1)
Beyond the Doors of Daylight
Fiction
Fiction Bites
Bites (Part
(Part 1)
1)
Smoke
Fiction Bites (Part 1)
Annie Bertram
Gothic Photographer
Secrets of Egypt
Non-contemporary History
http://www.myspace.com/spencetheband
2
Letters From the Editor
Check out our band-friends on the left page
Dear Readers,
Snapped was scrapped, but we‟ve got 3 new
Fiction Bites with their first installments debuting in
this issue. I‟m personally a fan of anything that can
use a title that serves as a clever pun, but even moreso when it‟s well written, so kudos to C.S. Anderson
for his work in this issue and a special thanks to
Meek, who came in at the last minute and lent us her
invaluable illustrative talent for that piece. Also, for
those who don‟t yet understand the fiction-bites
concept, it‟s a “bite” of a piece of fiction. An
installment to nibble on in each issue, almost like a
television series.
I cannot stress how not about shock-factor
Sorean is meant to be. Goth is the romanticism of
the morbid, seeing the beauty in chaos and decay.
It‟s not about freaking people out. It‟s not about
looking and behaving a certain way just to seem an
exact opposite of what is considered the strongest
social norm. It‟s not about telling “the man” to
shove it. It‟s about looking at the charcoal corpses of
a forest after a fire, and seeing how artistic it is that
way and how beautiful it will be when it grows back,
since it‟s just basically been cleared for new growth.
It‟s about going to a funeral and seeing the beauty
and love that the person had around them, the lives
they touched before they were finished here. That‟s
what goth is all about, seeing the beauty in death and
the sanity behind chaos.
Speaking of funerals... ... My family has
experienced loss before and there is nothing quite
like losing someone close to you. It makes you think
about your own life while missing them when theirs
ends. You ask yourself, “What would people say at
my funeral? Who would even attend?” and the
questions go on and on. We humans are social
creatures, so naturally our need for affection of
others makes us feel even more alone... but we‟re
not. We‟re not alone. When we lose someone, it
feels like nobody else ever has or will feel how we
do, but it‟s not true. Grief creates an illusion that
leads us to believe that we are separated from
everyone else. We have to demolish this illusion to
keep our sanity. Grief comes in waves and the initial
blow is the worst. Over time the “waves” get weaker
and are further between. It will get better, but you‟ll
never “get over it” and things will never go back to
how they were. That‟s the tricky thing about change,
there is no “undo” button, no way to reverse it. The
only option is to adapt to it and you can either “miss
the good old days” or revel in the moment. We try
so hard to re-live our pasts that we miss out on the
present and by the time we adapt to something it‟s
already gone and we obsess over having missed it.
It‟s an endless cycle, but if we make the effort, we
can snuff it out.
You might be wondering why I‟m being so
morbid, despite the obvious. Well, as I write this, my
grandma is piercing the veil and will not be with us
by the time this issue is published. Alyson,
Kaimelar, and I (we‟re family) are already dealing
with a death that hasn‟t quite happened yet. She‟s
already stayed on our side days longer than they said
she would last week, but pushing that boundary can
only last so long, especially in her condition. As
such, I‟d like to dedicate this issue to her.
TO OUR BELOVED GRANDMA JO,
FEBRUARY OF 1931 TO FEBRUARY OF 2010
Love and Peace,
Sophie
sophie@dauntlessgoddess.com
Sorean‟s “main website” will be up and running
soon, and for now we are piggy-backing off of our
friends at Dauntless Goddess.
http://sorean.dauntlessgoddess.com
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Alyson’s Cookbook
Triple-Chocolate-Chip
Cookies
Ingredients:











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6 tablespoons butter, softened
1/3 cup butter flavored shortening
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups Dark Chocolate Chips
2 cups Milk Chocolate Chips
2 cups Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips
Directions:
Preheat oven: 350° F.
Beat butter and shortening in large bowl until well blended. Add brown sugar and granulated sugar;
beat thoroughly. Add egg and vanilla, beating until well blended. Combine flour, baking soda and
salt; gradually beat into butter mixture. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts, if desired. Drop by rounded
teaspoons onto ungreased cookie sheet.
Bake 10 to 12 minutes or until lightly browned. Cool slightly; remove from cookie sheet to wire
rack. Cool completely. About 3.5 dozen cookies.
Tips:
A triple-batch uses “one bag” of each type of chocolate chip.
Hand-rolling the rounded-tablespoons makes rounder cookies.
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Contents
Cover Photography:
Photos and art have little “id-tags” like you see to the
right. Blue (long) is location, green is artist/
photographer, red is model, and purple is illustrator.
Images with no location listed are on public streets
and areas not specifically defined.
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Goth 101
9
Fiction Bites: Smoke (1) Ivy
14
Beautiful Decay: The Art of Annie Bertram
18
St Mark‟s Episcopal Cathedral
20
Sorean Photo Shoot
26
Fiction Bites: Beyond the Doors of Daylight (1) William H Nelson
30
Reviews: Music/Movies
33
Horror Films: Scary or Funny?
34
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1) CS Anderson
42
Egypt
44
Subscriber Art
47
Meet the Staff
Sponsors:
Sorean now has an “official sponsor”
Eidolon Career Solutions helps people like us (goths, nerds, and other
“weirdo‟s” as dubbed by the general population) succeed in a corporate
setting. Check them out at www.eidoloncareersolutions.com
5
Goth 101
An Introductory Course By Sophie
Introduction
Truly defining “Goth” is one of the most
difficult philosophical tasks a person can
face. Goth is often categorized as wearing
black, doing drugs, having unsafe casual
fetish sex, and listening to “horrible”
music that sounds like someone screaming
into the microphone and someone else
taking a reciprocating saw to an electric
guitar while yet another person is being
attacked by a drum set. Is there such a goth
out there somewhere? Probably, sure, but
it‟s unfair to judge all of us by this
ridiculously dramatic stereotype. The word
"Gothic" is defined as "characterized by
gl o o m a n d m ys t e r y a n d t h e
grotesque" (wordnetweb.princeton.edu)
which is the simplest explanation for the
vaguest facet of Goth. Goth isn‟t about
being “shocking” or getting attention, it‟s
about being yourself and noticing that
“yourself” just happens to see things
differently from “normal” people.
What is Goth?
Some people think that a dead girl laying
in a coffin with a pale white face, red
lipstick, a black dress, and a bouquet of
lilies and black and red roses is a horrible
and sad sight. Others see it as a celebration
of her beauty as she is forever immortalized in the
onlookers‟ hearts as the beautiful snowy princess. Do
you really think that a corpse looks good with a tan?
By that same logic, why should we aspire to looking a
way that will make us less beautiful when we die? If
you wouldn‟t want to have purple hair in your coffin,
you wouldn‟t dye your hair purple, because any of us
could die at any minute. Of course, this entire
philosophy is a glass half full vs. glass half empty
argument. Goths look at death, destruction, chaos, or
the abnormal and see the glass half full. "Goth
unashamedly celebrates the dark recesses of the human
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psyche...dark sensuality, sweeping sadness, morbid
fascination, forbidden love, the beauty of enduring
pain..." (www.sfgoth.com/primer)
Goth-Types vs. Goth-Stereotypes
There are different types of “goth” as well. According
to one list, I would be a Romantic-Vampire-GeekPagan Goth. That's a lot of categories for just one
person. The goth scene is just as widely varied as
society in general. (www.goth.net) As such, there are
always opportunities to befriend one “type” of goth
while disliking another. One of the best things about
goth friends is the knowledge they give and take.
Subjects that are taboo in 'normal' society are freely
discussed and debated amongst goths. Once you
realize there is nothing to fear from the topic, what‟s to
stop you from discussing it? (www.goth.net) Goths see
topics that make most people squeamish and look to
the motives behind that squeamishness and why the
topic isn‟t discussed. Then they overcome it and learn
about the root of the “problem” for normal people.
Any subject that can make a room go quiet at the
utterance of a single word is likely something that
would peak the intellectual curiosity of a goth.
Goth-Not’s
So in addition to what goth is, what is goth not? Emo
is one of the most common cases of mistaken identity
for goths to deal with. Emo kids are not goth, and
goths are not emo. Can some be both or have traits that
crossover? Yes, they can. But emo doesn‟t make you
goth and goth doesn‟t make you emo. Having emo hair
and skinny jeans and two belts at odd angles goes with
guy-liner just as well as an outfit accented by a black
trench coat and combat boots, but the two styles are
not the same. Stereotypes are bad enough as it is, but
when the outsiders can‟t even get the different
stereotypes straight, you know the understanding level
is severely sub-par.
Conclusion
Goth is about who you are, not about how you dress or
what music you listen to. The wide variety of goth
“types” are evidence that many different types of
people can be goth, some may not even know it. Goths
are generally intelligent and understanding people, but
many look intimidating to an outsider. People fear
what they don‟t understand, and so they make their
own assumptions and “roll with it” instead of getting
to know a person and understand what is really in front
of them. Overcome the fear.
In coming issues, we hope to delve further into this
subject, as it is very difficult to cover all that needs to
be covered in a single article.
7
8
Smoke
By Ivy
Installment 1
Pheolix swooped his black bangs so they covered his
right eye.
Taking a long look in the mirror, he was content with
his image.
He was skinny, and he dyed his brown hair black. Not
that he would ever let anyone know that.
He wore black jeans so tight they appeared to be
painted on, and a snug fit black jacket.
He wasn‟t happy with his appearance, but he was
content.
Okay, that was a lie. And he knew it. He hated how he
looked.
As much as he tried to improve his appearance, it
didn‟t seem to work.
So he settled with his current look. This dreary attire
seemed appropriate for an equally dreary day;
The first day of school.
Not just the first day of school. It was the first day at
his new school.
His first day at a new high school, to be exact.
Pheolix remembered his first day as a freshman last
year.
It was a terrible experience he was hoping to forget.
He shuddered at the thought.
Then a few days into his last summer, his parents
announced they were moving.
Pheolix didn‟t know why, and he didn‟t care all that
much.
All he knew was he was being forced to move, and
forced to change schools, and forced to lose his
friends.
He laughed bitterly, friends. If that‟s what he called
those people, he couldn‟t imagine what he would call
his enemies.
Just a note: Sorean‟s official position on smoking, especially for minors, is
“Do not smoke” ... It‟s bad for you, it doesn‟t look as cool as you think it does,
and it makes you smell horrible while it coats your lungs in all sorts of nasty stuff.
Say no, if not for your health, then for your hygiene or the health of those around
you... If you are a teen and your friends are trying to pressure you to smoke,
they‟re not your friends. Don‟t smoke. Find the willpower to say no because
you‟re better than that. Rise above peer pressure and make your own decision.
He sighed, “Great…” he told himself, “I‟m already off
to a wonderful start…”
After a long and somewhat painful bus ride, he arrived
at his new school.
It was something memorial high school. He wasn‟t
sure, and didn‟t care.
He only had to spend three years here, no big deal.
Only three years.
He let out another bitter sigh. He was starting to hate
his life.
As he walked to his first class, he scoped out the
people.
Lots of pretty girls, with way to much makeup, and
skirts hardly covering their cottage cheese thighs.
The boys all seemed to be jocks, or “gangster”,
whatever that meant.
No one seemed to spark his interest. No one stood out.
Except him.
Oh boy.
Checking his crumpled schedule again, Pheolix noted
where his first class was, and hurried there.
Better to be early then to have
everyone watch you come in late.
He opened the door right as the
warning bell rang. At least he
thought it was the warning bell, that‟s
how it worked as his last school.
His first class was English, a good
start to the day.
His teacher was a quiet woman, with
light brown hair and warm eyes.
She smiled, told him where to sit.
“Pheolix!” His mother called from downstairs, “Your
going to miss your bus!”
Fiction Bites: Smoke (1)
9
Okay, he was sure now, he‟s going crazy.
“Hey kid, you new?” a voice rose from his left. It
wasn‟t an out of the ordinary voice, it was one that
could belong to anyone. One that seemed to blend in
with the crowd. Into the lull of a school atmosphere.
The owner of the ordinary voice stuck out much more.
He was blond, his hair was short and spiked in the
back, long and covering his eyes in the front.
He wore a dark blue sweatshirt that proclaimed the
name of some brand, and blue jeans that seemed to fit
perfectly.
The owner of the voice was also the owner of the
smell. He was smoking.
“Well?” He asked before taking a long inhale of
smoke. He held it in for awhile, then blew it out
through his nose, “You gonna answer me kid?”
“Don‟t…” Pheolix started to reply, then gave up the
courage and turned his gaze away.
The teenager bent down, his legs were so long he was
still much taller than Pheolix.
He closed up on Pheolix‟ face, “Don‟t want, kid?”
“Don‟t…Call me kid. We‟re…The same age.” Pheolix
whispered the last part, unsure how this boy would act
to such…Forcefulness.
One of the worst parts of the day, excluding his
beyond creepy math teacher, was lunch.
He had a feeling this would happen, just like last year.
All year he sat alone, and all this year, he will sit
alone.
Letting out a big sigh, which seemed to be the only
real noise he made today, he fell against a wall.
His back hit, hard, and he slid down to the ground.
Tucking his knees to his chest, he buried his face.
“This sucks…” he told no one.
Another sigh.
Then, smoke.
The teen scoffed, “Hardly. You‟re a freshman right?”
Pheolix didn‟t answer, he didn‟t like where this was
going.
“Well,” The teen got even closer to his face, only
inches away, “Fresh meat”.
His breath reeked of the cigarette smell. Pheolix was
glad his parents didn‟t smoke. This smell was making
him sick.
He leaned to the right a bit, away from the teen. In
defense, the blond got even closer.
They continued this little dance for a while, until
Pheolix fell over, and the blond was laughing
hysterically.
He smelled smoke. Not, “house burning down smoke”,
but more like…Cigarettes?
Having never smelled them before, he wouldn‟t know.
Just guessing really.
Pheolix raised his head, no one.
“Don‟t laugh at me!” Pheolix proclaimed, “It was your
fault.”
“Why?” He asked, crushing the butt of his finished
cigarette between his pointer finger and thumb,
“Because I was trying to be close to you? Do you hate
10
Fiction Bites: Smoke (1)
affection kid?”
Pheolix glared daggers at him, “I‟m a sophomore you
know.”
The blond raised an eyebrow, “Oh really? Where were
you last year?”
Pheolix looked away, he smelled trouble, and it wasn‟t
just the lingering sent of rancid smoke.
Sighing, he answered, “Different state.”
The blond nodded, “Jason.”
“Uh…?”
“My name, its Jason.” He held out a hand to Pheolix.
The faux black haired teen stared at it, “Uh…Pheolix.”
Jason smiled, his hand still extended. He wasn‟t going
to give up that easy.
he never asked Jason how old he was.
Old enough to smoke. That would mean he was senior.
Or someone could have gotten them for him.
Maybe he stole them, but he seemed to kind to steal.
Kind? Did Pheolix just referee to him as, “Kind”?
The same boy that was laughing at him falling onto the
cement? Kind?
Yeah, he was sure, he had gone crazy and there was no
coming back.
As Pheolix pondered about all of this, he ran smack
into a concrete pillar.
After a few minutes of Jason smiling, trying to get a
hand shake, and Pheolix staring blankly at it, Jason
won. Pheolix gripped his hand and held it loosely.
Neither one of them moved.
When finally they both thought it was too awkward,
Pheolix let out and Jason laughed more.
His voice wasn‟t unique, but the same couldn‟t be said
for his laugh.
Pheolix looked away, “Quit laughing at me…”
“But you‟re so funny lookin‟”. Jason retorted, then
laughed some more, partially rolling on the ground this
time.
The bell for lunch rang, and Jason jumped into a
standing position. Without the help of his hands.
Pheolix found this quite amusing.
“Need a hand, kid?” Jason put extra emphasize on,
“kid”.
Either way, Pheolix ignored it and grabbed his hand,
which he had extended again.
The two parted ways, Jason was smiling all the while,
and waving until Pheolix was out of sight.
He was sure the rest of the day wouldn‟t be that
amusing. Just as he was sure no one else would talk to
him.
When he reached his next class, it occurred to him that
Fiction Bites: Smoke (1)
11
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13
Beautiful Decay:
The Art of Annie Bertram
A Feature Interview By Lisa
Annie Bertram is an amazingly talented
photographer living in Zürich, Switzerland. Having
come to prominence in the Gothic world over the last
few years, she has done promotional photography for
many bands, including Blutengel, Unheilig, Scream
Silence, Terminal Choice, and Lost Area. She has been
featured in Orkus, Killo, and Gothic Beauty
magazines, and held exhibitions at the Strychnin
Gallery in Berlin and the H. R. Giger Museum in
Gruyères, Switzerland. She has published two art
books, Die Farbe der Träume (“The Color of Dreams”)
in 2004 and Wahre Märchen (“True Fairy Tales”) in
2008, and she is currently working on her new book,
The Obsolete Angels, which will be released this
summer of 2010.
Dreamlike and darkly serene, her works are
possessed of a haunting beauty. With vivid color,
gorgeous lighting, and a melancholic, fairytale-like
atmosphere, her art tells stories of profound feeling,
thought, and sorrow through expressive, dazzlingly
beautiful models and decadent settings. Inspired by the
beauty/decay of Old World Europe and its abandoned
places, she strives to bring the viewer into a magical,
fantasy world far away from reality. She is interested
in combining these forgotten places with the “forgotten
creatures” who inhabit the photographs. The subjects
of her pieces are darkly beautiful, sorrowful, and
alluring women, transformed into strange,
otherworldly beings by makeup and styling. They are
countesses, lost lovers, mermaids, doomed queens, and
insane asylum inmates. Her works almost have the
look of a painting; there‟s an elegant stillness and
mournful quality to them which any person inspired by
Gothic art will be able to relate to. Her works are
living fairy tales for the modern age, taking place in
the midst of the ruins of the past. Annie is truly an
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inspirational artist, and has a unique vision that is sure
to take her far. Her strangely beautiful world will leave
you stunned.
I had the opportunity to ask Annie some
questions about her work, inspirations, and plans for
the future:
L: How long have you been doing this? When
did you first pick up photography? Was there
something about it that immediately grabbed you?
The photographer who inspires me most is
Floria Sigismondi. She is very famous, born in Italy
too, like the old Masters, and she then moved to the
USA/Canada. She does photography and also videos
and films. She is full of creativity and ideas, a mixture
between horror, beauty and strange situations, and her
work is very emotional, it really touches my heart. She
and her works showed me that it is important to follow
my own heart and make my own way. That this is the
only way to be: to be honest. Don‟t go after the money
or what others want to see from you, just make your
own art.
L: How do you feel you've progressed as an
artist since you first started? How has your style
evolved or become more refined over the years?
A: Actually I think my interest in art started
when I was a child. I painted a lot and attended courses
in painting. I also did a few semesters of courses in
drawing at the Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst
in Leipzig in Germany. This helped shape my eye as
an artist. Later in life I discovered photography as a
medium and I am now ultimately trying to combine
both of these media, painting and photography, in my
art.
L: Quite simply, what inspires you? (This could
be anything from other artists, to music, literature, an
image you saw as a child, or a mood you're in.)
A: There are a lot of artists who inspire me. I
love the Renaissance with the Italian artists Botticelli,
Michelangelo and da Vinci. I travelled to Florence to
see their art in the famous Ufficeum. I was so
impressed by Botticelli‟s “Birth of the Venus” that I
didn‟t want to leave - I have never been this impressed
by a painting ever again. I just wanted to stay there for
the rest of my life! It was simply the most beautiful
thing of all and it took me straight into another world that‟s why I also try to take the viewers of my pictures
into another world.
A: Well, I am working now over 16 years as a photoartist and it really changed a lot. I started with a small
analogue SLR camera made from plastic. Later I
developed my photos in a dark room. I spent many
hours in darkness. Before I started with photography I
was a painter. As digitalization revolution began my
work changed a lot. And now I try to combine
different kind of media. I take photos and edit them in
Photoshop that they look a little bit like a painting. In
my exhibitions you can see this on canvas. Because I
see my work more as photoart than just photography.
L: What is a common theme that you try to
convey in your artwork? What feeling are you trying to
give?
A: Abandoned places inspire me a lot and most
of my works were taken at those places. On the one
hand I like to show beauty, at the other hand decay.
It‟s an interesting combination in my eyes. I try not
only to show a beautiful face. I am a storyteller and try
to take the viewers in a special magic world far away
from their reality.
L: Are there any historical periods or elements
of the past's style, atmosphere, or architecture that
have an influence on your work?
A: The Old World is mostly a part of my art. It
inspires me a lot.
L: You've done a couple of pieces based on
Anne Boleyn, a historical figure I love and have
15
always found fascinating. Are there any other
historical figures who inspire you or who you would
wish to take a "portrait" of?
A: Yes, I have made a couple of pieces of Anne
Boleyn and her life-tragedy is very inspirational for
artworks.
There are a lot of more inspiring historical
persons. But at the moment I am more focused on my
new book project.
L: What are some of your favorite fairy tales if
you have any?
A: My favorite fairy tales writer is Hans
Christian Anderson. I really love the Mermaid tale. He
has a very romantic and melancholic style. That‟s why
I like it most.
L: What can you tell us about your latest book,
Wahre Märchen ("True Fairy Tales"), and its title?
A: It is a project about Fairy Tales and my own
interpretations of them. I took the old classical
fairytales from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian
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Andersen and re-interpreted them with my own
messages. So I made several photo-stories and I
worked together with several different writers who
wrote the tales “anew”. “Wahre Märchen” was
released as a book August 2008 and turned into a
bestseller. To complete the idea, I wanted to take the
readers and viewers of the book into an actual world of
fairy tales. That is how the idea to have special
exhibitions with a special concept was born. In
February 2009 the exhibition took place at Strychnin
Gallery in Berlin. From the 11th of April until
September 2009, it took place at the H.R. Giger
Museum in Gruyeres in Switzerland. The cooperation
with H.R. Giger started 2 years ago. They wanted me
to take photos for a new book of the Giger Museum for
its 10th anniversary. They were very happy with my
results, especially the Alien, so they put one of my
Alien-photos on the invitation and on the posters for
the 10th Giger Museum anniversary. They were so
impressed with my work that they also allowed me to
have a photo shoot in Giger‟s personal garden for my
fairytale book, and Giger‟s wife Carmen was my
model for this story. We became friends and they
offered me to have an exhibition at their museum. I am
very excited about this success and want to thank all
the people who helped me.
L: Do you have any favorite authors?
A: My favorite author is Christian von Aster.
He has also written for all of my 3 books.
L: I believe you've done collaborative shoots
with Vecona Clothing. Are there any other fashion
designers you've worked with or would like to?
A: The collaborative shoots with Vecona were
really great. I am a big admirer of her fashion and she
is very talented. I am really glad that she is working
with me on my new book project too.
There are some more great fashion designers I have
worked with: Atsuko Kudo – Latex designer from
London, Tolllkirsche from Germany, Ponymaedchen
(Retro-Style and nice uniforms) from Berlin, Marlenes
Töchter who is doing fashion styles from the 20ies age,
V-Couture – a young designer from Germany who
creates wonderful corsets, and some more.
It is always very inspiring to me to work with
other artists like fashion designers, hairstylists, makeup artists and so on. To bring all creativity together is
always exciting.
L: Something I've noticed about your work is
that the models in your pictures are extraordinarily
beautiful and elegant, they exude an uncommon grace
and melancholy beauty. How do you choose your
models?
A: With most of my models I work now for
many years. With most of them I have a very close
friendship and that‟s important to me. Art comes from
the heart and it‟s important to me that my models
understand this exactly. I don‟t want to show only a
nice face without an expression. There must be
emotions and feelings and there must be the truth
behind a face.
L: What are your plans or dreams for the
future? What would you like to work on this coming
year?
A: At the moment I am working now at my
new book called “The obsolete angels”, which I am
going to release this summer. I nearly finished the
works on it. It took me 3 years‟ work now and it is my
most personal book. Forgotten places and forgotten
creatures play an important part. I travelled a lot in the
last years to find breathtaking sceneries. Together with
a team of models, authors, special make-up artists and
friends I tried to make the impossible possible. The
13th of August 2010 is the opening night for the first
exhibition for this book. It will take place at the
Strychnin Gallery in Berlin, Germany. Hope to see you
there.
L: What would be your advice for emerging
artists who are struggling to articulate their style or
become known/established?
A: Be yourself. That‟s the only truth.
More of Annie‟s work can be seen at her Website,
www.anniebertram.com.
17
St Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral
By Kaimelar
Seattle is a unique
city filled with culture,
history, and amazing
architecture. Probably one
of Seattle‟s best examples
of its architecture is the
Cathedral of Saint Mark,
an Episcopal church in
downtown. On tenth
avenue east you can find
ne very unique and gothic
structure that took eight
years to design, fund, and
finally build. The cathedral
was dedicated on
Saturday, April 25, 1931.
The church has
undergone years of
hardship and gone through a few different owners and
uses. After the church was built, it became clear that
the parish could not afford its mortgage payments, and
in 1941 the St Louis bank closed. The “For Sale” sign
made national news.
In 1943 the US Army leased the building to use
as an anti-aircraft gun training center. Evidence of the
army‟s occupation of the building can be found on the
walls of the crypt in the form of graffiti. In 1944,
Bishop Huston went to St Louis to negotiate with the
bank and St Mark‟s opened later that year.
In 1958, Cathedral House was constructed on
the west end of the building. This addition houses the
Bloedel Hall, the kitchen, library, parish office,
classrooms, and other meeting rooms.
In 1961 the ten-year organist/choirmaster at St
Mar‟s, Peter Hallock, went organ shopping. The old
weather-worn 1897 organ as being held together by
faith and bailing wire, and the vestry agreed that a new
one was necessary. Peter selected an instrument to be
built by the Flentrop Co of Holland. D. A. Flenthrop
visited Seattle to observe the site for his instrument. He
proposed to build, for St Mark‟s Cathedral, the largest
instrument he had ever designed. In1964 the northex/
loft was created to house the new Flentrop organ. In
1965 the Flentrop was dedicated with E. Power Biggs
playing the augural recital.
18
Some other additions have been made through
the years, such as the chapel of the Resurrection and
the Columbarium, which were built under the nave in
1969. One of the most recent and popular additions
occurred in 1997 when Ed Carpenter, along with Olsen
Surdberg Architects, were called in to remodel the
west wall, as well as adding new sacristies and vesting
rooms. The once dark altar area became a light and
open space we all now enjoy. Ed Carpenter was chosen
to construct the glass and steel screen window/
doorway behind the altar. The McCaw chapel sits
behind the window and is now an intimate space for
private prayer, where the blessed sacrament is
reserved.
Today you can visit St Mark‟s cathedral any
day of the week and it‟s known throughout the
community. Long with their amazing worship schedule
and church-based activities, the St Mark‟s Episcopal
Cathedral staff and members can be found reaching out
and helping others in the community by participating
in Habitat for Humanity, aiding local food banks and
thrift shops, as well as providing much needed care for
the people of Seattle through various other things.
Every month they have recitals and other arts activities
which are open to the public. St Mark‟s is a very
beautifully constructed piece of culture in Seattle
history.
19
The Sorean Issue 2 Photo Shoot
By Sophie
We at Sorean would like to thank St Mark‟s
Episcopal Cathedral for housing our photo
shoot and Liz Sloat for being our lovely
hostess. We‟d also like to thank all of the
models and photographers who participated.
We‟re also very appreciative of the efforts of
those who participated in the shoot who are not
models and photographers.
Individual Shout-Outs:
Rich, Gary, Bekah, Bria, Lisa, Christina,
Ashley, Ray, and Liz... You guys rock! ... Oh!
And the adorable man who wanted our
business cards for the “goth kids” he knew
back home.
20
If you want to be involved in the next photo
shoot, go to our website and find the “Work
with Sorean” link and fill out the contact form.
If you worked with us last time and want to
again, you have my email address, so you can
skip the contact form and contact me directly.
Bria : Sorean’s Original Cover Model
1.
What celebrity would you most want to meet? (Dead) Vincent Price (Alive) Gerard Way
2.
If you could do it all over again, what would you do differently? I regret nothing. Experiences are what makes
you who you are.
3.
What do you like to do in your spare time? I like to watch a lot of horror movies and play with dead things.
4.
When asked, what‟s the one question you always answer with a lie? This question.
5.
What do you want the epitaph on your tombstone to be? She was never really alive.
6.
If you could possess one super-human power, what would it be? Flying and possess the ability to see in the
dark and use echo-location.
7.
What are you really bad at that you‟d love to be great at? Painting
8.
If you were re-born as an animal, what would you want to be? A Bat!
9.
If you could be anyone in history, who would it be? Elizabeth Bathory
10. What‟s your favorite joke? People
21
Lisa
1. What celebrity would you most want to meet? I would love to meet Dita Von Teese.
2. If you could do it all over again, what would you do differently? That's a hard one to answer... I think I would
try to be more free, not sweat the small stuff as much, and not give up so easily on what I wanted to do.
3. What do you like to do in your spare time? I like reading, writing, and listening to music.
4. When asked, what‟s the one question you always answer with a lie? When checkout cashiers, etc., ask me,
"How are you?"
5. What do you want the epitaph on your tombstone to be? "The beauty of the world which is so soon to perish,
has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder." - That's a Virginia Woolf quote.
6. If you could possess one super-human power, what would it be? I think it would either be super-agility, like the
ability to leap from building to building, or the ability to fast-forward through the negative times in life, so I
don't really have to experience them.
7. What are you really bad at that you‟d love to be great at? Singing.
8. If you were re-born as an animal, what would you want to be? I would want to be a cat. I think ocelots are
beautiful, but I'd probably most like to be a domestic cat, so I could have humans and sit on their laps. I'd also
like to be an elephant.
9. If you could be anyone in history, who would it be? Silent film icon Louise Brooks. I would get to experience
the '20s, and she's actually the one famous person who I happen to be most like. I think we have sister hearts.
10. What‟s your favorite joke? "What's she going to do, get her mother to run me over with her minivan?" - from
the graphic novel Skim
22
Christina
1.
What celebrity would you most want to meet? Harrison Ford
2.
If you could do it all over again, what would you do differently? Listen to my mother
3.
What do you like to do in your spare time? Befriend homeless people and work on my novel
4.
When asked, what‟s the one question you always answer with a lie? My name
5.
What do you want the epitaph on your tombstone to be? The sun so hot she froze to death
6.
If you could possess one super-human power, what would it be? The ability to become anyone
7.
What are you really bad at that you‟d love to be great at? Sewing
8.
If you were re-born as an animal, what would you want to be? Barn Owl
9.
If you could be anyone in history, who would it be? Frances Farmer
10. What‟s your favorite joke? Why did the chicken cross the road? To drink with her buddies that's why!
23
24
25
Beyond the Doors of Daylight
By William H. Nelson
Who knows how long we have traveled; or how
far, for that matter. It is now almost dawn. We need to
find shelter; they're too close. Ditching the car on the
side of the desolate, well-traveled road, we scramble
down an earthen hill. The driveway is less than ten
yards away but that doesn't concern us; it's a matter of
self preservation. Only a few precious minutes remain
before daylight. Swiftly we hobble toward the deserted
looking house. There's a dusty, old truck-stop to our
right, but, due to our situation, it is definitely out of the
question. We mustn't be seen. The agents of the
Corporation are everywhere.
Sweating and gasping for breath, we fling
ourselves forward. Even with his injured leg hindering
him, Mike gains access to the small dwelling with a
well-placed kick. The door gives readily and we find
ourselves inside. The little house is fashionably
constructed; a spacious, single living area made with
great attention to every detail. We stand within an airy,
high-ceilinged room furnished, predominately, with
polished wooden decor. He slams the door behind us,
although the latch is now beyond repair, as I move to
one of the giant picture windows. The sun is rising.
In the early morning light I can make out the
road as it parallels the opposite hillside. We appear to
be in a guest house. A larger, more palatial estate sits
off to the left. The place looks freshly built; even the
long, expansive drive is unpaved. As I watch, an
elderly man comes forth from the newly painted gray
and white dwelling. He's wearing a blue work shirt and
white gloves. I gaze at him as he steps onto the wellstained sun-porch. The floral landscaping does well in
accentuating the natural wood grain of the terrace and
even at this distance I can see the generous smile upon
his face due to his expansively thick, gray mustache.
He begins to water the blue and white flowers that
grow from the pots now surrounding him. The sun is
26
Installment 1
rising higher into the vast, cloudless sky. I begin to
panic.
Noises assault me and I turn in surprise; Mike
is muscling an oak dinning table up against the ruined,
hard-wood door. The sweat pours off him as he manhandles the large piece of furniture and a deep,
brownish-green fluid seeps continually from the rend
in his slacks. The G.E.O.-pod has penetrated deep into
his left thigh. I can almost see his flesh writhe under
the onslaught of the chemicals. They had stung him
good; I don't remember much else.
"Wha...What are you doing!?" I bleat, "we've
got to get the hell out of here!"
He turns and I can see the fear and anger upon
his strained face. Gasping, he looks around at the
almost antiseptic decor.
"Are you insane!?" he barks, lurching forward,
"We must barricade ourselves in! They could be here
any minute!"
I can tell he is moving beyond my reach. His
eyes seem milky as he nervously runs a hand through
his disheveled, black hair. He has the look of a trapped
animal. In many ways, he now is.
I hold up my hands to him, "Don't you see? We
can call for a chopper! Get lifted out of here in no
time. We have the resources! We have to get out of
here NOW!!"
He looks at me in disbelief, trails of sweat
beading his face and drooling slowly off his unshaven
chin. "If you call anyone...ANYONE...we're dead
meat! They have us cold! Everything is tapped on
down the line. We can't move without them breathing
down our necks! We have to make a stand! Don't you
see that? If they get to us now, I'll become nothing
more than another one of their experimental cadavers!"
I cannot let this happen; we have to move. I
rush past him, throwing the heavy table out of the way.
Fiction Bites: Beyond the Doors of Daylight (1)
Gaining the yard, I race madly toward the startled, old
man. I will use his phone, God willing. Rescue is now
our only hope. Before I can reach him, Mike is
blocking his door. I never even saw him as he blurred
past me. The pod is working faster than I can
anticipate.
"What's this all about?" the man asks sternly.
Apparently, he's chosen not to notice our strange
appearance from his guest house. Either that or the
sight of my associate has affected him. In any case,
given the state we're in, we would undoubtedly incite
caution in even the most stoic of individuals. And, I
note, somewhat belatedly, he does not seem to be the
Corporation type.
"Please! We have urgent need of your phone.
This is an emergency!"
I cannot contain myself. I feel as if I'm about to
pass out from the strain. Without waiting for a reply, I
turn to the door. Mike pulls the forty-five from under
his soiled, gray vest and I can see he's trembling even
though he tries to minimize it. He is changing.
We must get that chopper!
"Mike, calm down. We need to get evacuated!
If we could use this man's phone, we could call for a
lift out of here. We can still be rescued. The phone in
the guest house may already be tapped, but this is a
residential line. They have no way of knowing we'd try
here!"
"You know I can't let you do that. I refuse to
become another one of their experiments!"
I look at him in disbelief. The poor bastard; he
already is but just can't admit it to himself yet. We
don't have much time. Looking at the powerful
automatic I become angry. Turning from him, I start
back across the dirt drive.
"Screw you! I'm getting rescued. You can stay
here if you like. I'll just use the other phone. The
chopper can be here before they even trace the damn
call!"
I'm a bit out of control as I reach the guest
house door and Mike blurs in front of me again. His
increase in speed is amazing. Calmly, he levels the gun
at my head.
"I won't let you do it, Bill. Don't make me use
this."
"You'll just have to shoot me, then," I say as I
step forward.
He doesn't budge, "You know I will. If I have
to, I will shoot you!"
His eyes are milky white in the brightening
daylight. I know he isn't bluffing. I feel trapped.
Turning away from him, I charge up the incline
towards the abandoned vehicle. I can see it just up the
road by the truck stop. Scrambling for footing, I climb
up the loose packed earth of the gully.
"What are you doing!?" Mike calls to me from
a few steps behind, "We'll both be killed! Don't you
Fiction Bites: Beyond the Doors of Daylight (1)
27
see? We've got to stick it out here. Look; it's already
mid-morning! They'll spot us for sure. You know as
well as I do that they have agents everywhere. Come
on. Let's go back to the house!"
"If we can just get to the car," I gasp out as I
reach the top of the ditch, "we can be a hundred miles
away before that happens."
"Look!" he says in a harsh whisper, "We may
already be too late!"
I look up from brushing the reddish, brown soil
from my knees. There's a yellow G.T.O. pulling, ever
so slowly, up the side of the road. I watch in slow
motion as the four young men in the car stare at us
intently. Then, as if they didn't see us, they pull around
to the other side of the road and crawl back up the way
they came. I have an eerie feeling in my stomach.
"Look," I mutter, "just remain calm; act natural.
They might be heading to the truck stop for breakfast.
It could be a coincidence. Let's just head slowly for the
station wagon. If we make it, we'll be out of here in no
time."
Mike shoves the gun back under his vest. I can
tell he's scared. More scared then me, maybe. He
doesn't look good at all. Glancing furtively around, he
limps after me. His cloths are stained dark with
perspiration. The chemicals are even changing his
sweat. Resolutely, I start toward the car.
As we reach the front of the truck stop a blue
Mustang pulls forward from the closest gas pump. The
four women in the car stare at us, their faces
unreadable. I edge around the car to the left, watching
them closely. Mike starts around the front of the car to
the right. I don't like this; it doesn't feel right.
Suddenly, the Mustang screeches forward a
foot; as if they're trying to hit Mike. Surprised, he
jumps quickly out of the way. The women in the car
just look at us, their expressions very bland. I start to
move around the back of the car and the car lurches
into reverse, forcing me to leap to the side. They stare
at us coldly.
"Oh, shit, oh, shit.." Mike whispers, "They've
found us!"
"Just keep moving. The car is right there. We're
28
going to make it."
Mike leans against me. I can feel the energy
draining from him. His body is being altered and there
is nothing I can do for him but get him away from this
god-forsaken place. I stumble towards the car,
supporting Mike with my right arm.
A tour bus pulls up beside us. I gaze to the left
at the half-open windows. The bus stops and I can see
the people within it. They're all looking at us. It gives
me the creeps and I start to move a little faster; just a
few more feet and we're out of here.
"Hold on, Mike. We're almost there."
"Bill," he mumbles weakly, "use.. use the
power..."
"I..I can't, Mike; I'm just not strong enough."
"You...must..."
I feel a rage inside. Everything I have achieved
becomes useless without the energy to drive it
outward. All my abilities are worthless. If only I could
use the power, then they would see who is truly the
master! But, I am too weak. I cannot make the contact
needed for such great channeling. We'll just have to
make it to the car.
Five more steps and we're gone. Then, just in
front of us, the bulky form of a corporate van pulls up.
Maneuvering in-between us and the station wagon, its
doors open to allow the recovery agents to pour out.
We're trapped.
"Oh, no!" Mike gasps in utter despair.
I look around us. There is nowhere to run; not
that we can run to begin with. Even the people in the
diner are looking at us. The whole thing is a set up.
They knew where we'd be the entire time. I feel
something stir within me; just a small tendril of
energy, but I grasp at it all the same.
"Mike," I say, closing my eyes and turning
toward the diner, "lean on my shoulder; I'm about to
give it my best shot."
Centering myself mentally, I clap my hands
together in front of my face. Slowly, as to build my
inner flux of power, I bring my arms down to the
center of my chest. I can feel a surge within me. My
hands, clasped tightly together, tingle from their
Fiction Bites: Beyond the Doors of Daylight (1)
position over my heart. Still, I do not know if it will be
enough. Forcefully, I sweep my left hand outward, the
index finger forming a semi-circle with the thumb, the
rest of my fingers remaining rigid. Without moving my
right hand from my chest, I say a silent prayer. Then,
my eyes still firmly shut, I rotate my left hand up and
around to the left. I can only hope for the best.
"Mike," I stammer, "did the bus turn over? I
can't look..."
I hear Mike gasp. As I open my eyes I see the
bus hover on its left side and then crash solidly to the
ground. I've done it! With this revelation, I am no
longer blocked and I can feel an enormous reserve
within me. It is quite euphoric.
People are streaming out of the overturned bus.
I sense movement all around us. Growling low in my
throat, my right hand jets out, equal in motion with my
left. Completing two inwardly turning circles, my
wrists join together as power lashes out. The truck stop
explodes in a fiery blast of energy. I hear no
screaming; only the maddened racing of my heart. It‟s
a good feeling and I laugh, inaudibly, at the weight of
it. Again I strike out. The other vehicles are consumed
in violent paroxysms of flame. Mike is leaning heavily
on my back, but I feel his excitement also. I know that
there is still the multitude of agents behind us, but I've
been saving them for last; they don't scare as easily as
these others and I'm counting on it. With a low hiss, I
extend my arms, looping them from the front to a place
on either side of my body, my fingers clawing the air.
A sulfurous stench accompanies the plasma-like
discharge of electrical energy as it cascades around our
bodies. Now, I hear the screaming.
"Mike!" I roar, "Put your arms around my neck
and hold on tight; we're getting the hell out of here!"
The field I've enveloped us in is far more
formidable then I could have hoped. Nothing can touch
us. I see the blurred figures of our assailants as they try
in vain to break my hold but my will is too strong for
them. I laugh at their attempts. The crackling energy is
very bright but I can see well enough to maneuver us
in the direction I've chosen. Taking a step forward, I
force the agents ahead to lose their ground, virtually
pushing them out of the way. I feel the ecstasy of
power.
"Hold on!" I manage to shout over my
shoulder. Then, we're gaining altitude, shedding bullets
like water off a duck.
The sky is a vibrant blue as I climb steadily to
the north. I'm drunk with the experience: I mean, it‟s
one thing to achieve what I've just done in the Deep
Sleep Training chamber, but quite a different thing
indeed to achieve it in a waking state! My theories are
proven. What's more, I did it first! My work is
vindicated at last. I feel incredibly happy.
"Welcome to 'Billy-T Airlines'," I shout to
Mike, reveling in the feel of the wind as it flows
through my thin, blonde hair and beard, "fasten your
seat belt and, please, no smoking! We'll be climbing to
a altitude of 2,600 feet and, if you'll just look to your
left, you'll see a majestic view of the double-crossing
S.O.B.'s who we've just kicked ass on!"
I sense Mike's laughter from behind my head.
The energy field has given back part of his control and
I think we may just make it out of this one alive. I just
Fiction Bites: Beyond the Doors of Daylight (1)
29
Music Reviews
BlutEngel
(Review by Chris Kingston)
http://www.blutengel.de/
For all of you future pop/ synth heavy fans out there, BlutEngel is for
you. Formed in 1998 by singer Chris Pohl, formerly of band Seelenkrank,
the German goth band has conquered clubs all over the world with their
catchy, yet dark beats that are reminiscent of some kind of hybrid love
child between a vampire and the B-52's.
Atmospheric, moody, and evil, their music conjures up images of
standing in graveyards at midnight, covered in fog, and waiting for the undead
to come out of their sarcophagi to release your from the bounds of mortality.
All while wearing club gear.
For first time listeners of the band, whose name literally translates to
Blood Angel, I would suggest listening to the songs "Vampire Romance", and
"Ohne Dich". These give you a pretty good idea as to the overall sound of the
band.
Their albums include: 1999's Child of Glass, 2001's Seelenschmerz,
2002's Angel Dust, 2004's Demon Kiss, 2007's Labyrinth, and 2009's
Schwarzes Eis.
I give them three out of five skulls.
Pain (Review by Chris Kingston)
http://www.myspace.com/pain
Started by arguably the most talented man in metal, Peter Tagtgren,
PAIN is an Industrial band from Sweden.
Formed in 1997 as a hobby project, the one man band uses session
musicians in the studio and on the road, including Alexi Laiho (Children
of Bodom), Mikkey Dee (Motorhead), and Anette Olzon (Nightwish).
Peter Tagtgren plays all of the instruments, sings, and produces all of
PAIN's music in his studio, The Abyss. There, he has produced, edited, and
mixed some of metal's most elite bands, including Dimmu Borgir, Immortal,
Amon Amarth, Children of Bodom, Skyfire, and Celtic Frost.
PAIN uses a lot of eighties inspired synth sounds and melodies, and then
fuses those with a modern style of Industrial metal that is in one word, unique.
For first time listeners of the band, I would recommend "Shut Your
Mouth" and the collaboration that PAIN did with Nightwish's singer, Anette
Olzon, "Follow Me". If you like what you hear, then check out "Zombie Slam".
A complete discography for PAIN and Peter Tagtgren can be found on
his Facebook page.
I give PAIN three and a half skulls out of five.
30
Deathstars
(Review by Chris Kingston)
http://www.blutengel.de/
If you are looking for a band that combines the darkest, evilest side of
Industrial music and the most glamorous bands from the eighties, then
the Deathstars are your best bet.
Formed in Stockholm in early 2000, the Deathstars have taken the
Industrial community by storm, releasing hit after tantalizing hit.
Described once as being a blending of Marilyn Manson and Cradle of Filth, the
band takes a unique and creative approach to their music. The singer, Whiplash,
has one of the deepest non-growling voices in any genre of rock, and uses it to
good use in each and every song. Just as you're getting comfortable with his
soothing bass vocals, he lets out a screech reminiscient of Dani Filth.
Once you know that the band is made up of former members of the
black metal bands Swordmaster and Dissection, the unique elements are easily
spotted in the heavy use of synthesizers and the unique, and somewhat
deliciously disturbing vocals. Of course, being Industrial, the Deathstars' music
is easy to dance to. In fact, their happens to be quite a few remixes of their
songs in goth clubs around the world.
For a first time listener, I recommend their newest song, "Death Dies
Hard", and then, "Cyanide".
Their albums include 2003's Synthetic Generation, 2006's Termination
Bliss, and their newest album from 2009, Night Electric Night.
I give them five out of five skulls.
Halestorm
(Review by Sophie)
http://www.halestormrocks.com/
I bought this self-titled cd a couple of weeks ago and I‟ve been hearing
the first 2 tracks on it for what feels like an eternity already. “I get off”
and “It‟s not you” are the tracks that first drew me to this band. Their bold
and sassy lyrics mesh beautifully with the rocking-out music to create a
perfect ass-kicking harmony. The album came out in 2009, so if you don‟t
have it already, you need to get it, and unless you live under a rock,
you‟ve probably heard some of their songs.
The band is made up of 4 members: Singer/guitarist Lzzy Hale, guitarist
Joe Hottinger, bassist Josh Smith, and drummer Arejay Hale. Lizzy and Arejay
(siblings) formed the band in middle school in 1998.
I give them four and a half out of five skulls.
If you want Sorean to review your band, contact Sorean
(through the contact form on our website) or you can
contact Chris Kingston, our Music Scout.
31
Movie Reviews
Paranormal Activiry
(Review by Sophie)
Released: October 16, 2009
Director: Oren Peli
Katie (Katie Featherstone) and Micah (Micah
Sloat) have been dating for 3 years and move in to a
San Diego house that appears to be haunted. Micah
buys a very expensive "high quality" video camera
(put my digital camera on a tripod and the quality
would be better, but his has a flashlight on top, so it's
just so fancy, right?) to document the "ghosts" that
have been doing little things around the house, like
making noises and moving objects when nobody is
looking.
Of course, it couldn't possibly be this simple,
because we learn that this isn't the first time that
something unseen has been messing with Katie. It has,
in fact, been following her (not the house, but Katie
herself) since her house burned down when she was 8.
Katie is smart about all of this, suggesting they leave,
forbidding Micah from buying a Ouija board, calling a
psychic, etc... but Micah, being a typical male who
counters the unknown (and his own fear) with bravado
and a "can-do" attitude, seems to enjoy doing the exact opposite of what he's supposed to. (Oh yeah,
Micah, you're real clever)
The movie itself is "fun" and if you let yourself get caught up in it, it really can entertain you
and scare the hell out of you. Do we believe it's real? Doubtful. After all, how much would you have to
pay to bribe police into releasing home-video evidence of a paranormal "problem" to be released as a
movie? It just doesn't make sense... Not to mention, that psychic wasn't very psychic. They should've
called Chip, Chip is my favorite psychic and he actually knows what he's doing. But for "entertainment
value" I would recommend the movie and I would see it again.
So for future reference, those who actually have a problem with a haunting or demonic
possession, google "Paranormal State" and send them an email. Don't hire a local psychic who "just
happens" to know a demonologist they can refer you to.
Favorite parts:
- The old picture of Katie
- Footprints in the powder
- Pulled down the hall
- Outside all night
- Staring at the bed
I give this movie 4 out of 5 skulls.
32
Orphan
(Review by Sophie)
Released: July 24, 2009
Director: Jaume Collet-Serra
Esther (Isabelle Fuhrman) is a 9 year old orphan
who comes to live with the Coleman family, who‟d gone
through losing a child. “Jessica” was stillborn, so the
Coleman family wanted to adopt someone who needed the
love they had for Jessica more than their mourning did.
It‟s not long before trouble finds them, when a
classmate takes a nasty fall. Murder and mayhem ensue as
the incredibly intelligent 9 year old girl pursues a path
with a single goal. Bending people to her will with simple
manipulation, nobody would ever suspect an innocent 9
year old girl. Especially one who dresses like she‟s from a
different decade
She could‟ve easily updated her wardrobe if she‟d
“gone goth” in the fashion sense, with a choker and some
arm-warmers to replace her “ribbons” but that would
destroy her “sweet-and-innocent, nobody would suspect
anything” image. The paranoia of the masses is too great
for her to have successfully pulled off the look.
Where was I? Distracted by Esther‟s taste in
clothes, as I‟m sure many of the other characters in the movie were. Esther has a charm and
intelligence that makes others think she is the perfect 9 year old girl who couldn‟t possibly do wrong,
but her dark motives and dark secret will have the Coleman family regretting the day they met her. My
favorite character is the mostly-deaf little girl, Max. She is definitely someone I‟d want fighting in my
corner.
I’d also like to point out, there is a “preview” before the movie that is a commercial that
encourages people to adopt, because this is not something normal that happens with adopted children.
Become a foster parent or adoptive parent, because there are tons of kids without a caring family or
solid home. I cannot stress how important this is. Also, foster parenting isn’t good money (you get
issued a check, but it’s to offset part of the cost of caring for the child, it does not —nor is it meant to—
cover the entire cost of the child’s living expenses) so there is no “do it for the money” As such, if you
have the extra room and extra income, why not help a child in need of a home?
Favorite parts:
- Max takes charge
- Esther‟s Murals
- Saarne Institute
- Wearing Mommy‟s Dress
I give this movie 3 out of 5 skulls.
33
That Time of the Month
By CS Anderson
Installment 1
PROLOGUE:
Hank Winston snorted a line of crank and washed it
down with a swallow of beer. He pushed his greasy black
hair out of his eyes and tossed the empty can into a corner
of the cabin. Looking around at the mess that two days and
nights of hard partying had left he grunted to himself in
disgust. Empty beer and booze bottles and dirty plates
littered every available surface. The chick that he had
picked up at a biker bar on the coast was a woman of
appetites. Sex, booze, food and drugs, roughly in that
order.
A crooked leer crossed his face, man she was totally
hot for it. She had been screwing him senseless since he
had met her. The leer faded a bit as a thin worm of doubt
twisted in his gut, last night she had tossed him around the
big ass bed in the middle of the cabin like a damn ragdoll.
No bitch should be that strong, he was one of the biggest
and baddest motherfuckers in his club, The Fallen. Hell,
she wasn‟t even half his size. The bitch was a lot stronger
than she looked.
He had grown up in a house full of nothing but
bitches, his mom and his four older sisters riding his ass
about shit twenty four seven until he had bailed. Only thing
bitches were good for was screwing and even that ran its
course and then it was time to move on.
He glanced at the bathroom door, still closed. Bitch
had been in there for a hell of a long time now. Lighting a
joint he leaned back in his chair and considered his options.
Half-assed Charlie would be looking for the dope in the
saddlebags on his Harley day after tomorrow. The
President of The Fallen would be pissed off major if the
man didn‟t get it on time. So, fun and games time was
officially over now. When little miss Lana Chaney came
the hell out of the bathroom he would tell her wham bam
thank you maam its been fun but time to run. If he rode
straight through he could still make it on time. Opening
another beer he wondered once again just what the hell she
was doing in there.
She lay curled in a ball on the cool tile floor of the
bathroom moaning softly. The moon was rising, finally it
was rising. It had been pulling at her for days, its power
filling her to the screaming point. Smells, oh god, the
smells that flooded into her. She could smell the man in the
next room, he reeked of motor oil, booze and hot hot blood.
The scent was savagely intoxicating. Hunger suddenly
burned in her belly like a white-hot coal.
34
He looked around the cabin, little dive of a place
that it was. Basically one big room with the bed in the
middle of it, a small bathroom and an even smaller kitchen.
Truth be told he wasn‟t completely sure where he was. She
had shouted directions in his ear all the way from the bar,
occasionally flicking his ear with her hot little tongue.
Between the drugs, the beer and her very talented tongue he
hadn‟t been paying very close attention to where he was
going. Didn‟t matter, he would just follow whatever road
there was out there until it hit something big enough for him
to get his damn bearings.
The change was coming, she could feel it now.
Equal parts of her embraced and cringed away from the
agony that followed. She made a noise somewhere between
a moan and a low threatening growl.
He glanced sharply at the closed bathroom door.
Just what the hell had that noise been? Bitch didn‟t sound
right, sounded like she was sick or something. An awful
thought occurred to him, of all the things that disgusted him
about bitches the worse thing had to be when they were on
the damn rag. Like his biker buddies always told him,
never trust anything that bleeds that damn long and doesn‟t
die.
“Christ, Lana, is it that damn time of the month or
something?” He shouted through the bathroom door. Hell,
he hoped not. It had been his plan to screw her once more
for the road. Oh well, maybe she would blow him.
Pain, rage, lust and ravening hunger tore at her.
She could feel the human parts of her begin to fall away.
With a mouth suddenly full of very very sharp teeth she
forced out a few words to answer him.
“Yes…sweetling….I…am…afraid that it…is…that
time of the month.” Her voice ended in something like a
snarl.
He stood up slowly, something was very wrong
here. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing
straight up at attention and he had a sick feeling in his guts.
It occurred to him that there was no real need for long goodbyes, it might just be time to get the hell out of dodge. His
bike was right outside the door and he was late for the road
as it was. A small panicky voice in the back of his mind
whispered urgently about the gun in the saddlebags on his
bike.
The waiting was over now, the power of the full
moon surged into her. Agony filled her as her bones
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
seemed to melt and then reform. She writhed in pain on the
bathroom floor, her naked body convulsing wildly as the
change took her. A scream erupted from her that ended in
a howl.
Screw this. That was the last coherent thought he
had after he heard the howl coming from the bathroom. He
took three stumbling steps towards the front door of the
cabin before the bathroom door exploded outward into
splinters and a huge black wolf leapt into the room.
He only had time to piss himself and scream once
before the snarling beast was on him, claws tearing through
his leather jacket and fangs seeking his throat. Blood
splattered the faded curtains covering the windows. Long
after the pile of bloody rags that had once been a man had
ceased moving the wolf continued to tear at the body in a
savage frenzy.
Then in one fluid motion the wolf gathered itself
and sprang through the window. Ignoring the cuts inflicted
by the shattered glass it paused briefly to scent the night air.
It let out one more long mournful howl and then ran
towards the nearby woods to vanish into the night.
She lay a small bunch of wildflowers on her
grandmother‟s grave, smiling fondly at her memories of the
woman. Her grandmother had always been there to help
and to teach her. Dead now, she still visited her from time
to time in her dreams. The cabin had once belonged to her
and anyone sensitive to such things would be able to still
feel echoes of the spells and wards that the old witch had
woven around it.
Lana sighed as she stood up. The cabin was her
refuge and haven, she had been using it to hunt from for
some time now.
Earlier in the day she had cleaned up the mess and
buried what was left of the biker out back. She had repaired
the shattered bathroom door and replaced the broken
window. It was time to leave. She would drive the Harley
to chopshop that she knew of. The man who ran it would
give her a quick grand for the bike with no questions asked
and he would also take the drugs and the gun in the
saddlebags off her hands.
Then it would be back to the city, back to her
everyday life.
Until of course, it was that time of the month again.
Two days later.
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
35
CHAPTER ONE:
My name is Lana Chaney, well truth be told it isn‟t
really. When it was time for me to create a false identity I
needed a name and that name appealed to my admittedly
warped sense of humor. I am five feet three inches tall,
weigh one hundred and ten pounds, have dark hair and once
a month I turn into a bloodthirsty savage beast.
Yeah, I know. Nobody believes in werewolves.
That crap only happens in bad horror flicks, not real life.
Well, you can believe it or not but I have no choice in the
matter. I am a lycanathrope. I have been this way for ten
years now, ever since the year that I turned sixteen. After
the first change I panicked and ran far away from my home.
As the years passed I kept moving, never staying any one
place for too long. Living by taking shitty jobs until it was
time to move on. I poured your coffee in Pittsburgh, I
swept the floors of a martial arts studio in Dallas and I was
felt up by drunk businessmen as a cocktail waitress in
Seattle. Always I kept moving, it is the best way to survive
and that is one of the things that I do best. I am nothing if I
am not a survivor.
I have lived here in this city for two years now.
Yes, I know. This fact is not supported by my
„keep safe by keep moving‟ theory but what can I say? I
went and did one of the most foolish and dangerous things
that somebody in my circumstances could possibly do. I
fell in love.
Trust me boys and girls, on this one anyway you
can trust me. I am totally with Tom Petty on this little
matter, love stinks.
Still, what‟s a young hot-blooded wolfgirl to do? I
couldn‟t help myself. The first time I saw her I damn near
36
changed spontaneously on the spot from the rush I got from
seeing her. Which more likely than not would have been
the end of our relationship right then and there. Changing
into a ravenous monster is just not good first date protocol.
So, once a month I leave town. Hungers invade me
and I descend into violence and madness to satisfy them.
Long ago I came to the decision to only hunt and kill among
humans even more viscous than my inner beast. Outlaw
bikers, true one percenters who consider themselves beyond
the reach of any authority other than the power structure of
their particular gangs. Murders, rapists, armed robbers, you
know, the people who scare the hell out of the people who
go after America‟s most wanted. But, as luck would have
it, I am just a bit scarier and more dangerous than they are.
Which means that they die and I go back to my
visibly normal life. I live on the money from my victim‟s
bikes and contraband. To keep up appearances I work
pulling espresso at a hip coffeeshop. It is a job that I have
held countless times in too many cities. The job is easy to
get, hell show anyone who runs a coffee place that you have
a clue about what you are doing and you are in. The tips
can be good, and tips are a great way to explain a little extra
money in your pocket. Plus, well hell folks I just really
happen to like coffee.
My lover has touched all my scars. The physical
ones at any rate. We lycanathropes heal very quickly but
even we bear the reminders of our wounds. I have been
shot a few times by bikers quick enough to pull a gun
before I ripped their guts out. None of them happened to be
packing silver bullets though, worse luck for them I guess.
Yes, regrettably, that is one horror movie
convention that happens to be true. If I should happen to
get shot with a silver bullet it is lights out forever, sayonara
and goodbye. I don‟t tend to spend a whole lot of time
worrying about it though, in this day and age not a whole
lot of people tend to be carrying silver bullets. Each time
that I have been shot in wolf form I have been completely
healed when I have returned to human form with only a
small scar to show for it. I have been stabbed a few times
in wolf form and the wounds healed in thin white lines that
actually look sort of pretty under the right light.
I have been shot and stabbed in human form as well
and while I healed a bit slower than I do as a wolf I healed
all the same. Since the first change I have never been sick,
not so much as a sniffle. At my weakest, the night where
the moon is nothing but a sliver in the night sky I am just
about twice as strong, fast and tough as any woman my size
has any right to be. The days just around the full moon and
I am considerably more than that. Alcohol and drugs have
little effect on me unless imbibed in levels that would seem
excessive to a rock star. I need very little sleep, except for
the fourteen hours or so that I need to recover from a
change.
How did I get this way? Fair enough question. I
come from a long line of strange folk. My grandmother
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
was a witch who fell in love with a voodoo priest from the
islands. Their daughter, my mother, was a clairvoyant who
married a franticly repressed telepathic used car salesman.
My mother‟s sister was a powerful witch as well, she was
also a crackhead. Not the best combination in the world.
She flitted in and out of our lives when I was a child, more
often out than in. Aunt Betsy always held a strange
fascination for me, a light burning oh so brightly before it
burned out.
On my thirteenth birthday I got my first period.
Mom and Dad were away on a short trip to visit a dying
relative on his side of the family and good old Aunt Betsy
was playing babysitter. You ever have one of those
moments when you wake up late at night and wonder just
what the hell your parents were thinking sometimes?
Just for kicks she made up a potion of my first
menstrual blood, her blood, cheap red wine, wolfsbane for
strength of heart and clarity of purpose and about a cup and
a half of freezed dried magic mushrooms. Around that
heady mix she chanted a spell fueled and warped by her
own considerable natural powers and illegal chemical
stimulants. I drank the wine and I spent the next few hours
tripping my little brains out. After I passed out Aunt Betsy
managed to stay up long enough to die of an overdose.
Which added her disturbed spirit to the bizarre mix of
factors forming my doom.
When I woke up I instantly knew that I was
different. I didn‟t know how but I knew in my bones, like I
know that I am left handed that somehow I had been
changed. I was also alone in the house with a very dead
Aunt Betsy. A neighbor heard me screaming who then
called the police. The police came and they called my
parents.
Life went on, I carried that strange night around in
the back of my mind for three years. I could feel the
changes going on inside of me. When I tried talking to my
mom about it she said helpful things like „well of course
you are changing, you are becoming a young woman‟ I
knew that it was more than that. So did my father, at least I
think that he did. He couldn‟t stand being what he was, if
he wasn‟t working he was drinking. I think that the booze
helped to drown out all the voices that whispered in his
mind day and night. He started looking at me strangely,
like he wasn‟t sure who or what I was anymore.
We lived in a boring middle class neighborhood in
a boring middle class suburb of a boring middle class city.
There was some crime of course but very little and it all
happened to other people. Most of it consisted of petty theft
and vandalism carried out by bored middle class teenagers.
Like most surbanites we felt safe. As I know all to well
now, safety is always an illusion.
On my way home from a high school dance one
night I took a shortcut through a small wooded lot. A man
hit me across the back of the head with a pipe and dragged
me into the bushes. Then he kept hitting me with his fist as
the other hand began tearing my clothes off.
Pain and terror erupted inside of me. Somewhere
deep within me something that had been sleeping began to
awake. Something strong and raw that wanted very badly
to come out and play. A long slow snarl started to grow
until it filled me completely until I could feel the starving
beast that had been sharing my skin.
When he mashed his dirty mouth against my
bruised and bleeding lips I reached out and embraced the
thing inside of me.
It was too far from a full moon for me to change
completely. My fingers lengthened and twisted into wicked
claws. My mouth blossomed into a long snout filled with
sharp teeth. Strength and power boiled into me. With one
snap of my teeth I tore his lips off. He screamed then, one
hand fluttering up to the bloody ruin of his mouth. The first
swipe of my claws raked across his belly and his guts
spilled out to splatter across his shoes. He took a few weak
shambling steps away from me and then all control left me.
I tore the bastard to pieces and then, well, I ate the damn
pieces. After that I crawled deeper into the bushes and
prayed to die. Instead I fell into a sleep that resembled
death but was full of haunted dreams.
Remember that annoying movie with the trick
ending, the one with the little dopey kid who kept telling
everyone, „I see dead people‟? Hated that movie. Anyway,
like that dopey kid I see dead people too, but not until that
night.
As I slept good old Aunt Betsy paid me a little visit.
There she was, in all her glory. With her wicked
know it all grin firmly in place and the sense of power
around her that she had always worn like a rare somewhat
disturbing perfume. She stood over me with sadness in her
eyes that belied the grin.
“Hey, kiddo. You have no idea how sorry I am
about this.” Her voice had held infinite tones of regret and
sorrow. She sat down next to me.
“I will try to be around for you for awhile, to guide
you through what you will have to do to survive this. I
don‟t know how long I will be able to manage it. When you
freed your inner beast you also freed the part of me trapped
by the spell I wove the night that I died. I was so messed
up, the spell went hideously wrong and here we see the
results. I will only be allowed to appear to you in your
dreams.”
I watched her, at least my dream self did as she
waved a hand and the remains of my attacker vanished. In
this dream I seemed to float in a sea of calmness with
hungry screams lurking just beneath, circling me like
sharks.
“When you wake up you will have to run. I have
some money hidden away, I will show you where. I have
contacts that you will need for new ID and things like that.
Anything that I can do for you I will. Please, try to forgive
me if you can but I doubt if you will be able to when all is
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
37
said and done.”
Even now, after all these years the matter is still in
fairly hot debate within my soul. On the one hand, I
probably would have been raped and killed that night in that
vacant lot. As bizarre and horrifying as my life can be now
it is still a life and it does have its moments of sweetness.
On the other hand, once a month appetites grow in me that I
am powerless to resist. I seek out viscous dangerous men
and I let them screw me until the change comes and then I
tear them into bloody rags and shreds. There is a lot of
blood on my hands and if there is a God that sits in
judgment on us all I am pretty much screwed I guess.
My lover‟s name is Annabelle, such a pretty name
isn‟t it? She is a somewhat locally renowned artist.
Annabelle is beautiful, strong, smart, funny and sexy as all
hell. Left to my own devices without arcane powers
messing with my libido I prefer women. Men are pretty
much prey to me, so much meat.
That is something of an exaggeration I suppose, I
do after all have a couple of male friends. One works with
me at the coffee shop and the other lives in my building.
Nice guys both but I would not want to test the strength of
our friendship against the hungers of the thing that lives
inside of me. I am pretty sure how that little scenario would
play itself out, playing nice with your friends means that
you can‟t eat them.
Annabelle doesn‟t like it very much that I leave
town each month and will not tell her where I am going or
why. She accuses me of being mysterious for the sake of
being mysterious, she worries that I have a lover or lovers
in other towns. She looks at my scars and refuses to believe
me when I tell her that I cut myself shaving.
My life doesn‟t add up when examined too closely
so we have come to the unspoken agreement not to look at
it. Ask me no questions, flower of my heart, and I will tell
you no lies.
So, the way that it stands is that we spend as much
time as possible with each other without actually living
together. She makes it crystal clear that she is not happy
with the situation but what can I do? I can not tell her the
truth for obvious reasons and I hate to lie to her. Part of me
knows that I shouldn‟t have let it go this far, I should have
moved down the road a long time ago before we got so
close. Every full moon that I stay here I push my luck a
little bit more. I go to a different sleazy dive to hunt each
time, at least I try to. There are only so many of them and I
am not at my most rational logical best just before the
change and sometimes I get careless.
At least no one seems to miss the men that I kill all
that much. Bikers and other assorted outlaws do not file
missing person‟s reports with the police and even if they did
the police would be less than motivated to worry about
these assholes. I am a predator, I have to kill to survive. As
a sop to my battered conscious I do my bit to lower violent
crime statistics by taking out some very bad people.
38
My parents didn‟t have much of a chance to wonder
why I ran away from home. Good old Aunt Betsy informed
me that they died in a car wreck about a month after I left.
Dad had been drinking of course. Once, a few days after I
ran away I felt my mother‟s mind brush mine lightly, she
must have tried using her gift to look for me. The touch
lingered for the barest of moments and then it was gone. I
guess that what happened in the vacant lot had changed me
enough to where she no longer recognized me.
I cried for a very long time after that.
Crying is not something that I can really do
anymore. It seems to be burnt out of me somehow. Wolves
don‟t cry. Which does not mean that they do not feel
sorrow. Like I said, life can be sweet sometimes but I know
better than to expect any happy endings.
So, what does life have in store for a young wolfgirl
in love? How the hell do I know? Lots of surprises are
likely in store, some pleasant.
Some really damn nasty.
FALLEN CLUBHOUSE-11:45 PM
Trevor Daniels sat in a battered easy chair and
watched his brethren drink and carry on, their grainy images
coming to him over a small close circuit TV monitor. He
had the sound turned off but he could feel the heavy thump
of bass from the clubhouse‟s state of the art sound system
through the door of his office. A bottle of whiskey sat to
his left and a Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun
sat to his right.
He sat in the darkness of the room and brooded.
The men partying in the next room were his, he was the
President of The Fallen and his word was absolute law. The
only law that most of the men out there had any respect for.
He had taken over the club eight years ago and built it up
from a bunch of small time losers into the third biggest and
perhaps the most feared and respected gang in the tristate
area. They had their fingers in just about every kind of
criminal enterprise going on, from dope to guns to credit
card fraud. Aside from the illegal income was the
legitimate money he had made from personally investing
membership dues in the stock market where he had made
some huge killings over the years.
The club‟s accountant was a genius, a twisted child
molesting shit stain but a genius nonetheless. The Fallen
owned the man; they had photos of him in extremely
compromising situations with extremely young boys. The
accountant was quite motivated in keeping all their nice
money all good and laundered.
Beneath the leather jacket, jailhouse tattoos and
piercings Trevor Daniels was one thing if he was nothing
else, he was a businessman. He understood how to make
things happen and what to do when things went wrong.
Right now he was not a happy man. Things were
happening that posed a potential threat to his little empire
he simply could not have that.
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
Someone knocked on the door and he pushed a
button on his desk to unlock it. His second in command
and all around right hand man walked in. Compared to
some of his club mates he was not a large man, barely sixfoot but he was one of the most dangerous men in the gang.
His friends called him Hammer, his enemies rarely saw him
coming in time to call him much of anything.
“Charlie never got his dope and Hank seems to
have fallen off the face of the planet. I checked his
apartment, his bitch says that she hasn‟t seen him in days
and all of his shit is still there. I think that we can add him
to our list.” His voice was empty, without any inflection
and his face was blank.
“We have lost six brothers in the last nineteen
months. Four of those were on errands like Hank was on.
The other two just went out to party and never came back.
Did you reach out to the other clubs?” Trevor‟s voice was
grim. He might be a businessman at heart but this was
personal as well. All six men had been good friends of his.
Hammer sat down and glanced at the whiskey
bottle. Trevor nodded and settled back in his chair as he
watched the other man pick up the mostly full bottle and
drain about half of it in a one long swallow. The man‟s
capacity for booze never ceased to astound him. He had
seem him drink amounts that by all rights should have been
fatal without showing so much as a slur in his voice.
“Talked to Chance over at the Banditos clubhouse.
Got drunk with him and picked his brain for awhile. Guy
has got a mouth on him when he‟s been drinking. Seems
that they have lost four members in roughly the same time
period. Made polite inquiries over at The Angels, they told
me to go fuck myself.”
Trevor picked up the whiskey bottle and drank a
quick hit, he handed it back to his lieutenant with a wicked
grin.
“One day, one day soon.” They both laughed. The
Angels were at the top of the heap right now but The Fallen
were breathing down their necks. One day, one day soon
The Fallen would be the top dogs of the biker world.
I stopped by and paid a little visit to Geek.”
Trevor snorted derisively. Geek was the nickname
that they had given to a skinny little computer nerd who
was a serious biker wannabe. He hung out in various biker
bars trying not to get his narrow ass kicked and trying to
ingratiate himself with the real bikers. He was more or less
tolerated because he was good for computer related advice
and always had good pot.
“I had him sit his skinny ass down and feed all the
information that we have into his computer and then
encouraged him to work his magic on the information. He
came up with a couple of things that are interesting.”
“I am listening.”
“All of the disappearances from both clubs occurred
roughly once a month at roughly the same time every
month. If we had the information from The Angels and
some of the smaller outfits it would probably plug the holes
in the data. It appears that someone is offing bikers,
making them and their bikes vanish into thin air just around
the time of the full moon every month. Also, most of them
were last seen or were supposed to heading for biker bars
along the coast.”
“What are you telling me Hammer? Spare me the
twilight zone bullshit about full moons. Ok, this is what I
want you to do. Whoever killed the bikers might have
tossed them in shallow graves that will never be found but
they had to do something with the bikes. Hit all the
chopshops that you can get a line on. Go in hard and ask
questions hard. Rattle their cages hard and see if any
information on a dirtbag who come by say once a month
with something to sell falls out. Hit the clubs on the coast
and see if any of the bartenders remember anything of use
to us, ask them hard too. Call me when you have something
for me.”
Hammer nodded and stood up to leave.
“Pick a few brothers to go with you and watch your
back, old friend. Good help is hard to find.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across Hammer‟s face
and then it was gone. Trevor tossed the empty whiskey
bottle into the trash and pulled another from his desk
drawer. He felt better now that he had chosen and
implemented a course of action. The person or persons
responsible would be found and a very brutal and messy
example would be made of them. Word would spread that
you just didn‟t screw with The Fallen. Also, The Banditos
would owe them and so would The Angels whether the
arrogant pricks acknowledged it or not.
Until then he was a busy man with lots of other
irons in the fire. Hammer had never failed him and would
not fail him now. The first thing that a good businessman
had to learn to do was delegate.
Fiction Bites: That Time of the Month (1)
39
40
41
Egypt
By Chris Kingston
One of the single most important ancient civilizations
to ever have existed. Their contributions to art,
religion, music, agriculture, and architecture are
invaluable, and in some cases, inimitable. The history
books teach us that they were a primitive, almost
barbaric society that worshipped gods who only
represented a way to explain away natural occurrences.
They teach us several “logical” theories as to their
methods of building the great pyramids of Giza. They
teach us that Egypt was technologically primitive, just
as they say the rest of the ancient world was. What
they don‟t tell you is all of the evidence which exists
that leads to a more spiritual, more advanced, more
intelligent Egypt than is taught in schools.
The Great Pyramid of Giza. Over two million stones
that weighed an average of two and a half metric tons.
Over fifty stories high. What is thought to be a grave
for a king that was regaled by the Egyptians as a god.
One of the greatest man made structure of all recorded
time. The controversy over this particular treasure is as
vast as the desert which surrounds it. Just like the
sandstorms that have been blowing across its mighty
surface for centuries, modern historians throw theory
after theory at this enigma which has puzzled the
greatest minds the world over.
Tenth century historian Abul Hasan Ali Al-Masudi
wrote of the construction of this pyramid in one of his
many manuscripts that described world events up to
that time.
He wrote of the enormous stones that comprise the
pyramids being placed upon a piece of “magical”
papyrus. The workers would then strike the stone with
a metal rod. The stone would levitate, and was then
easily guided down a length of fifty meters over a
stone pathway which was flanked by tall metal poles.
This may sound like some bizarre science fiction to
you, but Mr. Al-Masudi‟s integrity as a historian is
very sound. In fact, he is known among historians as
the “Herodotus of the Arabs”.
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How then could his story be true?
First of all, we must remember as the subjective,
intelligent individuals that we are that Mr. Al-Masudi‟s
account was mostly comprised of oral traditions. This
leaves a very reasonable possibility that what he said
was nothing more than a tale that mothers told to their
children to put them to sleep. There is, however, a very
distinct chance that the account is accurate, to a point.
Centuries ago, when the pyramids were built, the
magnetic poles of our planet were extremely potent.
They have slowly been losing their power as the years
have worn on. This is even seen within the last fifty
years. You used to be able to place a magnetic piece of
stone on a cork in water, and it would always pull to
the North. Not anymore. If the Ancients based their
technology on the extremely powerful magnetic poles
of the time, then it is very possible that the method Mr.
Al-Masudi wrote of is proof of that. The metal rod, the
metal poles, perhaps it was a highly advanced machine
used for transportation and placement of the two and a
half ton stones used in the construction of the
pyramids.
All that we can do is theorize, but let us at least have a
more logical, more scientifically possible theory than
an enormous ramp. This ramp would in itself be a
structure that would dwarf the size of the great
pyramid by two. The ramp would also have to have
more structural support than a skyscraper because of
the enormous amount of weight that it would have on
it at all times. And where is the rubble left over from
this great ramp? And why is there no account
anywhere of such an undertaking? Mainstream history
also teaches that the crew that built the pyramids were
slaves. This is not true. A mass grave site was recently
uncovered that suggests they were highly honored
craftsmen. Paid individuals. So, obviously mainstream
history is based on theories rather than fact most of the
time anyway.
Why not continue our conjecture?
One other thing that is often disputed is the existence
of gods and aliens in ancient times. Granted, this is
usually a dogmatic argument, but let us take a
somewhat different approach on this theory. The
Christian Bible describes a race of creatures called the
Sons of God in the book of Genesis. According to this
passage, “the Sons of God saw the daughters of men
that they were fair…. And took of them wives of all
that they saw.”
This chapter goes on to say that the offspring of this
union were giants. This fact is interesting when
compared to myths of the ancients, especially the
Northern European tribes and the Greeks. Gods like
Odin, Zeus, Thor, Hades, Diana, and others were
described as being giants. In the Hidden Apocryphas, it
describes the Sons of God as being the fallen angels
which followed Lucifer out of Heaven. In ancient
pagan traditions, these creatures are known as the
Watchers. There are many different accounts of what
these “Watchers” helped us with, and how many of
them there were, but the one thing that is clear in
religious and local tribal accounts is that they existed.
Were these creatures the ancient aliens we hear so
much about? Were they truly rebellious angels that
defied their Maker and fled with Satan, only to help
humanity in its progression? Were these the gods that
are found in one form or another all over the world?
Something to think about is the similarity
between some of the more important gods of several of
the ancient cultures.
Amun-Ra is known as the “Father of gods”, “Maker of
man”, and “Creator of animals”. He was a solar deity,
and was regarded as a Holy Trinity in the form of
Amun, Ptah, and Re.
Zeus is known as the “Father of gods”, and the “King
of gods”. He was a god of the sky and Heavens.
The Christian God is known as the “Holy Father”,
“Creator of man”, and “God of Heaven”. He is
worshipped in a way that classifies Him as a solar
deity. He is regarded as a Holy Trinity in the form of
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
See the similarities?
Isis is the goddess of motherhood, magic, and fertility.
She is regarded as a lunar deity. Also, Protector of the
Dead.
Selene is one of the goddesses associated with birth,
motherhood, and the unexplained. She is regarded as a
lunar deity.
Diana is the goddess of chastity, virgins, childbirth and
motherhood. She is regarded as a lunar deity.
Nyx is the goddess of the night.
One could argue that the moon has always been
regarded as a feminine celestial body, and the sun a
male celestial body. I guess it is just a coincidence,
then, that almost every monotheistic and polytheistic
religion across the world since the beginning of
recorded time has had one form or another of the same
god. A critic might point out that the reason could be
because we as humans enjoy a similar need for nearly
the same thing spiritually, and this leads us to creating
similar gods.
The truth is, we cannot say with confidence that
anything we “know” is the Fact of the matter. Any
truly ancient accounts of history before the world wide
flood has been destroyed, hidden, misinterpreted,
falsified, or is still missing.
The Roman Catholic church is one of the largest
depositories of ancient history in the world today. Yet,
the public isn‟t allowed to examine these “top secret”
documents due to their “fragile antiquity”.
The city of Pompeii was another great library of
ancient literature, but everything was destroyed in the
explosion of Mount Vesuvius in 79 ad. Funny thing
about papyrus, scrolls, and paper. They don‟t mix well
with lava and fire.
And before the emails start rolling in, the world wide
flood obviously happened. This is one thing that is not
conjecture, but based upon hard, scientific evidence. It
doesn‟t matter what your religion is, there is only one
way that a whale skeleton can be found preserved at
the top of a mountain. Or fossilized seaweed found in
the Sahara desert. Or the remnants of a ship found in
the Turkish mountain range. But that is a story for a
different day.
In conclusion, I encourage you, the reader, to take
nothing you have just read at face value. I would hope
that this article has stimulated your investigative
instinct, and that you go try to find out the truth in the
propaganda that is taught to you by the modern day
“intellectuals”. Go discover the festering, fetid,
decomposing corpse that is the twisted side of history
for yourself. Never take somebody‟s word for it!
Until we meet again...
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