The strange world of Reality Deniers.

I find Truthout to be very silly.

Here they are slagging a dead president in an article, and then beg for money because fewer people are reading their slagging.

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You are not “independent news.” You are Left-wing propaganda, and it costs no money to say something easy like George 41 was an Establishment president. Duh.

But welcome to the world of the Reality Deniers who do not know what is real and what is fake.


They think they know, but they always run to the lie.


I had my fill as a teenager of the lies of the press, and I said enough.


People treat Reality Deniers with kid gloves, lest the snowflakes are inconvenienced.

Never mind the kind of hell the rest of the world endures in the name of protecting a few psychopathic and manipulative cowards.

The fortresses Reality Deniers have created are huge and thick, but they are built on lies.

They rigged the battleground, and then covered up the battleground with distorting mirrors.

Enough is enough.

It is time to uncover the battleground, and show the rigs, but not in the old ways that no longer work.

The Reality Deniers are getting brazen, thinking they can just do whatever they wish. See drunk drivers ride around, and one police department want to shame them because nothing else is working.

Because Reality Deniers are allowed to throw tantrums, feign victimhood, misdirect by villainizing people who they destroy, and rig laws to work in their favour.

But there is another method to dealing with Reality Deniers.

And it is more than just exposing them.

It is turning over their own rules, and being the Nightmare of Reality.

But not in the traditional way that journalism once did.

That doesn’t work because that profession got infected with Reality Deniers, and fucked up the profession.

So, there comes a time when you have to get the joke, and find the right mindset to deal with those cowards and liars.

And turn the world into a laboratory, and a stage.

That’s what I intend to do.

And that is your message from…


A Dangerous Woman Story Studio update

It looks like there will be one more One Shot coming in a week.


It is one that was half-written since about 2014, and was patiently waiting its turn in the queue, and now seems like a good time to finish it.

I didn’t think I would have the time, but there is actually one more One Shot from this series, along with a couple of stories in the magazine, but I want to finish them all in 2019 because I want to get to the next leg of the story arc.

As for the first wave of Magnus Lyme Mysteries, there are three more in the popper, and I am working on the next one called Chick Bait. I am eager to get through these as well so the second wave of stories can be done — ones where Miss Lyme is infiltrating the Circle in the Sky and romancing Dr. Hunter Colby. We know a lot about her first love Dwennon Garrison as he has been spun-off into his own mystery series of short stories, but very little about the enigmatic Dr. Colby. Dwennon wasn’t supposed to be a character: he was to be her unnamed first boyfriend with his older brother Felix in one of her short stories; but then Dwennon seemed to speak to me, and my plans had changed.

I make no secret that I adore four male characters: Dwennon, Hammond Hughes, Phil Lipton, and Theodore Nathanial, and out of that list, Phil is the most patient as I had him in an unpublished manuscript since my early twenties with no connection to Magnus Lyme. Eventually, when I began writing in a Matriarchal-style, the two characters clicked, and paths opened wide for me.

I have an art book I have to do, and that means A Dangerous Woman will most likely be on hiatus until June, and it is the reason I want to squeeze in one more short story.

I have another series in the works that is structural in nature, and the novella will have two separate and unrelated stories told in the same novel style. When this will come out, I have no idea.

I have a course to finish, a move, and a book to write, among many other things, but I am still actively working on Dangerous Woman stories and venture in general. My problem is to find a profitable way to take it to another level. There is a definite readership for them, and there is a supportive base for them, but I need to shore up and settle a few things after surviving a shocking, unpredictable, and horrific year.

I need to look after myself, as well. It has been a shitty year, but I triumphed. It is hard to believe that I got through everything that fell on my head at the same time. You heard of the trope “dropped a bridge on him”?

Well, someone dropped a universe on me, hoping to keep me dead and buried, but never mess with an eccentric Serbian punk.

We survived holocausts and oppression, and we are still around to tell you how much all the Establishments suck.

And we don’t forget. We are stubborn little punks.

So there is much in the cosmos that has a lot to answer for to me personally, but my life still goes full steam ahead.

The scoreboard this year?

Universe 0, Alexandra Kitty ∞.

And I wasn’t looking for a fight. I was looking to teach others innovative and important things as I write books, and do constructive and kind things in the world as I looked after my family and animals.

C’est la vie, motherfuckers.

I go on with my life with my favourite character of them all, a prim and proper punk by the name of Magnus Demeter Lyme, who is there with her adoring creator all the way.

Stay tuned…

Bad journalism and why Chaser has become my driving force.

I have been writing about perception misaligning with reality for a long time — since 2005 when my first book was published, and multiple times here.

My undergraduate thesis was on the topic, after all, and it is something I know well.

After all, my book through A Dangerous Woman Story Studio Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations studies the phenomenon, and her signature course is Truth, Perception, and the Nature of Reality.

So the Atlantic’s inferior copy of my musings were of interest to me.

Reading and listening to this ignorant bullshit from oblivious motherfuckers reminded me why journalism needs an alternative.

Because journalism is akin to reading a medical book, and then deciding that you can now be a doctor.

That’s what we have, and that’s not acceptable.

Not anymore.

Chaser is empirical. It is more than just an art or craft — but an actual science.

And when I read bullshit from the Atlantic, it makes me more determined to combat their kind of cancerous garbage that pollutes the information stream to do it in a more professional way…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Forty-Two: People will talk. It's just that I don't give a flying fuck.




My favourite film of all time is an obscure little picture with Cary Grant that did not do well at the box office, and then faded away.

People Will Talk.

I stumbled on this movie accidentally years ago, and love it more with every viewing.

Dr. Noah Praetorius is a truly maverick and eccentric, and he does what he knows is right, not what the gossips around him think is proper.

I understand Dr. Praetorius very well. I do what I feel is right, and if you do not approve, fuck you. You aren’t calling me to see if I can pay my bills, and may very well be tattling on me because you are a weasel.

I am not looking for approval.

Just remember that come February.

You have been warned…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Forty-One: I am not a follower. No, I am not a leader. Oh, and I am not your mother, either.





When I was in grad school, I took a creative writing class, and for my short story assignment, I wrote about something that happened in my childhood.

I had a classmate my own age who always called me Mommy.

I wasn’t his mommy, nor did I want to be the mommy-figure in his life.

It was a pain in the ass. I was a nice kid, but I didn’t want to be a superheroine or a social worker to some kid.

I was an explorer and an adventurer as much as I was a thinker, a philosopher queen, and an inventor.

Having a kid cling on to the back of my coat all recess long, calling me Mommy cramped my style.

It also cramped my style that my First Grade thought it was a bright idea to use me as a “buffer” in the class, meaning I was stuck in a separated row of students, right in the middle of the class’s naughtiest boys because she thought I would have a “calming” effect on them. The entire class faced the blackboard, but The Row was apart and faced the desks.

With me stuck in the middle. When my mother asked my teacher about it, she gave her reasons.

And right beside me was the boy who called me Mommy. He would hold on to my arm and declared that he loved his mommy, and then the teacher would yell at him and then try to pry him off my arm, and I fell down once because of it.

That is not the way you punish good students.

But the lesson stayed with me.

Young, well-behaved girls get no support and will be repeatedly thrust in baby-sitting roles for enabled boys.

And I wasn’t going to have any of it.

Nor was I ever going to be subservient to anyone.

Because either way, it is always rigged for women to be maids and nannies to a collective at the bottom — or at the top.

But the radical centre is a different story, and the place I decided to create mine.


I do not believe in being a follower. You need courage by entourage, you have problems.

I also do not believe in being a leader. You need courage by entourage, you have problems.

I don’t like to mom people. I deal in truth. I deal in reality. My dreams are my own. My theories are for me to test to see how closely aligned they are to reality.

People do not want to take risks. Part of the reason is mental laziness, part is cowardice, but there is that conniving little part that likes to get things on someone’s else’s work, and you get to ride on the coattails thinking you’re smarter than the genius whose sweat and grit paved a road for you to take.

I am on to you, you worthless little motherfucker.

And not happening.

I do not have a messiah complex.

I have an Alexandra Kitty Complex.


Because I am Alexandra Kitty.

It is reality.

And thats’s what my material.

I make better realities. I have dreams, and I have reality, and I use both.

But I am not a follower, and I am not going to lead people to the promised land.

You make your own map and go there on your on blood, sweat, and tears.

But I will deal with reality here.

Not as a leader or a follower.

But as someone who chases out in front.

And that’s where Chaser will be, from the radical centre…

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Thirty-Seven: When NATO bombed Serbs every night, they threw concerts on a bridge. The West needs to learn a few lessons from that. I did.







When the thugs of NATO bombed Serbs in the late 1990s, the Serbs didn’t whine and botch like the American loser youth who are demanding pensions and wasting their fucking pathetic existence on social media rehashing propaganda memes all in the name of getting their own way, never having to admit they are wrong, and trying to get everyone to agree with their selfish assessments and demands.

You know, if you get perpetually offended because you want to rig a conversation to get pity and validation as you micromanage and find fault with the words you measure, then the best course of action is not stop talking to people. Just shut up, and deal with your own problems, and break the cycle.

Or just learn a few lessons from Serbs.

Serbs, when they were being murdered by your various governments as you and your parents cheered them on, held concerts out on the bridge where they could be bombed.

You have snowflakes of the West write articles how people should talk to them because heaven forbid someone call them on the carpet for their manipulative woe is me bullshit.

Fuck you.

The Greeks protested the bombings at their own concerts, and called it out for what it was.

But the Leftist West could bomb people without batting an eye, but when their candidate lost an election journalists did their best to rig, the howling, screaming, and tantrum-throwing just turned people in North America into spiteful little trolls who no longer use a single brain cell nor moral, but will just opposite to whatever someone who didn’t vote for Clinton just to prove some nonexistent point.

Fuck you and your bad lying.

If a person who voted Republican likes ice cream, you will see endless trolling on social media about how bad and immoral it is to like ice cream because by the default delusion, the opposite has to be the right answer.

If Republicans want to permanently fuck up Democrats — you should all praise sex as beautiful, having children as glorious, being happy as wonderful, and having a life in a nice house as something to cherish.

Just do it. Watch what happens.

Watch as journalists declare having sex as demented, ensuring the next generation as fascist, being happy as immoral, and living in a home as treasonous and most likely some nefarious Russian-backed propaganda campaign.

They are miserable, and want the whole world to be as bitter and worthless trash as they are.

I sit here and have a very good laugh. I went to a place worse than hell in 2018, and my life was hell for two years when I had to basically give up everything to look after my grandmother when the paramedics dropped her in her own home on a hard floor in front of my mother who developed Post Traumatic Stress.

People who know me and my family can attest to what we went through. Nurses and social workers who came to our house to look after her were so impressed, that my mother won an award from CCAC two years in a row.

And the second time she received two different nominators independently of one another.

That was hell.

2018 was below hell.

And I fought back.

And happily so, grateful, smarter, wiser, and better than I was before.

And here are people in their twenties, staring at their godphone like a bunch of cowardly dummies, who have no idea what life is about, making royal decrees as if they were authorities in the matter and not a bunch of ignorant motherfuckers who didn’t get enough love as children.

They are collectively depressed, but too gullible and conniving to know why.

They should all be placed on a bridge and told that bridge is going to be bombed, and they aren’t escaping or going home as their godphones are cut off.

Okay, we are giving you an hour. Tell me of all the things you did on social media that will bring you comfort.

Tell me about the trolling on Twitter that will make you feel like you didn’t waste your life.

Explain how posting your ugly pouty mug with an animal face on Instagram will influence future generations.

Who is going to give a flying fuck a year from now about the propaganda memes you puked out on Facebook?

No one, that’s who.

And then, with a loudspeaker, make bitchin’ explosive noises with your mouth as you then shout, “Punked!”

Watch the trauma those little brats will have, and the lawsuits, and the sad, doe eyed Instagram pictures they’ll post with doggie nose and ears.

An empty shell.

Serbs threw a fucking party.

People in the West should be ashamed of themselves.

I clawed out of the place below hell. I was thrown in even though I never did a thing to warrant that kind of cosmic abuse.

And yet, when my grandmother needed constant care, I spent time with her and began an epic venture A Dangerous Woman as I became an art teacher. I have no regrets. My grandmother was loved until her final breath, and she knew it.

And even though 2018 was even worse — I came out with a published book, one new one, and a new lease on life. I am still transmuting, but I have new ideas and I am ready to take on the world with a big smile on my face.

No mid-life crisis for Alexandr Kitty. No wallowing or cowering for me. I am eccentric and I don’t have a single flying fuck to give to my haters.

You’re miserable. I am not.

I call them as I see them. I am not your cheerleader or ass-kisser, If you are fucking up or fucked up, I am going to tell you it to your face.

I am not wallowing or pining for socialism. I am not a bigot who is blaming Russia for random shit.

Life tried to bomb Alexandra Kitty back to the Stone Age, and I took those stones and built a brand new castle, fusing it with gold, and made it out of Kintsugi.

And there is a saying among us Kintsugi artists: broken is better than new.

I am still an upbeat, perky person who is enigmatic, eccentric, and filled with silliosity. I write outrageous stories, and live a Bohemian life as I have grand and futuristic visionary ideas about what the world can do with idealism and happiness.

Those stones I built my castle are precious ones. They weren’t just rocks.

Each one had a history, and I got to know and love them all.

And some of those stones were known as Chaser.

And I looked at them, smiled fondly, and said, Alexandra, try it again.

Chaser is going to be a party.

Shitty and petty losers can sit in their soiled underpants and stew in their stink.

Not me.

I am excited and happy that I could land on my feet, and when I couldn’t, I learned how to soar.

I am a tough little Serbian punk.

The West was always envious of Serbs. They always hated our spirit, reverence for our families, and stubborn nature that compelled us not to be ass kissers.

So to all you moral masturbators: get over yourselves. I am not buying your bullshit. I didn’t buy it when the Catholic Church pulled that shit, and you’re no church.

Chaser is going to be a wild ride.

The smearing of WikiLeaks is pathetic, but WikiLeaks went about it with too much seriosity, and they played it wrong.

Chaser is not WikiLeaks.

I get the joke.

I understand the psychological and propagandistic bombing the overlords has done with impunity.

You don’t fight bombs with bombs.

You become bomb-proof.

And then you gain strength by getting bombed.

If 2018 left me with one amazing gift, it was to teach me how to gain knowledge and power with every kind of bomb people in power throw at you — as well as the ones life throws at you.

I am a very good learner.

You now have a generation of Reality Deniers and Life Wasters who think they are playing it safe, when they have done nothing but gamble their blessings and opportunities away living in their self-imposed bubbles and prisons.

Fuck that.

Chaser is coming…

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Get the party started because the world’s most dangerous woman is ready to arrive and deliver…


The Latest A Dangerous Woman is out

It is here.


On Kindle and Kobo.

This is the last one of 2018, unless I can sneak in a One Shot, perhaps another The World’s Most Dangerous Woman story, but I am not sure I will have the time. I have a book to write in five months for a US publisher, and three more lessons to finish, and I am taking my studies seriously, as usual.

And other stuff.

As usual…

The Gospel According to Belle Eve: War is Deception.


The archangel Michael was my closest friend and partner in mischief, and we had oodles in common. We both were around since the very beginning, and we still were immortals living in the Otherworldly While I had my office with every war manual ever written, Mick divided his time being an angel in our realm, but then went to the waking world for two things: teaching underprivileged children fencing, and coming along with me to solve a war mystery.

We were in my office where many of our escapades always began as he scoured my shelves, looking for a book to challenge as it always meant an antic in the staid old waking world, and then a story when we were done.

“Looking for a mystery?” I asked as I put my feet up on my desk and relaxed in my chair.

“I was just in a bad mood because someone prayed to me that their favourite reality show contestant win a competition by devious means. Can you imagine a more wasted prayer?”

“What did you do?”

“Not answer the prayer.”

“So, you did something by not doing anything.”

“Well, I do not like to be vindictive, but if there is a queue of prayers, that person’s priority goes down the list. Angels cannot be expected to grant wishes like a genie. I protect people from harm with integrity and truth, not rig contests and rewarding deceits. So now I am looking to your books to work out what is bothering me so much.”

Mick kept looking until he nodded and took out the original copy of Sun Tzu’s book The Art of War.

“Ah, here it is,” he said cheerily, “The book that was the first to declare that war is deception.”

“No, no,” I said as I rolled my eyes, “War uses deception as a weapon, but war is fear.”

“That makes much more sense,” Mick said as he nodded, “I always said as much, but really, we need to prove our mutual theory.”

“Great idea. So, let us test how much truth is there about the game of lies, peaches,” I said as I hopped up, “And then when we’re through, I will just have to tell you a story.”

Mick jumped for joy. “I love a good story! It gives me strength. Let’s go!”


“So how will we prove it?” asked Mick as we found ourselves in Los Angeles and were walking around feeling rather groovy.

“Well, since you had the prayer to meddle in a reality show competition, we might as well find one that has players telling lots of lies to win.”

“That would be Everyone Loves a Scoundrel.”

“Not everyone loves a scoundrel.”

“There’s the first lie right there. The point of the program is for contestants to lie to their friends, neighbours, coworkers, family, and even strangers in order to get certain peculiar items in a scavenger hunt without getting caught, and the person who gets away with the most lies and items wins.”

“You watch this show?”

“No, the person who prayed thought to tell me all of the details including the biographies of all the players threatening the odds-on favourite to win.”

“How helpful, but if the person is on the show and is recording everything, then all of these people must know this person is lying to win.”

“No, it is all hidden-camera, and the faces of the unwitting victims are blurred.”

“The person praying told you this, too?”

“So that I wouldn’t accidentally protect the person who was being lied to by the scoundrel.”

“We wouldn’t want to protect innocent victims from being exploited, now would we?”

Mick roared with laughter. “And now that we are both on the case, that is exactly what we will do.”

“Let’s get to the studio to start the case.”

“I know where it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I was even informed in the prayer who was the executive producer.”

“That must have been a very long prayer.”

“You don’t want to know the longest one I ever received, believe me.”

“Not even a clue?”

“It involved a yo-yo, a spurtle, a sprue, seven rancid lemons, a will, and revenge on a sibling whose supposed transgression happened when they were toddlers.”

“And you say I have all the great stories.”


When we reached the studio where they filmed the show of conniving deceivers, we were immediately let in as our exotic and distinctive looks had given people the assumption that we were actors who were auditioning for very specific role, with more than one smitten employee wondering if Mick was a famous male model.

“What now?” asked Mick.

“There are four contestants left. Point them out to me one by one, and I will take care of the rest.”

Mick’s angelic tracking skills were superb and it did not take long for him to find the first who was the one the person who prayed had asked for him to help win. I walked over to her and shook her hand as I looked at her with utmost seriousness.

“What would you say if I told you that there could be a very important director looking for his next big star by watching how well you tell lies?” I asked as the woman squealed.

“I knew it! Just wait until I tell the biggest lies ever! I’m gonna be a movie star!”

As the woman ran triumphantly out of the room, Mick looked at me and shook his head. “You told a lie to her! Evie!”

“I did not tell any lies. I just asked what would she say if I told her that. She never answered me or let me finish my thoughts.”

Mick roared with laughter. “That was skirting a very fine line, Evie.”

“She heard what she wanted to hear because she has been telling so many lies, she doesn’t know how to see truths; so she doesn’t realize that she’s setting herself up to believe them, too.”

“And she is hoping for a big payoff.”

“If we asked the same question of the other three remaining contestants…”

“Our case will get solved. You are a fun detective.”

“Remember, peaches, I was originally put on this Earth to amuse you angels with my antics.”

“And you’re a natural.”


It was the final episode, and thanks to the executive producers seeing Mick and wanting to increase their ratings by writing in an attractive and strapping black man with broad shoulders and a handsome face, they decided a live finale was what the ratings doctor would prescribe. The network was excited at the last-minute prospect, and Mick insisted that I was his assistant, and that we were a package deal.

“What is your role in this finale, Mick?”

“The producers have decided they all must lie to me in order to get access to a night club where the final challenge takes place. Unbeknownst to them, I have already been informed that they are to deceive me.”

“And unbeknownst the producer, they have all met you and think you have an in with some A-list movie director. So, how did they tell you to choose who gets in?”

“They have already decided who the final two contestants will be.”

“And one of them is the prayed for woman?”


“No? What an interesting twist.”

“If she won, it would be too predictable; so they want her to lose because many viewers despise her. It was the reason she got that prayer in the first place: that viewer knows the formula of the show, and was hoping this time would be different than the last ten.”

“Are you going to listen to their advice?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“Me? I thought you were the fake decider.”

“I never said to them I would do it. I just nodded and told them I understood them.”

“I am surprised at you.”

“They interpreted my actions as compliance. I never agreed to their terms. Let’s see how far these fibbers will go when they realize they may be lying so much that they can no longer see a truth that hits them in the nose.”

We were instructed to go stand on our marks in front of the nightclub as the program was live to air.

The first of the four contestants ran up and began to dance in a modern style, shocking and confusing the director who could not stop the camera from rolling.

“Is that good enough to be in your movie?” he asked.

“You’ll have to get in the nightclub to find out, peaches,” I said.

“I don’t have to lie to you?”

“It wouldn’t be very nice of you. How will anyone see your natural charm if you tell lies?”


The contestant ran inside just as the second one did – the devious one who had the prayers of a fellow deceiver, but not of the executive producer.

“I knew you really wanted me!” she said, “Do I get to go inside now?”

“No, the executive producer said they didn’t want you to win,” I replied.

“What? How dare he?”

The director glared at us as we waved for the camera.

“He thinks you don’t have star quality, peaches.”

“I have star quality! I was destined to be famous! Well, I’ll show him! I am going inside that club to have a date with destiny!”

“Hello, America! We’re letting in the other two contestants,” I shouted to the camera, “How boring is it if we always have to decide between two scoundrels, instead of four…”

“What are you doing?” screamed the director who marched on camera, “You’re ruining everything!”

“How so?” asked Mick, “Isn’t television supposed to be exciting and unpredictable?” Mick suddenly looked mischievously at the camera, “And to Rachel Bigelow, of Sandusky, Ohio, the one who prayed for her deceptive contestant to win, you really should use prayers for real emergencies, and not frivolous games! The next time you pray to me, make sure it is for a good reason!”

“Are you insane?” shouted the director.

“No, I am the archangel Michael, and this is Belle Eve, the original Eve from Eden who left before she had to marry Adam.”

“You are insane!”

“No, he’s telling the truth…”

Just then, the third contestant ran up, asked if he could go inside, and I nodded as I pointed to the door.

“You can’t do that, you loons!”

“We already did, and here is the last contestant…yoo hoo! The party’s inside!”

The last one ran in as the director began to swear and curse.

“I know this show is all about lying, but you shouldn’t be lying!”

“But why not?” I asked.

“Because, it’s just crazy! Losers lie and we exploit those idiots!”

Just then, the four contestants marched over to the director and surrounded him. “We heard that!” shouted one of the contestants, “How dare you lie and exploit us like that?”

“Who are you to talk? You lied to your daughter about getting her a pony if she gave you her favourite toy for you to break on the immunity challenge!”

“That was different!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“You called us losers in front of America! I’m going to sue you!” said another contestant.

“You’re all a bunch of cowards who scheme and backstab people for five seconds of fame!” roared the directors.

“Cowards? We’ll show you who’s a coward!”

The five began to brawl as Mick and I looked at the camera.

“Well, darlings, that is the reason we should never deceive anyone or exploit them.”

Mick nodded, “And to prove how fearful they really are…”

He clapped his hands, and the sunny skies turned black as a bolt of lightning hit an inch away from the brawlers, who all screamed and ran away.

Suddenly, it was sunny once again.

“No one won today’s game,” I said, “But it is a victory for one bolt of lightning. Goodbye, and watch something more constructive next time!”

The cameraman gasped as he stopped filming. “Great special effects, guys! This is classic and the ratings will be through the roof. I don’t know how you managed to pull off that lightning gag, but I was impressed! And I loved the whole Eve and Michael angle – it serves all those cowardly fibbers right! What a bunch of babies.”

The crew left without the contestants or director as we looked at each other and went back to my office where a promised story was about to be told.


The truth about war is that it is fear and not deception!

War is deception who will hear the mindful muse time and again. War is all about lies, they decree as they tell more of them, hoping to win and conquer battles, games, and bloodbaths.

But lies are a weapon of war, for war is nothing more than fear.

For those who fear being weak and insignificant, they do all that they can to run away from their vulnerability and insignificance.

People draw all sorts of silly lines in the sand, and make enemies with children and strangers just because they are fearful.

There once was a game where scoundrels waged war on each other, all afraid of being obscure, poor, and weak.

So, they betrayed all those who loved them for fear tells you to hate those who love you, and love those who wish to exploit you.

They began to lie to themselves before they lied to others, until the day they thought they heard a truth, when it was merely an echo from their empty hearts that told them the same lie.

For to wage war on others, you must declare war on yourself first.

And those who do not love themselves will always spread their fear through war, until those with brave hearts fill it with love and truth, and end those wars with the bravery that comes from kindness!

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Thirty-Five: Social Media is dead. Chaser may begin here, but it is not going to stay here.

Recently, I quit a website called Metafilter.

I was on it since about 2007, on and off, mostly off, and when I left, I had a bit north of 1600 posts. If you do the math, you see 2.5 posts a day isn’t a place where I had much of a presence.

I was quoted once by the Telegraph way back in 2010 about computer games that looked as Excel and Word programs, but Metafilter never did a thing for me. They have Projects section where I placed my various web sites for one reason: to establish provenance.

It was never my favourite site, but it was average, and I had a few things to say on a variety of topics over the years, some things people agreed with, some things people ignored, and there were some people who were abusive toward me, and the moderators didn’t do anything about it.

I never reported any of it, either, people I believe in free speech and preserving a record. I had gotten personal emails from people who were irrationally abusive, and one who I did threaten to report because he or she took offence that I thought Plan 9 from Outer Space was a stupid movie, and they repeatedly hurled nasty emails my way.

I had a couple of nice emails, but in the span of a decade, the net effect is nil. I have been on Ello a lot less than that, and have better feedback there.

I had all but abandoned Metafilter, and I may have posted a couple of responses in the last couple of months, two of which had to do with journalism — which is obviously my expertise.

I had for a while posted about A Dangerous Woman Story Studio, as it related to publishing and fiction stories.

I can say with absolute confidence that I have never gotten any sort of “lift” on any of my books or websites from Metafilter in the decade I have been on it.

So I never see it as some sort of free advertising, but when I know something or have experienced something, I will talk about it.

But recently, Metafilter did something that angered me enough to deactivate my account for a second time (the first was years ago, and I wasn’t upset: I just wasn’t going there, and then deleted it due to my own apathy, and had a change of heart).

In the span of a week, I replied to two threads about journalism, and, as usual, explained my background with links…

The same way I do here. If I am talking about one of my articles, I post the link. If I talk about one of my books, I post the link.

Just as I post links to articles and books other people write. I don’t consider it free advertising for me or them.

If you are going to talk about something specific, you give your evidence. It is common curtesy.

Every once in a while, I may be on a forum, and decide it is too much trouble, but then immediately people would rather ask me directly than google it.

Screen Shot 2018-11-25 at 10.07.30 AM.png

I should also mention that only my latest book has a publisher that is still in business. The Disinformation Company is no more. bluechrome is no more. Zer0 Books is still in the game.

A lot of magazines I have written for are also dead. Presstime is no more, for instance, and I was their Canadian correspondent.

As for A Dangerous Woman, I have my short stories up on this web site, on Ello, and, until I can find the proper venue, many of the eBooks on Kobo are downloadable for free.

And I mention my books and stories on Facebook, Twitter, and Ello, but those venues are not what sell my books.

It is word of mouth.

So for one post, I had mentioned over at Metafilter what I have mentioned here, other places, and my books: the journalism needs an overhaul, it is antiquated, and should be replaced by an alternative.

No problem.

And then came the second one about George Lakeoff’s stupid ideas about Trump, and one poster made some uppity comment along the lines that reporters are already savvy on Trump, and then I said, what I always do.

That they don’t because he keeps playing them, and they keep getting played.

And, as I always have had to do because I am Writing While Female, give my qualifications on it.

That’s when the temper tantrums came out.

It was perfectly fine for me to mention my qualifications when people agreed with my sentiments, but when they didn’t; so tattled like cowardly little children who didn’t get a lollipop, and I got this vexing email:

Hey, I know media and in particular Fox propaganda is something you've done a lot of work on, but people are starting to flag your comments about it as spam and self-promotion. It would help a lot if you could engage with others' discussions; I think right now people feel like you're posting formulaic advertising for your books rather than engaging in a conversation with other posters, and it's picking up a lot of flags and bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. I'm sure that's not your intent, but that is how people are taking it right now.

So I get censored because a few snowflakes don’t like what I have to say, and are looking for excuses. If the accusations weren’t so misogynistic, they would be hilarious, especially considering how few media interviews I have done over the years, and the kind of year I have had to battle for my very survival, and what my priorities have been. Accusing me of self-promotion is akin to accusing a recluse of being a media whore.

But the message was interesting: we know you are not self-promoting, but complainers are twisting logic to say as much, and we’ll take their dishonest side, without ever giving you the opportunity of giving your honest side.

And Lakeoff honestly believes in truth sandwiches.

Peter Pan may want to muse from Neverland, but Tickerbell was all booked up today.

I gave my response:

They are picking on me because they do not like what I am saying, and are finding any excuse to censor me. If I don't post a link to what I am referencing, then I get abused. If I post a link to what is my expertise, I am accused of self-promotion.

And if I wanted to shill my work, I would be doing it in a larger forum than Metafilter. I would be doing interviews on larger platforms, which I turn down, and I would be writing fawning books to appease the press. I hardly post on Metafilter anymore, and there is a reason for it.

So I venture out twice and talk about a subject I know something about, and now I am getting a warning? When I don't, people get rudely patronizing and ask how would I know, and now that I do, they have rigged it so I am some sort of self-promoter? Nice try.

If they want to flag me and run away from life, I don't actually care. If you want to erase my comments, go ahead. If Mefi want to ban me or censor me in any way, go ahead.

I am an easy target because I am a female who is not marching to some sort of preset script, and I am fully aware of it.

I have been abused on Metafilter numerous times over the years, and took the hits in stride. I believe in democracy and free speech.

If I am getting in trouble because I am merely proving I have expertise in a subject area, and this is condoned by Mefi, then fuck it. 

I had added an extra line that for all I knew, those who were complaining had a vested interest in censorship and controlling a narrative.

After all, I am not given any information of who is doing, their identities, or why.

So, I deactivated my account, and gave the reasons why.

The same reasons I gave here.

But I am not on social media much these days. Twitter and Tumblr have been reduced to posting links automatically from here. Ello has the same Story Studio fiction as this site and eBooks do. Facebook I use to mostly check-in to various Starbucks as I once posted whatever things I thought would amuse my mother who recently signed up, and now left because she finds Facebook boring and keeps to using my Pinterest account as she has discovered documentaries on YouTube — until that bores her; so even my Facebook is barely used.

So, in all honesty, this is pretty much the only place I post other than the private Harvard forum where I am taking an online course in teaching. Another three weeks, and that’s over.

I have been thinking a lot of about the Internet, which is a transitory medium. The digital is the present, but it is not the future.

And the reason is simple: it is far too much a “me-centred” medium that shelters people and gives them the impression that it is all about them, that they are never wrong, are perpetual victims, and they are owed something for free without effort.

It is the reason we suddenly have ideological stagnation and regression. We have educated youth who want pensions are talk about socialism as if it were the answer when it wasn’t the answer for millions of people who tried that experiment, and failed.

And when you are young and educated, you are not owed a pension because you have not significantly invested in society.

The fact that these unoriginal thinkers cannot come up with a brand new ideological or political system is all you have to know.

We have an old, reactionary, and Victorian group of script-followers who having fainting spells when someone has an original idea that does not involve applauding their sophistry.

That’s not going to be Chaser.

It will be about presenting new ideas, and challenging the uninspired Establishment, regardless of their age.

It will not censor reality or give in pressure. It will not care about your insults or how offended you are, or whether you think I am about self-promotion.

I never installed a flying fuck storage area; so I have none to give.

So maybe it is time I went all out with self-promotion. I have never actually gave it a whirl.

Because what people have been promoting lately is propaganda and garbage.

But I have never been either of those things.

And it is time for me — and the rest of the world — to experience a change in the right direction.

I don’t need Metafilter to do that because I have another medium in mind and at heart for it…

The Gospel According to Belle Eve: Politics by Other Means


Michael may have been an archangel and the one whose sword put an immediate end to the Great Angel War that was sparked when one of the angels noticed that I had flown the coop before the great revealing of the Big Guy’s greatest show on the Great Story Machine known as Earth, at least to the waking world. My replacement was not as daring as I was, and I left Eden because when I saw Adam, his arrogant ways made me sick to my stomach. He was selfish, self-entitled, and always preening, and I was too free-spirited to put up with his antics.

So, I left paradise and eventually became a war detective, with my good friend Mick joining the fun, and when he wasn’t busy answering prayers, he took the form of a black man in the waking world, teaching underprivileged youth the art of fencing.

He was always so adorable that way.

That, and how he gets all silly and excited whenever I tell him a story.

It was one of those days when he came to visit me after his usual fencing lessons when he looked at my bookcase and marvelled at how many war manuals were written over the ages – and that I had every single original print of them all.

“It is the most extensive collection of war manuals ever gathered, but that is hardly me bragging, peaches. It is downright depressing.”

“You have texts written on stone tablets, clay, papyrus…”

“I read a silly article where a writer was complaining that psychology studies have studied only fifteen percent of the planet. I’ve studied the entire planet of every culture since the beginning of time, and not one of them got through with writing war manuals.”

“It is depressing, though most of them aren’t very well known. Do you have any other sorts of books?”

“I do have one from a female psychologist who wrote an anti-war manual in the 1940s after she and her true love escaped Europe during the Second World War. When all those war manuals get to me, I pick up her book and see there is hope for the human race yet.”

Mick picked up another book, “Her book isn’t well known, but this one is one of the best known. Clausewitz on War.”

“But unlike her book that is all right, his book is all wrong.”

“We’ve tested a few of his ideas, and every one proved to be silly.”

“There weren’t the only silly ones in there.”

“His most famous observation was that war is the continuation of politics by other means.”

“He had it backward, peaches. Politics is the continuation of war by other means.”

“That is an interesting counterargument, but how do we prove it?”

“There is always an election somewhere.”

“The United States is having one.”

“Let’s make some trouble, peaches, and when we prove Clausewitz wrong, I’ll tell you a story all about it.”

Mick clapped his hands happily, “You know no angel ever can resist your stories. What are we waiting for?”


We left my office and headed to Washington, DC, a place that loved its wars, both the literal, and the figurative ones of elections. There was crime and homelessness on the street that always made Mick sad and willing to give generously to the dispossessed as he also stopped no less than five muggings with his sword and fencing skills, while I was busy looking around for clues.

And that’s when we ran into a friendly goddess doing the same.

“Tommie!” I shouted as I ran over to give Her a hug, “What brings my favourite goddess here?”

“George and I are here to stop that ridiculous religion that proclaims to worship Me and My ways, but then does everything I would never do under any circumstances.”

Mick nodded thoughtfully, “Murphy says the same thing. It frustrates many gods.”

“Well, I am gathering information to know what I will need to do bring some sensibility to these impossible people. So, what are you two troublemakers up to here?”

“We are testing a theory,” I said, “About the correlation between politics and war.”

“Yes, Washington, DC, loves it wars in the battlefields where other people’s children are sacrificed, or on the campaign trial where people vote for their next set of exploiters. Good luck with your latest war mystery. I am off to find George before he gets himself into any more trouble.”

“Where is George, by the way?”

Tommie rolled Her eyes. “He was invited to the White House.”

Mick and I gasped in unison. “Was he invited?”

“Yes, by his number one fan. Can you believe it? I will be lucky if he doesn’t spark a new religion just as I dismantle the first one he inadvertently started when he mourned My premature passing.”

“Good luck with that,” said a sympathetic Mick, “Once new religions start, they are very hard to control.”

“As if I hadn’t had enough on my plate as it is. Good luck you, two, and if you are ever in Grimsby, Ontario, come on over.”

“I thought you were in Paris, Ontario,” I asked.

“Oh, I was, but then George caused something of a riot there, and now we are in Grimsby. I was hoping to travel somewhere out of Canada, but he has been causing Me no end of grief. First, in Selkirk, then in Paris, but I am keeping My fingers crossed that he doesn’t make trouble in Grimsby. I will see you both later.”

Tommie smiled as She waved goodbye as Mick whistled. “There is a new wrinkle. George the Edenite Sentry is friends with the president of the United States. It complicates our test.”

“Actually, as he is preoccupying the president, we can focus on a more ignored race, and then test our theory about war and politics.”

“Sounds like a very good plane. Let’s see where we can set up our laboratory to test our ideas about the lunacy of war.”


Mick sat down across from me at a diner in the heart of the Beltway as he drank his milkshake and then ate his apple pie. “So, Evie, which campaign do we start with?”

“It doesn’t matter. They are all the same.”

“Isn’t there any particular candidate you had in mind?”

“They are all the same, peaches. We pick any one, and show how they using the election to wage war on the people and lord over them.”

“Well, then that’s easy: the first candidate we see, we can follow that person and the rival, but how do we test whether that war is the continuation of politics by other means or is that politics is the continuation of war?”

“But proving that politics the war against the people.”

“The people?”

“That’s right. Politicians always wage war against the people they want to rule. If they cannot subjugate them with bombs or guns, then they will try to do it with politics.”

“Now I see what you mean. Dictators rule with over violence, but today’s leaders do it by manipulating people into thinking they want to be ruled with psychological violence.”


“No wonder you are a war detective. You see through it all.”

“Yes, and it is time to begin to show the electorate just how their leaders are waging war on them these days.”


“By getting a couple of signs and marching in the streets. What we will write will get us instant attention, peaches.”


As good as my word, we got our placards and began marching in the streets of Washington, DC as we sang protest songs of politicians oppressing the people by always waging war on them, and terrifying them from seeing how abusive they were with their psychological savagery.

It did not take long for people to snap pictures of us with their smartphones and post our antics on social media, and soon after, a television journalist came to cover our protest.

Mick and I waved at the cameras as we held up our placards: Mick’s sign read, “Ballots are bullets!”, while mine declared, “And this election is a bomb!”

A television reporter ran toward us with a camera crew as she looked at us with a smirk. “What are you two protesting?”

“We want the politicians to stop waging psychological war on their citizens with their elections,” I said passionately as Mick nodded.

“But we live in a democracy…”

Mick shook a finger as he looked stern, “If by democracy, you mean terrorizing people with threats if they do not elect the candidate, then perhaps it is time for a new definition of democracy.”

“They are both war-mongers of the worst sort,” I added.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Both candidates are having affairs with their interns, both have been taking money from wealthy tycoons to rig the laws in their favour, both uses dirty tricks, sexually harass their workers, and neither has ever done a thing for anyone but themselves; so why are all these people fighting each other over the likes of those two buffoons?” asked Mick.

“We are protesting everyone, from the politicians to the voters,” I said to the stunned reporter, “We want a real democratic process where we find the most qualified, dedicated, and kind-hearted person and ask them to run very nicely. There is no need for war, and there is every need for peace. Anyone who wants to run for office is obviously not qualified.”

“But are you suggesting a monarchy or dictatorship…?”

“That’s hardly democratic, peaches,” I replied, “A true democracy gives real choice; not having to decide between two egotistical buffoons…”

Just then, both candidates marched toward us. “We’ll sue you for maligning our good names!” shouted the candidate on the right, “How dare you say that we are anti-democratic and against free speech?”

“But you are threatening my free speech and economic freedom if you sue.”

“It’s all lies!” shouted the candidate on the left, “I am highly offended by your accusations. I will mobilize my followers on social media to put you both in your place! You two are devils!”

“Devils?” said an outraged Mick, “You are threatening a psychological stoning of people who are expressing their right to free speech?”

“Well, you started it!”

“We’ll destroy you treasonous, Russian-backed agents!”

“I thought you two were mortal enemies,” I said, “So why are you two getting together to make the same threats with the same logic as you make the same unfounded and false accusations?”

“That’s right,” said Mick, “Why are you declaring war on peaceful protestors? If you two were different, you wouldn’t be uniting and behaving and thinking identically.”

“Now there is something for voters to ponder,” I said as I smiled and waved to camera before looking at the reporter, “Now, why don’t you be a good journalist and ask them how they are different from each other?”

All three blanched before they all ran away in unison.

“See? I told you they are all alike, even the reporter. All three are war-mongers trying to make war and division instead of peace and unity.”

Mick laughed, “You were right as usual, Evie: politicians are forever declaring war on the people they want to conquer.”

“One day, the people will see that, and make their own paths. Let’s get back to my office so I can tell you a story.”

Mick put his placard in the trash before lifting me up to give me a big angel hug as he cheered.


Politics is the continuation of war!

The war strategists who always tell you that war is the continuation of politics by other means, but it is always war to politicians who use politics to create a siege of panic in the populace.

It is politics that keeps the flames of war alive as people quiver as they vote for one side thinking the war will finally end, and one day, the politicians will not raid and pillage their wallets and freedoms, but they always pillage more of both as they proclaim they are waging war in the name of peace.

There once were two political rivals who always promised the people that they were as different as night and day, meaning they had the entire earthly rotation covered.

They both made threats, told lies, and lived their double lives as they vied for the same office playing the same games, and using the same stratagems of war.

Buy with all war-mongers, what the detest the most are words of peace, and words of truth that comes from love and bravery.

And when they saw the signs that threatened their war-mongering, they banded together to try to annihilate a different way to see the spinning world – without their meddling.

But when they were revealed as war-mongers to that spinning world, they ran away like cowards, as all warlords do, and if people could remember to always speak the truth with kindness and bravery, those wars would cease, and peaceful ways of guiding the world could finally begin!

An update...

The latest edition of A Dangerous Woman magazine is coming along, and it will be about by December.

Chaser Investigative News will debut in mid-February. This will comprise of two stories because I am going to be writing another book, this time for an American publisher on an art topic — more on that later, but suffice to say, I am also an artist, and A Dangerous Woman does have the sporadic line called Dangerous Art; so for the regular readers, that shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.

If you haven’t been following the train of thought here: A Dangerous Woman has been the incubator for my ideas until they reach a book form. Strangely enough, it is the nonfiction portion that has been having more success than the fiction, although by number of downloads, fiction is far more popular. I want to take the fiction to another platform, but there is only so much of me to go around.

I am over halfway through a teaching course, and that has been taking up some of my time, but there are other things that have delayed me as well.

As Chaser always had a personal angle, I will reveal that side when that venture debuts here. Chaser, like a A Dangerous Woman, is experimental and an incubator.

This website is a work in progress. So far, I have been pointing out the shortcomings of journalism, and then I brought the short fiction into the mix, and Chaser will be the hard news aspect.

But there is a fourth arm: learning about Who is She?

It will all weave together, with offshoots for each part with the intent of this being the initial springboard.

As I have said, 2018 was a catastrophic year for me. Things came out of the blue, and there was no way to prepare for them. Things were horrific a couple of years prior when my grandmother was dropped by paramedics and her amputated leg burst open and then she became bedridden and paralyzed for the last couple of years of her life. She died a horrific death, and she loved life and did not want to go at all. The traumas that ordeal caused both my mother and me were real and deep.

I gave up a lot to look after her 24/7. I was teaching art, and literally writing A Dangerous Woman in the snatches of time I had while I was looking after her as she slept.

She passed away over two years ago, and I had to pick up the pieces, and was getting my life back in order when 2018 struck me full force in cruel and shocking ways.

There are two songs that sum me up right now:

And this one:

Yes, I am a tough little Serbian punk.

Somehow, I got through it and I am pushing forward regardless.

It drives my detractors nuts, but fuck them.

I came out stronger, and more optimistic than I have ever been before.

You can crumble and stick to things that don’t work as you deny the problem and look to others to clean up your shit.

Or you can be the hero of your own story.

Those whiny and pretentious motherfuckers who call themselves journalists should be ashamed of themselves.

And so should anyone else who supports them and enablers their bullshit.

Shame on you, too.

So 2019 will be a different year for me.

Right now, I have a Harvard course to get through, and I am loving every second of it.

I have two Belle Eve stories to finish.

Then I have some big things to clear, then a book to write and two articles for Chaser to do.

I want to get back into teaching as well.

And my art.

I have a theremin to play.

I want to get back into shape which I couldn’t do this year, and I would like to go back to boxing.

When I hit those milestones, you’ll hear all about it.

There will be surprises galore.

Don’t think my latest book will be ignored by me. I was delayed, but a book doesn’t have an expiration date, and this is for the long-haul.

And memo to readers: If you want to say things to me, use the comments part of this website.

I don’t mind emails, but be a little braver than that, all right?

You know journalism imploded and are now reduced to pathetic beggars.

A lot of you know that I am right and that what I say is the truth.

The more voices that speak out, the less places the destructive forces that destroyed journalism can keep causing damage to both the product and to democracy.

So that brings you up to speed on Alexandra Kitty, who is a lot tougher than even she realized she was…


=4The Beginning5=

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty-Six: Alchemy is the sport of detectives, magicians, authors, and victors. Bringing the lost philosophy into a new mindset.







When you have two bickering sides of the same basic entity, it is only the in-group who see their differences and think that there is a pecking order as the two fight for who will be the victor with one being decreed right and good and the other wrong and bad.

But outsiders see one big dysfunctional mess and see that the entity is is just bad and wrong — and not as morally superior as the outsider’s group.

Watching the slap fighting in the US is such a case: the Left and Right are just opposite sides of the same coin. Both tweak, both judge, and both backstab one another.

And the outsiders just wait on the sidelines hoping to take advantage of the same group for their own purposes.


It is the reason why I have always been a Radical Centrist. Fight all you want. Scheme all you want. Create narratives all you want.

I am not interested in being your hero or villain.

Or victim. Fuck that.

I have my own life and my own dreams, goals, ideas, aspirations and plans.

When I did Chaser News the first time, I wasn’t political in the traditional sense.

And in Western culture “political” is defined by running in Left circles or Right circles.

It is binary, and so boring.

As if everyone is following the same stupid script, but are just standing on one side of a line or the other.

That is not being political.

That is being a follower.

You might as well play dodgeball and get exercise instead.


Politics has always been a milquetoast version of war the way dancing is a milquetoast version of sex.

Both are thought of as two parties getting together to either create or destroy with one as the dominant and the other as the submissive.

It’s the competitive streak that always gets in the way.

Sex is Eros, but war is Thanatos.

Dancing is Eros, but politics is Thanatos.

And in the centre of these peculiar dynamics, is a radical centre that sees the rigs of both.

Because both are just a pretext to control the other half of the equation as if one side is more right than the other.

And they are equal.

What is on the left of the equal sign is another way of expressing what is on the right of it.

If I seem as if I am speaking in Gibberish, I am.

But I am not talking nonsense.

Just the language of the birds.



Chaser News played around with the concepts of alchemy, and heavily so.

A Dangerous Woman Story Studio came from it, right after I did a peculiar website called Monsters and Queens that was storytelling told in a pure alchemical tradition.

But had my previous bluechrome not gone under, that would have been my follow up book to Consumer-isms in 12 Easy Steps.

Monsters and Queens had no overt narrative online, but the book did and an outrageous one, but they were told in short vignettes and musings.

But after bluechrome was gone, there would be no publisher who could possibly take it one. It was too exotic.

So I started playing around with the outré elements.

As alchemy sees everything as having a soul, Truth become Alena Love, and Love became Vivian Love.

And so, A Dangerous Woman Story Studio came to be.

And is still going on. It is a quiet little venture with zero publicity, but I have regular readers and consistent ones.

But I never abandoned Chaser.

I just wasn’t in the place in my life where I could relaunch it.

Technically, it’s still not, but who the fuck cares?

I have been given enough lead to last an eternity.

And I prefer turning it into gold.

That’s what journalism used to proclaim to do: turn lead into gold.

Find problems and then when the lead is exposed, it turns into solutions.


Journalists turned the problems into facts.

Lead into gold.

That’s alchemy.

What they have done know is turn lead into cyanide.

Definitely in the wrong direction.

They are making problems into the fodder for war.


And that’s not journalism, but propaganda.

But they got poisoned by the lead and cannot tell the difference.

But I still can.

The Radical Centre is the centre of alchemy.

You don’t move lead from the Left and have gold from the Right or vice versa.

You do not reduce things into simplistic or binary quantities.

You expand, not constrict.

As alchemy’s Axiom of Maria states:

One becomes two, two becomes three, and out of the third comes the one as the fourth.

Psychologist Carl Jung was fascinated by it as I was, but our interpretations of it greatly differ.

But they do not conflict.

He merely sees one application, and I another.

Chaser is slowly coming back to life.

Slow heat.

And when it does finally arrive, it will not be the same as it was the first time.

Yet the alchemy will still be there, but in a more subtle and sophisticated way.

Start small, and move on to something bigger without getting lost in the translation.

As above, so below.

No propaganda.

That’s not alchemic.

And propaganda has no place in Edenic equations.

Because the goal of all alchemists is to die and go to Eden.

Not Heaven.

You aim higher, or settle for more.

Alchemy is not well understood by the emotionally illiterate, but for those of us whose hearts and souls are naked for the world to see and are brave, we get it.

It is the noble art of taking your broken pieces and fusing it with the gold of wisdom.

And it makes Kintsugi a form of alchemy.

But it is not the only one.

If journalism was once a form of alchemy, then its alternative is a better version of it because it didn’t stumble blindly.

It crawled before it learned to walk and then soar.

It understands the four stages: nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, and rubedo.

Blackness, whitness, yellowness, and redness.

It is also the four colours of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse.

But it all depends if you understand the direction alchemy is supposed to take you.

Higher than you thought you could reach, against all impossible odds where nothing and no one can either stop you or move you.

You cannot be intimidated, nor can you be manipulated.

You are the core. You are in a radical centre.

You are the atom of truth and reality.

Even in dreams.

And when you become unleashed, you can alter outcomes because you have the combination of facts that actually get people to take notice.

Journalism lost that sense.

And it is why they died.

But for those of us who resurrected ourselves, we learned from our mistakes and o the mistakes of others, and like the Phoenix, we are reborn from lead and allow ourselves to make gold no matter how strongly those who do not understand our ways try to stop us from doing what comes naturally to us.

We don’t take sides. We see both sides and bring them together.

With the glue of gold.

And not even broken pieces deject us or stop us from working from our own little worlds.

It is not about left or right.

But expanding a core that has no use for artificial boundaries and linear divides.

It is about truth.

And creating life where there are nothing but omens of violence, despair, and death…

♛The Sport of Queens♛ Part Three: The Madness of Queens

In this instalment of The Sport of Queens, Joan the Mad unleashes her insanity for the sanest of reasons…

Cleopatra looked at the Mighty Queen Nzinga and shook her head. “You just had to tweak Joan the Mad’s nose again, didn’t you?”

“This force blocking our path is made from the madness of those who have lost their sanity in the waking world. Joan is the only one here who understands that mind’s fragmented language.”

“But what if she breaks and we cannot get her back to us?”

“Then I will jump that wall and join her as my penance. However, I do believe she can converse with that wall and come out of it in one piece.”

“But why is there a wall?” asked Victoria, “To block us?”

“Perhaps,” said Nzinga, “But after I had been drenched in that sporkle, I had wished to find the solution to our dilemma, and then Joan came to me, and she never does. I believe this substance is the essence of stars that compels it to make wishes come true. It is a spore with sparkle.”

“Sporkle,” sighed Mary.

“Joanie!” Queen Maria shouted as her sister in arms began to walk unsteadily toward the Vortex of Living Insanity, “Be careful! It is not worth losing your essence to a wicked beast.”

“It is not a beast,” said Joan she reached the outer layer and went on her hands and knees to examine it, “It is my mind on the outside.”

“It’s a trap! Be careful!” shouted a distressed Grace O’Malley, “Joanie! It’s not your madness! It causes madness to those in the waking world! It is a virus that feeds on the souls of those who become infected.”

“It is my mind. It is my own mind…”

Just as Joan the Mad touched the vortex to caress it lovingly, it nipped her finger.

“Traitor!” she howled with rage, “I gave you love and you gave me hate!”

“Oh no,” said Catherine the Great as she pushed herself to the front, “What has she done? Joanie, come back here before it devours you!”

Queen Joan began to scream as her words suddenly became visible, but unintelligible – each was frozen and shattered into razor-sharp shards that caused the vortex to bleed.

“Joanie!” screamed Cleopatra as she ran toward her, “Come back!”

But Joanie began to laugh, grabbed one of the shards of her broken words, and tore open the vortex as a sea of blood surrounded her before it became a wall separating her from her companions.

Then the wall became a thunderous cloud and shattered, leaving nothing but a laughing vortex in its wake, causing the queens to feel its madness as if it were their own and Queen Victoria grabbed the queens as she pushed them aside to safety until she got them all safely away from the vibrations of madness.

Himiko held her head as she looked around. “I have been in the Otherworldly for many moons, and never I felt something so wrong and overpowering.”

“That’s madness for you,” said a grim Grace O’Malley, “It knows our wavelengths and it tried to take us, too.”

“Nina,” said Vikki to Queen Nzinga, “That madness just devoured Joanie.”

“I had not anticipated that.”

“Because it feasts on insanity, and now it has a queenly version of it. We are now without a queen and with an enemy that can unbalance us at any time.”

“What can we do?” asked Queen Elizabeth the First.

“Wait,” said Mary, “Juana la Loca is a queen regnant.”

“So?” asked Cleopatra.

“Now it knows the ways of a queen regnant, but there is another sort of queen – a queen consort. We replace Joanie with a consort until we figure out how to reverse this nonsense.”

“A different kind of queen, meaning a different set of rules.”

“Any particular queen consort in mind?” asked Catherine.

“There is Queen Draga of Serbia, who was slaughtered. She already knows the ways of being devoured by an army.”

“Her husband was smitten with her against his mother’s wishes, and he exiled his own parent,” said Grace, “The people never liked her, and when rumours circulated that her brother would be made heir to the throne, the army was sent in to kill them both rather gorily, stabbing them to death in their pajamas and then throwing their bodies over a balcony right into a dung heap. She isn’t an Edenite, and I doubt we’d find her in Heaven.”

“I don’t think she’d be in Hell for what it’s worth because it’s not a sin in the Sport of Queens,” replied Maria, “But where would we find her?”

Nina smirked as she raised an eyebrow. “She was murdered.

Himiko gasped. “Of course, one of the Women of Orchid would know. They give orchids to the Fallen and Draga would qualify.”

“Draga would seek them out,” added Vikki pensively, “She’d want everyone to know of the injustice of her waking world fate.”

“Where are the Orchids these days?” asked Lizzie, “I hear the male companion has flown the coop to go back to the waking world to cause a ruckus.”

“There are three of them hanging about, and my best guess is if we post one of us at the Sorting Station, we’ll run into one of them,” said Mary.

Catherine nodded. “Some of us will have to deal with that Vortex. If this sporkle that Nina found has any wish-granting powers, perhaps we can wish for Joanie to come back to us unharmed.”

“Agreed,” said Maria, “But one of us does have to pick up a replacement queen first.”

“I’ll do it,” said Nina, “After all, it was my idea to send Juana la Luna to reconnoiter that mass of insanity in the first place. If I speak to their leader, she will tell me.”

“And if she doesn’t” asked Vikki.

“I am certain I can decollate her even in the Otherworldly and use her head as a reminder that no one defies the command of a Queen.”

“I pray for her sake, that she is the accommodating sort,” said Himiko.

Nina nodded regally and walked toward the Sorting Station as she used her own will to create a mighty sword that looked as sharp and fierce as the queen holding it.

The Mighty Queen Nzinga sighed as she looked regally bored at the groups of recently arrived at the Sorting Station. Some were the sort to immediately get whisked away to Heaven, while others were the sort to wind up in Hell. None would be queens, and their lack of good breeding showed. She waited patiently until a beautiful black woman came to console a group of children who were murdered by their mother and pinned orchids of their shirts. The woman had one blue eye and one brown eye.

That was the leader of the anarchist activists known as the Women of Orchid.

Queen Nzinga sauntered over. “You are the leader I wish to seek.”

Belinda Markey looked up. “Who are you? I can tell that you weren’t murdered.”

“I lived to a ripe old age and died peacefully. I am Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba and I have come to speak with you.”

“With a sword?”

“It has its own message should my first fall on deaf ears.”

Belinda looked angry. “A threat to my essence? What kind of nonsense is that? I had a murderer kill me because things like that wouldn’t persuade me! Now if you want something, put down the toy and speak your peace, Your Majesty.”

Queen Nzinga looked impressed. “You are a sister in arms. I have heard much about your valour and bravery.”

“They couldn’t put me in Hell or stop me.”

Queen Nzinga made the sword vanish. “I am looking for a Queen consort that may be among your ranks. Queen Draga of Serbia.”

“What about her?”

“There is horrific imbalance in the universe and ten Queens have been dispatched to stop it, though one of our rank has fallen into a sentient vortex of living madness, and now it knows the sport of queens regnant, but not of queens consort…”

“And Draga is a queen consort.”

“She managed to exiled her mother-in-law and nearly got her brother to be heir to the throne when her mother-in-law’s army slaughtered her and her husband.”

“The son who exiled her.”

“Yes, her mindset is cunning enough for the job. We need to speak with her immediately. The fate of existence rests in finding a replacement to Juana la Luna.”

“Juana la Luna?”

“Joan the Mad.”

“She wears an orchid, I can tell you that much. I can relay the message, but it is up to her to decide if she wishes to join you – or if you can trust her.”

“She is not an Edenite. We must do our best given the horrific turn of events. Joanie was our friend and we all loved her despite her sorrowful disposition.”

Belinda looked sympathetic as she nodded. “I will do my best, your majesty. If the Orchids can do anything more…”

“We will let you know.”

Queen Nzinga walked away and vanished to rejoin her fellow Queens as the clock begin to tick louder and the air felt darker and colder around them…

To be continued…

The Goddish: All Good Authors Love Detectives

Author’s Note: This is not a regular Story Studio offering. It is a Shibboleth for those familiar with other Dangerous Woman stories, and if you don’t know anything, it will make no sense. This is literal alchemical Gibberish — the language of the birds. This is under the “Everything!” banner, and it is a meta-story with nudges, winks, nods, and in-house humour. You have been warned…




“Verity? Verity! Is that really you?”

“Yes, darling. Are you all right?”

“We’re back on Viking Island, aren’t we, Sweetness?”

“It seems that way. Beloved Holly? Are you here?”

“Sure am, big sister. Eli?”

“He’s not here…”

“But I am…”

“Wait a minute, I know that voice…”

“It’s me, Vendel Langston…”



“Vendel? How did you end up on the edge of Viking Island?”

“I left the Otherworldly to help you all to inspire that soldier Holly’s great-granddaughter…”

“I thought that was you. You’ve really changed…”

“Well, I was stuck in Hell for several decades before winning my freedom on a game show.”

“You’re kidding. They have game shows in Hell?”

“Only one, but it is the one that counts. I left and joined the Women of Orchid who find those who were murdered to bring them together. We stumbled upon something important and I took it upon myself to find you all to warn you.”

“It was very good of you that you did.”

“Which reminds me…”

“What are you doing?”

“Pinning an orchid on your lapel as well as Verity.”

“That would suggest that were had been murdered.”

“The both of you were the first time.”

“What? Murder? I thought I died of a heart attack in my sleep.”

“It was murder. I have a sense for those things. Verity’s marking pens were poisoned. You both were going to Africa and that would have exposed the truth of who was behind all of your town’s problems. They thought if Verity was distracted by your death, she’d retreat. She was heart-broken, but then decided to find the missing Beverly Stoney, and she would have stumbled upon the truth. They couldn’t allow it.”

“My sister was murdered?”


“But why did they kill us when we did nothing to them?”

“To keep secrets hidden. The same people who killed me killed the both of you.”

“I am absolutely devastated. Why didn’t I see it? That’s my sister!”

“No one could have seen it. That was the way they operated for centuries. Since I started pinning orchids on the Fallen, I had to pin many flowers on the victims of that wicked cabal. I am sorry to tell you something so distressing, Holly.”

“Where are they now so I can unleash my righteousness of them?”

Verity, it is thanks to your ideas that the Otherworldly and a Goddess are dealing with them all as we speak. Your job is done, and it is the reason you all were brought back here. And I am truly sorry.”

“For what, Vendel?”

“For not being friends with any of you when we were all still alive. I was in madly in love with Holly, and admired Verity and I never said a word. I owe you a world of apology, Norton, for standing by and allowing others to abuse you as I was very envious of you. Please forgive me.”

“Of course, Vendel. We were all different people back then.”

“I am relieved that you are out of Hell, but if you are here on Viking Island with us, it means your words are sincere and we happily accept you as one of our own.”



“Beloved Holly, what is the matter?”

“Verity, someone killed you and I died of a stroke before I ever had the chance to…”

“You knew Holly. Deep down, the moment you sensed it, it killed you before you had a chance to act. It is not your fault your body was given a fatal blow.”

“Beloved Holly, do not be distressed. We are back home, and together. Time and space could not tear apart the Lake Sisters. Never forget it.”

“I have to go find Eli. I have a lot to think about right now.”


“Where’s Eli?” Holly asked her grandmother Alena Love who smiled.

“You still haven’t found him?”

“I second I was thrown back here, I find out Verity and Norton were murdered.”

“You do not know how outraged I am…”

“Well, so am I. How dare they? They are the two nicest, sweetest, kindest, gentlest people you could ever get to know and love, and to kill them? It’s disgusting. I want to unleash more than just my righteousness.” Holly folded her arms and looked agitated. “What am I going to do now?”

“Your husband said it’s been dealt with…”

“Eli didn’t say anything. I still can’t find him…”

“He’s not your husband here, Holly.”

“What are you saying? Vendel can’t be my husband! Can he?”

“Something has changed between the time you left and the moment you came back.”

“But what made you call him my husband, Nana?”

“I just did.”

“And you’re always right. But how did that happen?”

“A glitch!” a young man’s voice chirped brightly as Holly and Alena turned around.

“Kirkland! You’re back!”

Kirkland Hughes hugged Holly and then Alena who both greeted him warmly.

“I am, and I just spoke to the Goddess’s Messenger, and he said when you all went back to the waking world to right wrongs so you could bring your friend Jane Carrington here, you fixed quite a few glitches, but not all of them.”

“So a switch in husbands was a glitch?”

“Reality is made up of many layers and sometimes they get tangled and snarled. So, for Jane to have been able to come without a glitch the first time, you and Vendel would have fallen in love, and he would have gotten divorced and left with you to go to Queen’s Heights, giving up being a professor and become a victims’ rights activist. Verity and Norton would have still gotten married, and with the four of you all going back, Jane would have gone back because her house would have accidentally exploded…”

“Exploded?” Holly and Alena gasped at the same time.

“Right. She was too attached her home in Ottawa and that’s why she didn’t come back, but Vendel and Norton would have been bickering all the time if they were related by marriage, with Vendel trying to prove he was better than Norton because he would have felt inferior because he was married before, and Norton would have come out of his shell for the first time to stand up to Vendel because he would be emboldened by Verity after they worked it out when he confessed he used to be a cat burglar, and when Jane would have thrown a farewell party in her house, Vendel and Norton would have accidentally caused it to explode, and Jane would have seen it as a divine sign and come to Queen’s Heights with you. Nifty, huh?”

“Shocking is what it is,” said Holly, “And how could Vendel just up and go when he had children…”

“Oh no, his wife was having an affair with some poor musician, and those were all his kids. She actually loved the musician, but her parents made her marry Vendel because his parents always thought he was gay because he was really sensitive, and her parents owed his parents a lot of money. Vendel doesn’t remember her at all, but someone in the Otherworldly keeps records. She was a nice young lady whose meddlesome parents really ruined her life by selling her to decrepit people, and made her really crazy and bitter, not that you can blame her. I hear she and her kids reunited with that musician in the Orchid’s garden, and are doing great now. Vendel was even the one who pinned an orchid on them a long time ago, and he never knew who it was, and neither did she or the kids.”

Alena raised an eyebrow. “You are certainly up to the Otherworldly gossip young man.”

“I come from a small town; what else was there to do back then? But isn’t that neat? They can take an alternative reality’s outcome and bring it over here as if that is what happened all along. That’s why it’s official that Norton is now my actual brother…”

Both women gasped anew.

“I know. Mom had to bring him into the family as Hammond Hughes, but there was another glitch and Norton was actually supposed to be the eldest Hughes Brother, but his essence got mixed up with some other one, and he ended up a Dunlop, which was flagged as being a place that was deemed unsafe for him, but there was a clerical mix up somewhere. He wasn’t supposed to be born so early, but all that red tape can cause a lot of screw ups. If he was the first born, he would have talked mom into moving to Queen’s Heights, and he would have married Verity much sooner and the two would have had a daughter, but still ended up as novelists.”

“Patrice must be thrilled,” said Alena.

“That’s why she told me to find everyone to throw a party. My other three brothers are moving here permanently, so it will be the first time where all five of the Hughes Brothers are together.”

“Do you know where Eli is?” asked Holly.

“He’s with my mom right now and she’s scolding him as usual.”

“Does he know what happened?”

“Sure, and he’s fine with it. Your daughter will still be your daughter and his; and that’s a glitch, but it’s like you both were never married and got divorced at the same time. That’s why the Otherworldly can be so confusing. Oh, and Jane’s here with her son Douglas. Verity and Norton are welcoming her right now. Are you two coming?”

Holly nodded, but she never felt so lost or devastated before. The shock of her sister’s murder was a blow, but that a single turn in the Otherworldly altered her marital state was an equal blow. Somehow, she had to sort things out for herself.


When Holly was alive and she had problems to work though, she would sit under her grandmother Alena’s birch tree and doodle. The birch tree was still growing strong in the waking world, and though Viking Island was filled with beautiful trees, none of them were the tree.

She frowned as she looked at all of the beauty and remembered this was the same way Verity behaved when she first came to Viking Island. Trouble was outside of paradise and Verity knew it. Their dear friend Jane Carrington wanted to come, but the Otherworldly said it was impossible, and that unleashed Verity’s righteousness and she left to inspire people in the waking world to wake up.

It worked, and the Otherworldly relented, and Jane was now officially here along with her grown son Douglas.

Jane was even given the title of Matriarch, and that meant she was their advocate and guardian.

Everyone was overjoyed, and Holly was happy that was resolved.

But something was not sitting right with her.

And she was certain she could find it. Verity always had a knack for finding presents, and when she went back, she found the gift they all needed: truth.

But Holly had a knack for finding lost things, and she knew it wasn’t in Hell or below it, and it wasn’t on Earth or Heaven.

It wasn’t in Eden or else Holly would know where to look.

There was only one other place to look and she look up, raised her eyebrow, and snapped her fingers.

No one ever thought to look in Eden’s attic.

The sky could be the limit, and she wondered if there was something above the cloud up there that would hold some sort of answer.

The question was how to get up there, until she saw Florence Tenney who was co-owner of Queen’s Heights’ hardware emporium Weavers and Tenney.

She walked up to her old friend and told her what she needed.

Florence nodded. “You need a ladder.”

“Do they even have ladders on Viking Island?”

“Are you kidding? This is part of Eden now, and how could this place be paradise for me if there aren’t any ladders?”

“Good point.”

“Why do you need a ladder?”

“I want to examine that cloud. I think it is hiding something.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Or hanging over our heads.”

Florence went to get a ladder and she returned with an opulent one made of gold. Holly climbed up to reach the cloud, and gasped before coming quickly down.

“It is an attic! And there are two very shocking things.”

“Do not keep friends in suspense.”

“There is a Hell above us if you open the latch.”

“There’s a latch in a cloud?”


“And there is a Hell?”

“They were all having some sort of cocktail party, and if you die in the Otherworldly, there is a level above.”

“And if you were bad in the afterlife…”

“You go to a different Hell. It’s still for the bad, but for the not-as-wicked. It is very strange. They thought I was some hayseed beneath them.”

“My word, Holly, you do find some strange things. But you said there are two things you found.”

“I found glitches.”



When Holly told Verity of her findings, they immediately climbed up the ladder to examine the cloud that was an attic-warehouse filled with them.

Verity examined them with interested as Holly animatedly explained her findings.

“When Kirkland said there were glitches, I thought he meant in the hypothetical sense,” said Verity pensively, “But these little orbs are peculiar, and remind me of a snow globe.”

“Everyone in the Otherworldly talks about them, but they stick them all up in that cloud not to litter the place with them. It is bad enough that there are so many ducks in Heaven that poor people keep stepping on.” She picked one up. “I can feel its essence and it is familiar to me.”

“They are in different states of evolution. They all vibrate on different frequencies, and they have a soul, too, and they keep chattering about needing to be repaired. I don’t like them.”

“Why not?”

“It’s like everything is so tenuous, and less certain. Who’s to say someone else doesn’t fix a glitch and then you’re not my sister anymore.”

“I will always be your sister, Beloved Holly. These glitches to affect what transpired in the waking world. It merely removes the barriers of alternate outcomes and merges them together to get the best of all worlds.”

“But if Norton was born a Hughes, you never would have had your three boys.”

“Perhaps, but I do have them no matter how many glitches a corrected. Norton and I would have been together no matter what. We were together based on impossible odds in the waking world. There are two other possibilities and we managed to be together for both. When we went back to the waking world to inspire others, we reunited and found one another.”

“But I didn’t stay married to Eli. We were very happily married.”

“But you would have been happy with Vendel.”

“But you and Norton are soul mates.”

“As you were with Eli. The only difference is you would have been with another had circumstances been different. You have always been grounded, and you followed your dreams wherever they took you. You should be grateful that your life is one with many happy outcomes.”

“Except not finding Beverly Stoney…”

“We inspired two others to find her. We did find her in a different way…”

“But the matter of your murder…”

“Again, we went back to inspire those same two women, and we prevailed. One does not need to be confined by a few decades of a lifetime when there is eternity. Your fateful painting turned our town’s fortunes around. There is much to celebrate.”

“Except that orchid on your blouse. You have one, and I don’t. It’s like a huge dividing line.”

“How so? This flower represents how you were wronged as much as I was. Your death was triggered by mine, and you were no less a casualty.”

“It’s just not what I expected when we came back. I am just shaken, Verity.”

“As you were when Norton came to Queen’s Heights to propose to me, and then you embraced his survival and his inclusion in our lives and it was many years of joy that blessed us. Jane is here with us as is Douglas. The entire Hughes clan is here, and Norton is formally recognized as being part of the family he cherished and loved with reverence and gratitude. Eli is safe and happy, and no worse for it. He will find love again as he deserves it. Vendel is out of Hell, and here where he always longed to be as he has triumphed over every one of his demons and your essence inspired him to do it. Besides, everyone who left Viking Island is back, and we even have a Goddess as our guardian as Her parcel of Eden has merged with our own.”

“I didn’t hear about it.”

“She came to congratulate us along with Her companion and Messenger. Thomasina is a lovely woman who is as kind as She is brave. Her companion is quite an endearing sentimental oddball, and he adores Her. We should go back and inform the others of these glitches. Perhaps if we sort through them, listen to them, and repair them, there will be less trouble in the universe, and it can finally begin to heal. You did well, Beloved Holly. You effortlessly found the source of many vexing troubles, and we may soon be on the way infinite solutions.”

Verity gave her sister a reassuring hug as Holly closed her eyes and was grateful that she always had her big sister to guide her and calm her, but now she had someone else she had to speak to before she could begin to feel at ease.


Vendel held Holly tightly as he swayed with her the moment she came to speak with him. He longed to hold her ever since he first met her, and now she no longer seemed upset by the fantastical turn of events.

When she explained why they were never together in the waking world, he was shocked.

“So these glitches are real entities?”

“Very much so.”

He sighed. “They may be a buffer between Eden and the upper level Hell you saw.”

“They are not the most pleasant neighbors around.”

“The Hell below it was even worse, though I suppose Eden is their Place Below Hell.” He chuckled in amusement. “What is up is down and what is down is up. It is a spiral staircase where you encounter all of the same problems as before, but only a story higher.”

“You think it can help your friends find their loved ones?”

“If some of these glitches are responsible, then it is a matter of finding them. Belinda and Sharon was be thrilled if that happens to be the case, but to think one of these glitches kept us apart is heart-wrenching. I always thought there was no way you could love, or would have considered a divorced man with children. It pains me to think how shallow I was, but that I no longer remember them is no less painful.”

“No memory at all?”

“I could not tell you how many, their names or genders, and not even how old they were and what they looked like. I know I was married with children because when I was sent to Hell, the reason was how I treated my family.”

“What about your parents?”

“I used to remember them at first, but when I left Hell, they began to fade from memory. They brought me nothing but sorrow, but when I forgave them and let go of the pain they brought me and the consequences that plagued my tortured life, they no longer were in my memories, but that is far less unsettling than forgetting about your offspring, even if they turned out not to be mine.”

“It would have to be. You did raise them. There are attachments and bonds, and I never would have stood in the way of your relationship with your children, Vendel, even if they weren’t your flesh and blood. There is nothing wrong with being attached to children you raised and nothing wrong with being a stepmother.”

“I must have made them all profoundly unhappy in the waking world, and when they found the man my wife truly loved, they bonded with him. It’s as if everything that I had done wrong in the waking world corrected itself here. There are no more bad memories of me to plague them, and it is just as well.”

“What about your friends the Orchids? Do they have memory gaps?”

“Sharon still recalls her husband, but only because he murdered her. Belinda recalls her father abusing her. It was the traumas they brought that keep those memories alive, but neither has seen either tormentor. I think they keep those memories alive to fuel their drive in bringing attention to the Fallen. Jenna has no one in her life that brought her misery, and she remembers her family vividly, but she is no less passionate an advocate.”

“They sound like fighters with grit.”

“They are three wonderful women and you will like them very much when you meet them. I still need to help them, and I will always be an Orchid myself, but now that Viking Island is my home, it will be a place where I spend much of my time.” Vendel looked at the orchid on his lapel and sighed.

“It’s hard to see that flower now. I see it on Verity and it shakes me to the core.”

“It is a symbol. We are those who are the Fallen, Holly. We were ordinary, extraordinary, and yet have that one thing in common. We serve as a reminder of how cruel we are to one another. They hide it in the waking world, but not here. Once the Orchids began to draw attention to it, things here began to change, and glitches were exposed because life would have taken very different turns had we lived. Your sister did the right thing in going back to inspire. She retained all of her memories and she could guide those in the waking world. Belinda does it with her detective friend through dreams, and when she was in a coma, met her here, but even then, she had forgotten everything she wanted to warn her about because the chords of time work differently here.”

“Maybe the glitches hold a key.”

“They must. When my friends come her for a visit, I will have to show them that cloud.”

“We can invite over for dinner.”

Vendel looked surprised at Holly, and suddenly felt his soul expand with joy as he pulled her in for a long and loving kiss. Glitches may have kept them apart, but they were now doing their penance and seemed to be working overtime to bring them together the way it was always intended.


Verity was busy talking with Jane when she saw Holly running toward her just as Thomasina’s messenger summoned her to come over and the women went their separate ways, but not before promising to have a feast of manna later on.

“What is it, Beloved Holly?”

“Verity, have you had any revelations in the Otherworldly?”

“None at all.”

Holly looked at her and smiled. “I think it’s the glitches that gave them to you.”

“How so?”

“Because these cosmic mistakes that get all thrown into the same pile, and then it all is supposed to work themselves out.”

“The is the very definition of chaos.”

“This is the reason you had revelations, Verity. You kept stumbling on these glitches. I just don’t know if they were meant to distract you or warn you.”

“I saw them, and I worked them out, improving on things already in existence. Perhaps some of us are given a few of them in order to work out their equations. They are a very peculiar notion, and difficult to see.”

“But I can see them, big sister. Vendel was never supposed to be born outside of Queen’s Heights. He’s one of us. Norton was supposed to move here as a teenager from Somerset along with Patrice and her four sons. There are so many things that should have been, but weren’t. Kirkland wasn’t supposed to die young, and you, Norton, and Vendel weren’t supposed to be murdered. It’s as if the glitches are some sort of interference. It’s not as if we never have problems, but these are major shifts and upheavals. Vendel and I have been examining those glitches, and that’s how we know.”

“It is utterly fascinating, but have you had any revelations about their essence?”

“Yes. Glitches do get corrected, that’s why people who were obscure in the past become icons a century after they die. The glitch in the Otherworldly gets flagged and corrected, and eventually, the waking world gets wind of it. Norton was never supposed to become a cat burglar, let alone get arrested and held a hostage where he got abused. You found him in the nick of time because that glitch got discovered because your watch broke open and you saw his message. The glitch would have killed him, but it got straightened out.”

“You always had the gift of finding lost things, Beloved Holly.”

Holly smiled. “And you always had the gift of finding presents before you were supposed to get them.”

“Perhaps finding revelations was a form of me finding presents.” Verity paused. “You seem deep in thought.”

“There is a mystery here, but I was thinking about something you said to me when I was down thinking about everything I found out since we got back to Viking Island.”


“I was shaken that Eli and I weren’t considered married anymore.”

“He is still with us, and neither of you forgot one another.”

“I thought about that, and it’s just strange seeing Vendel like that.”

“Happy? Easy-going? Modest?”

“Gentle and strong at the same time. If he had been like that from the beginning…”

“He would have never wished to be a professor and you two would have most likely met each other at some protest or another as you became in love while you were both unleashing your righteousness.”

Holly chuckled. “That’s why he doesn’t remember big chunks of his life.”

“They weren’t supposed to be there, and the Otherworldly corrected it.”

“It just got me thinking about free will and fate.”

“There is plenty of free will, even if there were no glitches. There are infinite possibilities. The glitches occur when we just think we our intellect and forget to think with our hearts with equal measure.”

“It explains a lot, and of course you would know so much about them. You kept stumbling on them in the waking world and they gave you revelations.”

“That I no longer have, Beloved Holly.”

“Because here they are right in front of us in that cloud.”

“They are peculiar.”

“If you touch one, you can feel the possibilities that glitch stymied. It is like a story with many threads, but one big knot tangled it and prevented it from weaving.”

“They are inspiring little mysteries and they have inspired me to become a detective here.”

Holly looked at Verity. “A detective?”

She smiled. “Why not? You were one when we were in the waking world, and you a brilliant one.”

“I never thought you’d want to do it.”

“I had many responsibilities back then. First my career, and then when I married Norton, he had been physically weakened by the horrid abuse his captors had done to his body. He had been traumatized, but determined never to hold me back, and then we had our boys and our novels. We joined you on your little mysteries frequently, and we enjoyed them, but we also had to guard our own from predators, and we had to guide the Heights to make it strong and prepared. Now that we are free from those responsibilities, we can indulge any way we wish. Jane has her Matriarchal duties. Nana has returned to look after Viking Island. Vendel is still chronicling the Fallen. You have glitches to explore. I need my own purpose, Beloved Holly, and it is to be a detective of the Otherworldly.”

Just then, Norton came over, placed his arm around his wife’s waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What’s going on?”

“I have decided to become a detective in this realm.”

“Whatever for?”

“To amuse myself.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“I think I may have a mystery for you to solve already.”

“Yes, darling?”

“My chest feels funny.”


“It hasn’t stopped tickling me since we came back.”

“Have you been thinking of something humorous?”

“The idea of Vendel and I being related by marriage is quite strange…”

Verity watched as Norton suddenly made a comical face of surprised and looked around.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, but I’ll be back, Verity.”

“What is it, darling?”

“I have to jump over this roman numeral because I think I have stumbled on to something important.”


“Excuse me? You, the one typing.”

“What is it, Norton?”

“You’re the Author of this story, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Can you hear me?”

“I can read your words as I type them.”

“What was the meaning of having me lose my left leg? That wasn’t very nice.”

“I hadn’t thought of going to that extreme, but when I was writing Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations, my own grandmother had her own leg amputated, and then I dealt with her loss that way, and the story made more sense.”

“That’s still a rotten thing to do.”

“Listen, I gave your leg back to you; besides, it was a rotten thing to have happened to a nice lady like her.”

“So, what now?”

“What do you mean what now?”

“What bad thing is going to happen to me now? I became a cat burglar, got arrested, tortured, nearly killed, went through a war zone, was murdered…”

“And you’re still a living figment whom I adore. What happens to you in paradise is going to be surreal and fun. Besides, you have the love of your life by your side, and Verity loves you. What more do you want?”

“I wish I could meet you to see what you’re like. Are you more like Verity or Holly?”

“Everyone says I am just like Holly.”

“Interesting. How did you come up with her?”



“She came to me in a dream, and so did Verity in another dream, but they weren’t presented to me as sisters. When I started writing, Verity was never supposed to be present in my stories, but then I changed my mind. Holly and Eli would talk about her, but she would not be a character.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing because then I wouldn’t be mentioned in those stories.”

“You would have as Hammond Hughes.”

“What about Norton Dunlop?”

“That was another character separate from the Hammond Hughes stories. Norton was supposed to go to jail and die. The end.”


“I took two different characters and then merged them: villain and a hero. That’s how you got a second reprieve.”

“What do you mean second?”

“After I wrote the Turning Leaves, I thought you had another story in you; so I wrote one more where you didn’t die after all, but would have after a botched assignment, and then realized I was too hard on you, and then saw what you had in common with Hammond Hughes and inspiration struck.”

“The man divided?”


“So the Turning Leaves is the story where I began?”

“Yes, and then the Man with the Broken Stick, but then I was inspired to write a novel called Dr. Verity Lake’s Journey of a Thousand Revelations where your heart and soul spoke to me, and I learned to appreciate you. Then came the novella The Future According to Hammond Hughes, and all those stories based on your three sons.”

“I am in shock.”

“It was your sweet disposition from both your halves that told me there was more to you than being a mere thief.”

“So, you write the way I wrote. My characters did the same thing with me.”

“We have that in common, and from that, a bond.”

“I understand it completely. It’s the same way I feel about Pillar Rivers. So, if I have a need to talk to you, will you be there for me?”

“Of course, Norton. As long as I am alive.”

“Please be kind to my boys and my wife.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t do something to tear us apart.”

“Your marriage is safe, Norton. I know it means the world to you and Verity.”

“I didn’t like that whole part where I was coming on to Holly in that story where I stole a book, the Turning Leaves. That was so shameful.”

“All right, Norton.”

“That was also very cruel and disrespectful, and I wasn’t even in love with her. I knew it was just not like me in the slightest.”

“I got the memo.”

“And marrying me to some very mean woman was just horrible.”

“Do you even remember her?”

“No, but I know it happened, and that was just not the kind of dramatic plot twist I would have ever signed up for. I am a very romantic fellow, you know, and a bad marriage is just not in the cards for a passionate man like me.”

“Point taken.”

“I mean, I love Verity with all my heart.”

“I was there when you proposed to her, Norton.”

“Were you there on our wedding night?”

“I wrote about it…”

“Oh, why?”

“Because it was part of the story.”

“Look, just because you’re the author, it doesn’t mean that we don’t need ground rules: no writing about our love lives. It’s too…too…”


“Don’t say it!”

“For a figment, you are very bossy. I have cats for that.”

“I am lobbying for our rights, you know.”

“You ought to go over to the stories of the Dream Detective. Her friend Atticus the Soulfinder is an advocate for figments. I am going to bed, Norton. It is past two o’clock in the morning, and besides house hunting, I have homework to finish from Harvard University. I will write the last scene of you and Verity dancing together in paradise. All right?”

“Then, I’m off to the last segment of this story.”

“See you on the other side of the roman numeral, my friend.”



“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Alexandra Kitty.”

“That is a very nice sounding name, Alexandra.”

“Thank you.”

“So why did you give me a name like Norton Dunlop?”

“It was symbolic. Norton means a farm to the north. Dunlop means a muddy hill.”


“Anything else?”

“No, I want to dance with my wife in paradise as we bask in our love and good fortune. It’s what every good-hearted man could ever ask for, and you gave to me. Thank you, and good night and pleasant dreams!”

“Is that supposed to be a sly reference to one of my other stories?”

“What other story? The one about the dream detective?”

“We’ll talk about that some other time. Your sweetness awaits you!”


Verity chuckled as Norton told her of his exchange with their Creator as they danced in the home on Viking Island.

“It is a she?” Verity asked they waltzed effortlessly across the floor.

“And her name is Alexandra.”

“It is a lovely name.”

“I thought so.”

“It must have been quite the exchange.”

“I didn’t know someone could just go and do that – talk to the one who created you, and then they talked right back, and had nice things to say about you. I am starting to enjoy our second spell in the Otherworldly.”

“As am I, darling.”

“We all seem to have new things to occupy our time. Holly has her glitches, Vendel is back chronicling the Fallen, Jane is our Matriarch, I have made a major discovery in how we came to be, and you have a new job as a detective.”

Verity kissed Norton on the lips. “As thrilling as our new escapades shall be, I would rather be dancing with you here. I always knew you were a strong and capable dancer.”

“I used to enjoy it as I wasted it on those I never loved, and when we finally got together, my cane got in the way. Now, where were, Sweetness?”

“In paradise, my darling. In paradise.”

And the two danced as they laughed and swayed to the rhythm of their hearts and souls as the Author smiled as she felt those figments’ kindness and love.

But just as Verity touched Norton’s chest, she jolted her head back.

“Norton, I do believe I have solved the mystery of why your chest feels funny.”

Norton stopped dancing. “Don’t keep loving and devoted husbands in suspense.”

“I do believe there is a small child in there.”

“A small child?” Norton gasped with a comical expression of shock on his face, “Now how could there be a…”

Just then, a beam of light flew out of Norton’s chest and when the light vanished, a small boy appeared before them. Verity looked surprised, but Norton gasped and began to weep as he crouched down and held the boy tightly.

“Billy!” he shouted as the boy cried, “How did you get in there?”

“When I hung myself, I saw myself there, and when I was floating to go away forever, you came into my room and tried to save me, and I jumped in your heart and stayed there.”

Verity crouched down and caressed the boy’s head as she looked at her husband. “This is the young orphan you were asked to study, but could not find an adoptive home after his parents were murdered.”

Norton nodded he kissed the boy and continued to hold him. “You’ve no idea how happy you have made me just now, Billy. I never forgot you. I always mourned you, and my last novel when I was alive, I wrote about a little boy named Billy because it was the light I could light to keep you alive in the world.”

“You did that?” asked Billy who nuzzled in.

“I wish I was a braver man back then. I was just a psychology student who stole from people, and if I had the courage back then I would have fought to adopt you.”

“You can adopt me now, can’t you?”

“What about your parents?” asked Verity, “We would love nothing more, but your parents would long to see you again.”

“I don’t remember who they are anymore. It’s been too long.”

Verity and Norton looked at each other and smiled as they nodded in unison.

“Well then, Billy,” Norton said brightly as he lifted the boy up as he sprang to his feet, “You’re our son now.”

Billy looked at Verity. “Is she your wife?”

“My wife, my best friend, my hero, my partner in mischief, my everything.”

“Do you have any kids.”

“Three grown boys still in the waking world,” said Verity, “Winslow, Malcolm, and Rufus.”

“Can I call you daddy and mommy?”

“That’s what sons do best,” said Norton.

“You used to tell me the best stories in the world,” said Billy.

“We both can tell you all the stories you like, but we can also be in stories together, Billy.

“What kind of stories?”

“Well, Verity has decided to become a detective.”

Billy’s face lit up. “Wow, that’s exciting.”

“It is quite thrilling, but perhaps the mystery we should solve is finding out who you are and what you wish to be now that you are here with us. There is always an escapade on Viking Island, and many people who would love to get to know you.”

“Viking Island? Is it dangerous here?”

“It may be the strangest place of them all,” said Norton as he looked up and winked as he smirked, “But I have an in with the Author, and She promises never to make our adventures here dreadful ones.”

Billy sighed in relief as he held Norton tighter, relieved that his biggest wish had come true as Norton sighed dreamily as he looked lovingly at his wife. Their lives were always eccentric in the waking world, and yet it would be their afterlife that took all of those eccentricities to a whole new level – and Norton could hardly wait…


=3The Beginning0=

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Twenty-Five: Journalism never got out of the Stone Age. Neither did j-schools.

Journalism is still a very misogynistic industry.

The managanda from the National Post is obnoxious, and the fact that they pay women to spew self-loathing propaganda doesn’t make it okay.

The structure is still Patriarchal. The assumptions are still skewed and rigged to favour those who oppress others. You can pretend to be politically correct all you want, but if you have a system that shames people for thinking differently than you do, then you are not a free or democratic society.

And sexist it remains. We see articles on white male doctors who have breakthroughs, but I doubt you know Person #23 on the List of People Everyone should know.

Dr. Jane C. Wright.


You may have heard of her breakthrough treatment from the 1940s.


That’s right, for those of you who fought against cancer and won thanks to that treatment, that’s the African-American woman who saved your life.

Yet do we talk about her at all? Do you know who we are discussing?


Not at all.

The whitebread folks never do.

Women have a lot to contribute, but when they do, they are not appreciated.

And it takes years for them to be able to see their plans through.

I have been fighting that fight for over a quarter of a century.

Try getting j-schools to listen to a radical new approach to journalism.

I am white, but female, and the road is no easier for me.

And yet, Google sees me as a person of note.

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Twitter won’t give me a blue check mark, but the biggest search engine does.

And so does Bing.

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McMaster University recognized me with their Arch Award — and I was the first female to receive it.

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I am referenced in academic articles. I am referenced in serious scholarly books. I have students from Ivy League schools interview me for their own scholarly work. I give talks, as I did to one lovely book club yesterday. I gave interviews.

And yet, I am shut out. Repeatedly.

My work is sound. My research goes beyond thorough — one of the members of yesterday’s book club marvelled at me having 61 pages of references.

Nice catch: I did have 61 pages of references; almost 14% of the book contains references I used.

That is thorough research.

I was as thorough with Chaser News, just as I was that thorough as an author, journalist, and academic student.

I use references from multiple countries and multiple languages. I use references from the distant past to the present. I have used interviews, studies, legislation, transcripts, you name it.

And I am certain many of you have stumbled upon my site, and have to click on the Who Is She? page to figure out who is this fiery woman who keeps saying journalism is dead?

How would she know?

I know because I am the creator of Method Research. I know because I have no trouble doing the legwork and seeing things up close for myself.

I work tirelessly on this problem and have done so for many years. I have had comments that I should be creating programs at the university level to change journalism’s ways.

And as I have said, I have.

Read When Journalism was a Thing, and see how much I have crafted the blueprints for such a thing. Read Don’t Believe It!: How lies become news because that is a textbook for information verification for journalists.

But I am routinely ignored.

I do not stop trying.

And I am still actively working on it. Chaser as well A Dangerous Woman Story Studio figure into F.R.E.E.D. and Matriarchal Storytelling and prominently so, and both have been around for a while now.

But unfortunately, too much of the toiling could be entirely avoided and placed where it should be placed: at creating something innovative and new — not having to create the space to make it.

And don’t think I am expecting a statue, building, or huzzahs for this work.

Dr. Wright invented chemotherapy, and you all still don’t even know her name…

Karma is a switch: why content of thought no longer matters. It is the structure that counts.



It is the Age of Propaganda where lies are believed and truths are feared.

The middle class — the soft layer who neither have to find where the path must go as the wealthy classes do, nor have to do the heavy labour of paving them as the poor do — are having meltdowns.

Once upon a time, the crib sheets for the soft layer came form journalism.

They had the façade of being authorities who knew what the fuck they were babbling about.

I learned as a teenager that it was pure bullshit, and I suddenly found myself no longer being of the same mindset of the rest of the middle class.

I had to find paths, and I had to make them.

My mother’s maiden name is Puharich — hard to pronounce unless you know the trick of saying it:

Poor are rich.

Then it’s a breeze.

Meaning I became an army of one woman. I was the general and the foot soldier and my method of combat was Method Research.

But I could think outside the box because I was Eastern European, which is another universe from Western European.

When arrogant morons talk about something being “Eurocentric”, they, in fact, are confessing to being culturally-illiterate trash who don’t know what the fuck they are are spewing.

What they mean is “Western Eurocentric”, because Western Europe sees Eastern Europeans as being lesser humans to them.

Yes, it’s true.

Fuck you.

East and West have nothing in common. Zero.

And if you say “I don’t" care”, what you are actually saying is that you are an ignorant dumb fuck who makes up your mind without any facts, sensitivity, intelligence, feelings, or basic logic or research skills.

Which is fine, you know how stupid you are. I am not going to argue with the level of your incompetence.

But do not expect me to have a grain of respect for you, either.

Deal with it.

But I do like facts and logic as well as emotionality.

Free will gives me superpowers.

And I see that the West has placed itself in a corner, and is once again eying fucking around with Serbia to get themselves out of their jam.

Except it is a different world.

It is not the 1990s where the Internet wasn’t entrenched in every day life as it is now.

And the tables are turning rapidly.


The usual suspects are not having an easy time these days.

And neither are journalists.


I have never lived a conventional life. I am Bohemian and eccentric.

But also extremely ambitious and logical.

I have always been a radical centrist: the best of both worlds for me.

And I am stubborner than the average Serb, making me somewhat a freak of nature.

Meaning I have had always to struggle more than what one would expect of someone who skipped multiple grades and excelled at being experimental and creative.

If I came from wealth, I’d have no trouble, but I am from a middle class social caste.

But I never resented fighting. Not once. My grandmother survived the Second World War where her entire family got slaughtered by fascists; so this isn’t as big of a deal.

Yet journalism is struggling to stay relevant. Watching Jim Acosta making a jackass of himself at that fateful briefing reminded me of my grade schools classes where you had some dumb, unruly boy not be civilized and thinks tweaking the teacher and not sitting in his seat is going to lead to him taking over the class and winning.

You know where it is going to end.

In grade school, the brat would be in trouble. Journalists got away with it for decades.

And now they don’t.

They lose their jobs and see their fortunes crumble even if they are inciting the masses with propaganda.

Something is happening in the world that is beyond anyone’s control, rich, poor, or middle class: things are turning on people in unlikely ways.

Social media is in the doghouse. Their influence is rapidly declining.

Journalism is an inert profession.

Some say karma is a bitch, but not quite.

Karma is a switch. Up is down and down is up.

Left is Right and Right is Left.


Because everyone is so focused on the content of their messages and thoughts, thinking they are different from their perceived rivals and enemies, but that’s bullshit.

Their structures are the same, meaning they are no different.

Rich is poor and poor is rich.

Left is Right and Right is Left.

And then there is the ambitious Bohemian in the Radical Centre.


I am still doing A Dangerous Woman Story Studio. I am resurrecting Chaser. I am doing other things, but the lone maverick Eastern European female is still in the middle of a war zone.

But she has other ideas now.

She is not going to fight battles.

She is about to dismantle wars.

And the way to do it is alchemy.

It took me years to develop an alternative to Patriarchal, they propagandist’s choice of structure.

And I did with Matriarchal.

Because until the structure of thought is confronted, there will be a never-ending war.

And fuck that shit.

I have turned on a switch, so to speak.

I made a vow a long time ago that I would see my purpose through, and I kept it.

The fact that I kept it through 2018 is no short of a miracle. I have proven that my word is my bond and that bond is made with gold.

And 2019 will be the year I breakthrough with both.

Because both challenge the propagandistic structures of patriarchal narratives.

I am not looking for applause, but improvements, innovations, and fortunes.

Journalism is still in the midst of the five stages of grief.

Denial has now turned to anger. We are in stage two almost in stage three of bargaining, where we have a few weasels thinking they can get some well-heeled propaganda-seekers into funding their garbage.

We still have depression and acceptance.

If you want to stick around for those downer things.

Not me. It is time for a switch.

It is time more levity, even as the world throws big hissies because all of the scripts they were bamboozled into following turned out to be bullshit.

You were played, middle class.

And are still being played as we speak.

So snap the fuck out of it. It’s making you look like nerds and goobers who don’t realize that scripts do not play in the real world.

But I play in the real world, and that’s all right by me…


The Women of Orchid: A Deific Pollination.


When she was still among the living, Belinda Markey was a famous Hollywood movie star. She was stunningly beautiful and had real talent as a thespian. She had a sweet smile and women around the world envied her glamourous lifestyle. Some called her the most beautiful woman in the world and it was not a stretch to see that she was.

They all thought she had it easy.

What the world didn’t know was that she was a lesbian who had been brutalized at the hands of her stepfather and his brothers, but her older brother was her guardian who protected her and then they ran away together. They were on the streets, but he sold himself and forbade Belinda from doing the same.

They were without protectors, and then he tried to ensure she had the beautiful and glamourous life as an actress because he thought that would bring her the happiest and most beautiful life in the world.

It never worked out that way. They both changed their names from Gordon and Janna Vine to Rod Hardstone and Belinda Markey. He toiled in adult movies, and never allowed her to tell anyone they were related.

He was murdered and she was forced to watch it, and then when she tried to avenge his death as she fought for her survival, she was murdered.

But the shock of being on the edge of Hell where she was to spend her eternal afterlife along with her brother who had already resigned to such a fate was catastrophic.

Until her soul felt a loving presence of a detective who was dispatched to solve Belinda’s murder and the kind-hearted sleuth saw Belinda as a benevolent soul.

And she broke away before she walked into the portal to Hell.

The love and admiration of a stranger gave her more than just willpower: it gave her purpose and inspired her.

That detective trying to solve her murder touched her soul, tearing down every fortress in time and space and Belinda’s heart became forever connected with a woman she never knew.

The detective was honest, dignified, clever, and brave, and was everything Belinda wasn’t, yet to the detective, Belinda was someone to cherish and celebrate for her essence. It was not to pity or judge; the detective somehow bonded to Belinda and now there was a link between the two women. The detective showed her that she was also honest, dignified, clever, and brave, but it manifested itself in its own ways and the detective admired her and vowed to do all she could to keep Belinda’s spirit alive.

It was Belinda’s awakening: the world was big and cold, but time and space could be brought together at a single point where two people could connect despite it all. She then took another look at the portal to Hell, laughed at those trying to drag her in by means of deceptions and empty threats, and promptly looked to make an afterlife for herself elsewhere. More specifically, one that used her talents and her heart to create meaning to others to give them the peace she never had. She had developed a link with the detective and the two seemed to subtly guide each other.

The link flowed strongly to this day: the detective inspired Belinda just as Belinda continued to inspire the detective. Their hearts never stopped chattering as they somehow got their hearts together and the detective decided it was far better to come on the scene before there was murder and help those stuck in abusive situations to get out.

It was Belinda Markey’s greatest magic act and her proudest achievement. Whatever her afterlife took her, she knew she had a friend who championed her as much as Belinda returned the favour.

But by then, she ran into another woman who was also mulling the future of her own afterlife.

Her name was Sharon Hedley and she was pregnant when she was murdered. The two had something else in common: the same gentle detective solved their murders, and did so with a perspective that opened their eyes to see themselves as being stronger and better than they ever saw themselves in their lives. While Belinda rejected the notion of spending her eternity in Hell, Sharon rejected the notion of spending her eternity in Heaven as Belinda was denied entry and she walked away in solidarity. They decided to strike out on their own together, bonded as friends, and found out they had many more things in common: they both wanted to find loved ones stuck in Hell and Heaven as Sharon’s unborn child died before she did, and they shared the orchid as their favourite flower.

They got to talking and it was then the two got ambitious: perhaps good and evil weren’t the designations the Otherworldly should focus on, but look at every person who were murdered.

And so, the Women of Orchid was born.

Their new activist job had a simple purpose: find every murder victim and bring them to another place in the Otherworldly: their own little garden they created themselves. For some, they could spend the rest of eternity here with those who shared their same final fate, but for others, it became a meeting place where they could use their essence to protect others from being taken down before their time.

To their absolute astonishment, no one had ever done it before, and the two women caused a shock and a scandal.

Now, the Otherworldly’s configuration was beginning to change in a short span of time. There were so many people who died at the hands of another that bringing them together was proving just how treacherous life could be at the hands of another human being. It showed the rich and the poor that when it came right down to it, they were vulnerable prey.

When those who aligned with their race or ethnicity were suddenly brought together by the Fallen, those lines in the sand suddenly erased.

Young, old, male, female, none of it mattered.

The were all the Fallen.

And they had an orchid pinned to their shirts to reveal the truth.

Those killed in a terrorist attack wore the same orchids as those starved by their parents or shot by a robber or spouse.

There may have been a thousand ways to be murdered, but the orchid spoke of a single outrage.

The Orchid became the symbol of all those who died by murder.

The Fallen began to make their home in the tiny garden where Belinda and Sharon planted their own spiritual roots: once they came to the garden, the person could leave, but most chose to stay because it was a message to the gods of their broken hearts and unanswered prayers.

Belinda and Sharon had two others who joined them on their quest: a murdered man by the name of Vendel Langston, a troubled professor who lived in Ottawa in the 1930s who was murdered and sent to Hell before he won his freedom on the outside, and Jenna Shaw, a young photojournalist from London who was given breast cancer by a secretive cabal as her own investigative story was close to revealing their existence and died from the disease in her late thirties. She left Heaven after sensing that Vendel was looking for someone to join their fight.

Both Vendel and Jenna were friends and invaluable Orchids who both knew about the injustices of the world, and while both had dedicated their waking lives to fighting in different ways, neither had ever expected they would be felled by the very injustice that moved them.

And though Vendel spent a spell in Hell and Jenna in Heaven, both were allies as they had the one thing in common that changed everything.

The Orchid.

Belinda looked around her and sighed sadly. There was too much to be done and four Orchids to fight a battle with pacifism. Violence ended their lives while each one was on the cusp of a breakthrough.

Belinda was about to break away from a brutal cabal that had enslaved her for her entire adult life as she made the decision to flee to a small city-state the cabal despised for protection.

Sharon was pregnant and decided to divorce her abusive and wealthy husband.

Vendel was about to walk away from drugs and the university that he felt was a sham and, ironically, make his way to the same city-state where the women he truly loved lived.

Jenna had begun to stumble on a peculiar story that would have exposed another cabal that controlled too much of the world, one that had an unnatural interest in her husband and his small family.

Just as each reach the same crossroads, they were destroyed.

And yet, it marked their beginning even as it marked their end.


If there was one pair of Orchids who mutually worshipped the other as a near deity, it was Belinda and Vendel. Vendel adored Belinda with deific passion as she was the one who inspired him to fight to get out of Hell. She became his goddess and the one he revered the most.

Belinda, on the other hand, loved Vendel and had wondered how differently her life in the waking world would have been if Vendel was her and Gordie’s father.

It was a peculiar thought, but the second she saw him, she felt it. She felt a familial connection. He understood her more than anyone else ever did, and she could see it all very clearly in front of her how both of them would have thrived with the other had the circumstances been different.

It was not to be in the waking world, and yet their peculiar bond thrived in the Otherworldly.

She did not like being away from him, but today, she had her job, and he had his: he was determined to create a tunnel where they could get into the layer of Hell where her brother Gordie refused to leave to rescue him, and then go to Heaven where they could find Sharon’s unborn child. Most times, unborn children would be returned for another chance on earth to be conceived by someone else, but there were exceptions, and Sharon’s final memory was of her infant kicking, and it was that kick that made her convinced this one refused to go back to some other family.

So far, he had managed to find materials to build it. It was not hard as the Otherworldly was filled with peculiar materials lying around unused as many deities were stripped of their powers of the Goditor, and their peculiar materials were no longer needed.

Vendel merely went to the Deific Junkyard, took as much as he could, and then began to build something.

Not a wall, but a tunnel.

But today, he felt as if he was missing the mark as he sat on the ground and tried to put the pieces together with Jenna helping him.

“What’s the matter, mate?” asked Jenna in her sprightly British accent.

Vendel looked around as he frowned. “We have hit a brick wall. We have truly gone as far as we can.”

“How so? This contraption of yours is sturdy…”

“But I have no idea where to put it or how it will go through either Heaven or Hell. The demons don’t like us because we don’t fear them. The gods fear us after the Monster of Unanswered Prayers devoured a slew of them.”

Jenna looked puzzled, “The Monster of Unanswered Prayers?”

“Thomasina Darlington’s pet puppy-like creature.”

That’s a monster? He is so sweet and friendly!”

“She tamed it.”

“That’s a goddess for you.”

“I wish She could go to rescue Belinda’s brother.”

“Maybe it’s not for Her to do it.”

“I keep hoping it will be one of us who does. Belinda is distressed about it, and I do not blame her. Hell is not a pleasant place to be. I’ve been there for decades, and if it weren’t for Belinda, Sharon, and Suki, I wouldn’t have pushed myself out.”

“So why doesn’t Gordie want to leave? He loves his sister, and if she is longing for him, he has to feel it. That should be the incentive to get out of that place. You didn’t have anyone on the outside, but you did it. If Belinda’s kindness stirred you, then why not Gordie?”

Vendel looked lost and shook his head. “There has to be more to it. There is something he’s not telling her – or us. There could be some sort of threat made, and he is protecting her.”

“She stood up to Hell and she stands up to gods. What’s bigger than defying them both?”

“I don’t know, Jenna. I was a JNE – Just Naughty Enough. I wasn’t in deeper layers, which concerns me.”

“You think he may have done something bad that Belinda doesn’t know about or could face.”

“She idolizes him. She knows him better than anyone else, and he is in a deeper layer of Hell, and he doesn’t push for a ticket out of there.”

“Could there be some sort of pull that compels people to stay and not walk out?”

“Anything at this point is possible. If I knew then what I know now, I would have been conducting research there and found truths. When I was alive, I was a professor who conducted studies. I wasn’t very good at it because my doctorate was in philosophy, but then when a visiting professor and her sister came for a year, I picked up her methods, and my abilities vastly improved. When I died, I thought all of that knowledge was for nothing, and didn’t apply myself.”

“But you could apply yourself now.”

“The problem is I can no longer go back to visit. If I could somehow conduct an experiment, I could gather truths, even in that den of lies.”

“You could teach someone the way that professor taught you.”

“They’d have to be on their way to Hell, and they wouldn’t be likely to be truthful or helpful.”

“What did you study, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not at all. I was studying the authoritative and tyrannical nature of police during protests. I observed and recorded actual demonstrations, and I…I…”

“You what?”

“Have stumbled upon a way to get Hell to open up its secrets to me.”


Belinda stared at Vendel as they sat in his clear spherical office. “You think we can get people to start a riot in Hell?”

“There are people who are always marching in there with some bee in their bonnet ready to prove they are mightier than the Devil himself. They are humbled within moments with an unpaid internship, but if there are enough of them, we could always speak to them before they enter. They won’t listen to reason or think of rejecting of entering as you did…”

“But if we can light a fire in Hell, we can start smoking out a few truths.”

“We need to start challenging various authorities in an indirect way in order to study how they rig their battlegrounds to maintain dominance. I used to study that as a professor, and once the department I taught was scuttled and I was shipped back to philosophy, I couldn’t do that anymore.”

“You talked about the strange department, but what was it?”

“It was called Philosology.”

“I never heard the word.”

“Most people didn’t. It was a peculiar mix of psychology and philosophy, which was a ridiculous notion as psychology had its roots in philosophy, so having an empirically-based philosophy was psychology. It was doomed from the beginning, but it was the only way a philosophy professor was going to get the chance to do that kind of research; so I took advantage of it.”

“And now you get to apply it in the Otherworldly.”

Vendel smiled. “It is almost as if it was meant to be this way, Belinda.”

“It’s a lot of work for the four of us, and it’s maddening. You’d think gods wouldn’t care or at least help us along. They all know what we went through and wanting no one else to go through it is not a bad or selfish thing. What a bunch of meddlers.”

“They have blacklisted us, and have decided to have nothing to do with us because we haven’t been playing by their autocratic rules and decrees, knowing full well all four of us were murdered by rule, decree, or both.”

Sharon came into Vendel’s office and sat down with her friends as she sighed.

“Tell me about it. Our problem is that we are not going to get any further unless we have a deity who sees the merit in our work. Vendel’s right: most of them don’t want to have anything to do with us after that whole god-eating episode, but there has to be one who is willing to help us.”

Vendel made a face. “But who? They all have their agendas, and see us as irritants who should retreat as we give up our hopes, dreams, and free will.”

Belinda thought for a moment before snapping her fingers and smiled. “Thomasina will join our cause.”

Sharon’s eyes widened, “The One they call Una et Dilectos? How can you be so sure? She’s a goddess who does Her own thing. I mean, She walks around in jeans and a t‑shirt!”

“Because She is a friend to demgels, and She was murdered when She was a mortal.”

Sharon nodded. “You’re right. She knows.”

“And She understands,” added Vendel.

“She also tamed that god-eating monster.”

“Thomasina has the right mindset.”

“You have some good ideas, sweetie.”

Belinda blushed as she looked proud. “Vendel can start a Hell riot, and find out some truths for us with Jenna. You and I can talk to Tommie Darlington to see if She wouldn’t mind having a few allies who need answers.”


Sharon and Belinda looked at Thomasina seemed in deep thought before She smiled and nodded. “I do understand your situation. When I was murdered, I waited for Clementine to come right after Me as I didn’t think she’d survive that attack, but George and his brothers protected her and saved her life. I finally met her when she died of a ripe old age, but had she gone to Heaven or Hell, it would have been agonizing for Me. So yes, of course I will help you four any way that I can, though I must warn you that I am also splitting My time between Earth and the Otherworldly trying to dismantle that very religion that was loosely based on My teachings. I may lose My powers, and that may make Me of limited value to you.”

Belinda nodded. “We are fine with that, believe us. We haven’t been around as long as You, but this is our first alliance with a god. We always thought we’d have to go this one alone, Thomasina.”

“Please, call me Tommie.”

“Thank you, Tommie. All we are looking for is my brother and Sharon’s baby. Vendel is building a drill that is attached to a tunnel so we can find Gordie and Sharon’s child in Hell and Heaven.”

“That is an ambitious undertaking.”

Sharon smiled. “And he is also trying to start a riot in Hell.”

“A riot? Gracious, whatever for?”

“To study how Hell reacts. If we had some notion of their strategies, then we can account for them and come up with our own counterstrategies.”

“You four are ambitious. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” said Belinda, “We truly owe You, and if there is anything we can do for You, give us the word.”

“I’ll have my Messenger Denny Garber give you ladies messages as I am rarely on this side of the realm these days. Your friend Jenna was familiar with him, as I am sure you two are aware, and he would be thrilled to come visit you, considering he was murdered the same way all of Us were when We were alive in the waking world.”


Jenna squealed in delight as she jumped and clapped her hands. “Denny’s going to be here? That’s fantastic news!”

Within seconds, Denny showed up at Vendel’s office as his old friend looked overjoyed at the sight.

“Denny!” Jenna shouted she ran up to hug her own friend who returned the embrace. “I am so happy to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you, too,” he said warmly as Jenna introduced him to Belinda and Sharon. He whistled when he saw Belinda.

“Man, I used to have a serious crush on you when you were an actress. You are even more gorgeous in person. You must have had a lot of men at your feet.”

Belinda smirked. “And not one of them got any further than that.”

Denny’s eyes widened. “You’re gay?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Destroy my teenaged fantasies, why don’t you? Is Sharon your girlfriend?”

“No. She’s not gay.”

“So, you two are just friends?”

“Best friends.”

“You two seem very different…”

“We were both murdered, Denny,” said Sharon, “Whatever differences we had in life were gone once we came to the Otherworldly. It’s funny how everything becomes meaningless when they served as no barrier to someone who wants to see you dead.”

“We have more in common than not,” said Belinda, “We were both murdered, we both lost loved ones over here, we both defied our eternal fates, we both love orchids, and our murders were solved by the same detective…”

Sharon looked at Denny before turning to Belinda, “He’s murder was solved by her, too.”

Belinda jolted as she looked intense. “It was.” She became excited, “Jenna knew her, and you did, too.”

Denny looked surprised before he laughed. “Hey, that’s right. I had no idea, and then when you said it, it’s like I always knew it.”

“It’s a funny trick in this realm,” said Sharon, “You begin to develop a sense for some things without knowing them before, but other things are an enigma.”

Belinda look deep in thought. “It’s funny how so many of our connections have to do with that detective. Our murders were solved by her. Jenna was related to her by marriage, but she doesn’t realize Jenna was murdered just yet. She worked with Denny, and solved his death, and Vendel’s colleague was her great-grandmother, and yet, she doesn’t know who actually murdered him.”

“And Tommie is her ancestor,” said Denny, causing all three women to gasped as they shouted, “What?”

“It’s true,” said Denny, “But that detective – as you call her – doesn’t know of Her at all. She doesn’t know that religion has some sort of obsession with her family. Tommie figured it out when She came back to the waking world, but even She doesn’t understand all of it just yet.”

“That explains why She was willing to help us,” said Sharon, “It’s the same connection. Tommie’s one thread, and all of us are another.”

Jenna sighed. “That means I was related to one of her ancestors by marriage. All this time I had a huge perk, and I never even knew it.”

Belinda winked. “She’s our ally. She knows we like a couple of her descendants: our detective, Vendel’s unrequited crush, and we had no clue until now. We’ve always been orphans in this realm, and this changes everything. We just have to make the most of it, and hope we can help Tommie any way we can.” She turned to Denny. “That’s our message to Her, new friend.”

“Cool. I’ll let Her know when She comes in to check Her messages.”

Jenna waved to the group. “I’ve got to go help Vendel with his experiment. We’ll let you all know how it goes.”


Vendel and Jenna watched the scene near the Portal to Hell from the Sorting Station where the recently arrived came to find their eternal resting place. They pinned orchids on the murdered, but this time, whenever someone was making a beeline for Hell, the two Orchids would implore the person to turn around and fight to stay on the outside.

Between the shock of being murdered and the indignance of being warned not to go to Hell because Hell had no parties or debauchery, just gruelling and boring unpaid internships, the new arrivals refused to listen to the repeated heartfelt warnings.

It was predictable on one level, but when those who wished to party in Hell were given tomes of paperwork to fill to apply for unpaid internships, they were enraged.

Usually, they were broken and crushed, but that a former bookish professor and an equally intelligent former photojournalist who both looked like naïve goody two shoes were more street smart than the mobsters and killers, that was an absolutely humiliating blow.

Hell had been the goal for many, and now they had to be marked with some girly flower in on their lapels as they toiled filing papers and taking dictation. There was no having cool demons as pets. There was no promiscuous women to torture and bed. There was only unpaid internships in miserable positions.

And those two straight-laced flower people knew it all along.

Worse, one of the future residents in Hell flat-out asked Vendel what would he know about Hell, to which he coolly replied that he had spent decades in there before winning his freedom.

That meant he was not the rube they had believed him to be.

It became an ugly scene where the newest arrivals began to scream and throw fits as they were being dragged in by bored demons who were vexed at the tantrums.

It was loud and distressing, but somehow, the protests did not seem to produce any usual data. The demons were as stony-faced as ever and had no trouble dragging in their latest residents.

Jenna frowned. “Well, that didn’t go to plan.”

Vendel raised an eyebrow. “We could talk to the JNEs at the edge, or at least, observe them. That was the way Belinda and Sharon talked to me, and how you talked to Denny.”

The two made their way to have a peak in Hell, but the usual small gatherings of JNEs were no longer there.

“That’s odd,” said Jenna, “I wonder if they were removed.”

“You go to the edge because the inside is soul-crushingly boring.”

“So something else is happening in there.”

“Something that deviates from the norm.”

“The problem is that we aren’t privy to any of it.”

“But we’ll hear about it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the loudest ones were wearing our orchids, and they are going to claim victimhood and use those flowers as proof that they do not belong in there. Hell will be livid at us, and let us know. We have to be careful…”

“We don’t want Gordie to become a bargaining chip in all of this mess.”

“But if we play our cards right, he will see those orchids and know Belinda is not going to rest until he is out there.”

“It’s like we’re pollinating Hell with those flowers.”

“It is a deific pollination. We can do the same thing for those going to Heaven. If we start getting to them both in a more confrontational way, they will begin to feel threatened that our strain of defiance is getting deeper into their layers.”

“We are making serious trouble.”

“It is the only kind worth making. My only regret is that I didn’t make serious trouble when I was still alive.”

“Ah, you have an eternity to catch up.”

Vendel leaned on Jenna and kissed her check as she leaned on him and patted his arm.


Sharon sighed. “I have to admit, Belinda, there hasn’t been a dull moment since I ran into you. You are a clever one.”

“I survived on the streets, Sharon. What’s making our way through the universe in comparison? Once I realized that death isn’t the end, I stopped being afraid.”

“Vendel and Jenna weren’t afraid today.”

Belinda smirked. “What did our favourite human thesaurus call it?”

“A deific pollination.”

“We have demgels, and now who knows what our orchids will flower in those places.”

“Hopefully the two people we want in our lives.”

“Heaven and Hell are going to get mad at us.”

“At least we have Tommie in our corner.”

“We’ll owe Her.”

“I’m okay with it.”

“Me, too. I’m glad I met you, though. Pulling something like this on my own would have been terrifying to me when I was alive, but with you, it’s an escapade. You really are the best friend I ever had. You’re up for anything.”

“And you’re the best friend I ever had. I mean it, sweetie. You’re the sister I always wanted.”

Belinda beamed with pride, “And you’re my best friend and sister, too. I never thought in a million years I’d have one ounce of peace, and you’ve given me the serenity I never had.” She gave Sharon a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s go see if we can help Vendel with his strange tunnel. We have another orchid to plant in our garden, and my detective friend on the other side is going to bed soon, and we always have a nice little chat in her dreams.”

“You enjoy that.”

“She always listens to me, and she doesn’t even have to see me to do it.”

“I wish she had some ideas about springing our family. I am so worried I’ll never see my child. That would be a victory for that horrible man I married.”

“We’ll find that kid. If Tommie and her daughter reunited, you and your child will, too.”

“What about your brother? Do you think he’ll ever get out of Hell and join us?”

“He will, just as I know your daughter will sneak out of Heaven and find her way to you.”

Sharon sighed. “She went in without realizing I wasn’t going there. I just wish I knew before she had the chance to get inside.”

“Gordie was murdered in front of me, and I lived a long time after that. I had no way of knowing or saying to him not to go to Hell. Never in a million years did I think he deserved to go there after everything he did to protect me.”

 The two women looked at each other sadly, and embraced. They were a family in their own right, but longed to make it a bigger one with those they loved in the waking world. They knew in their hearts they were making progress, but it was slow going and it pained their hearts all the same.


The Wink scurried over to his master who was busy studying military plans on his wall. The other thirty-nine Winks were all terrified of their ruler, but this Wink seemed to be the bravest of the cowardly lot.

“Sir,” the Wink said, “The Orchids have made an alliance with The Frightful One.”

General Rem cursed. “That cursed flame-haired witch retreated into Eden and I thought she’d stay there forever. Now that she’s awakened, she is ruining everything. Those Orchids are nothing but Trouble – the lone male in the group is close friends with the Dream Detective, and I’ve a feeling he is seeking ways to repay her for her kindness. If the Sparrow and her former flame get back together, it ruins everything.”

“I thought you said your nightmare elixir’s effects were permanent.”

“So long as no deity is made aware of it. The Orchids are far shrewder than they look, particular their leader. She was supposed to be an obedient sister and follow her brother into Hell. I knew then she’d be nothing but trouble.”

“And her blonde companion?”

“She is just as feral as her friend. They’re sisters-in-arms and they have disrupted the Otherworldly with their insolence. Worse, they brought those other two rabble-rousers to cause more anarchy. The Otherworldly is supposed to slumber in pleasant enigmas, not become enraged and devoured everything in its wake. If they figured out the Otherworldly is a spirit and not a place…”

“Then what?”

“Reality alters, and then my plans to take it as my slave are jeopardized for good. We have to sow seeds of discord between the Frightful One and the Orchids, particularly the one with the one blue eye and the one brown eye. Her I would relish to destroy for her insolence. There is no other way to rid myself of them all.”


Clementine Darlington sat on the edge of Eden to have a good, long think. She was the daughter of the Goddess Thomasina, and it was still a sad life to grow up never knowing the mother who was murdered protecting her. Clementine grew up with seven schizophrenic brothers whom her Mother protected as She hid them, and they raised her with devotion, love, and appalling permissiveness.

She learned seven languages by the time she was five. They doted on her education and spiritual guidance. For a group of insane men who spent their entire lives being disfigured and tortured in a dungeon by their rapist father and mother’s kidnapper and captor, they were very wise and loving fathers to her.

They let her get away with appalling antics because she was their only connection to her beloved Mother. Clementine couldn’t complain, and when she finally joined her Mother in Eden, they hit it off immediately.

Now they were separated and the idea saddened her once again.

Her Mother did pop in to visit. She now had a very attractive black man named Denison who worked as Her Messenger, though he seemed to have ideas of his own, and exercised them frequently, and it was always an escapade with him.

But Clementine had been a keeper of a secret that she had told no one before, and now she wished she told her Mother before the business of stopping that religion became a priority.

That the Otherworldly wasn’t so much a place, but a person. A spirit.

Clementine knew as she was an alchemist, and alchemists knew that everything had a spirit; so it stood to reason so did the Otherworldly. Her first experiment was a resounding successful.

But it was a very strange spirit to say the least.

It had an unproducible name, and a very peculiar personality, and considering that Clementine was raised by seven schizophrenic men who had delusions of being her Mother’s monks, it was saying something about the eccentricity of the Otherworldly.

For one, it talked. A lot. It had a peculiar sense of humour, and always liked stories, magic shows, and flowers.

It also had a crush on some man named Vendel Langston.

It fell in love with the man who came all the way from Hell to be manly and yet be known as an Orchid, as he openly worshipped its leader as his own personal goddess whom he revered.

That apparently, was the sign of a perfect soul.

But the Otherworldly also knew he was in love with someone else, and realized human-realm relationships weren’t logistically feasible, and no hard feelings.

But the Otherworldly had all sorts of questions to Clementine, who, despite being very clever, didn’t know the answers.

She had to consider her options before she could start answering some very silly questions from the most uninhibited place ever created.

She wished she could ask her Mother because if anyone had the answer, it was Her…

Marvellous Suki‑Chan’s Most Epic Hellescape!: Take A Hint, Baby! We’re All Rooting For You!


Suki was sitting up in her bed that was shaped as a bouquet of roses with the sign “No pricks allowed!” as part of her headboard. She thought it was funny. She was a demgel and as such, she wasn’t a female per se, though she had a form of a drop dead gorgeous one. She didn’t have the parts and also didn’t have romantic drives as they were completely unnecessary for a being not made to procreate. The first man who she rejected on the account that demgels didn’t have sex or anything like that screamed of course this had to be Hell when the woman of his dreams turned out not to be a woman at all. She thought he was being melodramatic, but people in Hell tended to be very whiny to their own detriment.

Suki was not whiny. She was perky, and a happy and helpful demgel. She loved to help weirdoes in need in Hell in order for the Just Naughty Enoughs to get rehabilitated and out of here so they could do something else with the rest of their afterlife than be an unpaid intern in Hell.

All jobs in Hell were unpaid internships. There was always a promise to find a real position, but that was just a flat-out lie. There never were any full-time positions in Hell. Everyone was precariously employed and an unpaid intern at the same time, and people always needed multiple unpaid internships just to make ends meet.

And that was a real thing in Hell.

No one would dare quit all of their unpaid internships.

Suki was not an unpaid intern. She had a real job and the hippest job in Hell.

She was the hostess of a game show called The Marvellous Suki-Chan’s Most Epic Hellescape! Where the winner got a ticket out of Hell. Three contestants would vie for the prize through an obstacle course, and the one who weighed less than the Anubis feather would be sent back into the tumbler called Earth to be reborn.

There were no return customers, but only one decided not to be reborn as he became an advocate for those who were murdered in the waking world in the Otherworldly. Vendel was epically weird, but became such a good man that he was renowned in the afterlife as a beloved patriarchal of the Fallen, and Suki was proud of him.

Today she hoped that the lucky winner would finally get himself out of his epically sad funk. He was a good man in the waking world, but when he tried to infiltrate a street gang to expose them as he was a newspaper journalist, they got him hooked on drugs and he could never break his addiction, alienating his closest friends, never getting with his true love, and then getting murdered just as he realized how far he had gone, but then he was in Hell as a JNE, and he became dejected ever since.

But even in Hell, he had people in the Otherworldly root for him. One of his friends who had also died young, left heaven to join Vendel as part of the Women of Orchid, and she talked to him at the border of Hell, and began to inspire him.

He became strong enough to try as a contestant, and Suki rooted for him, but could never rig the game for him to win it.

He had to win it by genuine means, and the incentive for winning was suggested to Suki by no other than Vendel himself.

There was a Goddess in town called Tommie and She had lived in Eden, not wanting to be a goddess until the religion She inspired got epically mean, and She was mad. She decided to take the religion by the dogma, and that meant leaving Eden to start being an official goddess.

That meant She would need a Messenger.

When Suki heard about it, she thought perhaps a reformed JNE would be appropriate: they knew what Hell was like. They’d know the tricks it used to interfere with deific messages, and if they could get out of here, they’d also know how to counter them or prevent them from sabotaging them in the first place.

Suki wouldn’t rig the results and had two other equally worthy contestants who could also do the job, but her heart rooted for one more than the others, but she could be wrong, and she’d let the future decide what was best.

In the meantime, she had a visitor to greet ad she was excited to do it.


Suki danced around the room when her guest finally arrived. “Tom‑Tom! I am so epically happy to see You, baby!” she said as she ran with her arms open and gave her good friend an epically big hug.

The Tom-Tom in question was Thomasina Darlington, the Goddess in need of a Messenger. Tom-Tom was a casual deity, in plain blue jeans and a t-shirt, though She looked like a runway model with Her good looks, poise, and confidence.

“Thank you so much for suggesting this idea, Suki,” said Tommie as Suki invited her to sit down in her sunflower-themed living room where both the chairs and table looked like giant sunflowers where a sunflower-shaped tray had sunflower-themed cupcakes, “I am new to exercising My deific powers…”

“No, problem. You need an epically fun weirdo to get your message out. With all those normal people in the waking world getting offended over nonsense, they need someone to wake up their hearts before they all get themselves killed and wind up as unpaid interns here. They won’t be lucky to be labelled JNE, but TSTBG.”


“Too Stupid To Be Good. That is, like, one step above the Place Below Hell, and that is really, really, really…really bad.”

“Suki, just how many designations are there in Hell?”


“Of course.”

“9,946,258,13,666,901,472,199,631 and All That Jazz.”

“All That Jazz?”

“It’s the catchall designation for evil people who thought being a jazz snob made them immune to an eternity in Hell, where all jazz is just off-key disco.”

“I see. But there are that many designations?”

“Yeah, and I know them all in order, too.”

“You are to be commended for your extraordinary ability to retain so much information.”

“It used to three times that, but the demgels have been working hard to lower that number as we help people become less evil here.”

“Well, if I can help get another person out of here, I will be more than happy to bring another soul another chance.”

Suki giggled as she pounced Tom-Tom to hug Her because when it came to epically eccentric and trail-blazing benevolent weirdoes, Suki always loved them the besterest. Tom-Tom giggled as She returned the hug and the kindest vote of confidence one could give. Hell may have been a grim and gloomy place, but Suki’s brave goodness made sure the darkness stood no chance to her light.


Hell sucked, thought Denny Garber as he looked at the edge of Hell, waiting for his old friend Jenna Shaw to come to the edge to talk to him. She was one of the Women of Orchid, and though she also died young, she went to heaven until something compelled her to leave, where she found her calling consoling and helping people who died as a result of murder.

It was the reason she sought him out: both of them were murdered in different ways. He was given a lethal line of cocaine, a habit he could never kick, and the reason he ended up in Hell as a JNE.

That, and holding a grudge against one of his closest friends who did not tell him of her secret plans of infiltrating a wicked cabal in order to expose them.

She couldn’t divulge it, and Denny knew it. He knew exactly why she kept quiet, and what she was doing, but Denny just lashed out at her, isolated her, and then tried to bully her other close friend to do the same thing.

That’s what got him into Hell, and the worst thing was that he damn well knew, she’d forgive him, and fight for his release. She didn’t hold a grudge.

She loved him enough to repeatedly encourage him to date her widowed mother, even though there was both a racial and an age difference.

And Denny pushed away his dream life, and was now stuck in an eternal nightmare.

Jenna was given a deliberate cancer to kill her, but Heaven wasn’t doing it for her, and she decided to console the Fallen with her new friends, yet still encouraged Denny to break out, but she didn’t understand why he was frozen in place.

He was obsessed with the citizens here with him. He watched them break and crumble as they at first thought they were wronged, and then came to the realization why they were in essence evil. One man was sent to Hell because he refused to talk to journalists who were covering his wife in a negative way even though she was being smeared by her wealthier rivals. He said he was trying to protect her, but he wanted her harmed and traumatized so he could control her and prevent her from being more successful than he was.

Once upon a time, Denny was a journalist. He would have seen through the man’s ruse, and exposed him.

The man deserved to be in Hell.

But he deserved it, so did Denny.

Jenna would chastise him, and she consoled him. She made the effort to come to the edge to stand in solidarity with him.

She never abandoned him.

Worse, the woman he wronged mourned his loss, and he felt it.

And that hurt more than anything else: he wronged her, turned his back on her, caused her distress that could have made her vulnerable, and spoke ill of her, and yet she mourned his death and avenged it.

He looked down and frowned.

Hell was Hell for a reason.

But Jenna came with news for him: he was selected to be a contestant on Hell’s game show where the winner got a ticket out of here. Usually, the prize was reincarnation, but this episode, the prize was to be the official messenger to a awakened Goddess who was in the market for a brass and creative messenger who wasn’t afraid to tell it like it is.

Jenna even played dirty, by telling him she knew that the woman he wronged would want it.

He tried to imply the woman was just some sort of Mary Sue virtue-signaller, but then remembered there was no way she could possibly know where Denny was, and wasn’t particularly religious, either. She wouldn’t think about a Goddess’s messenger needs, or that Hell had a game show where you could escape it.

And if she were to proffer a theory about Denny’s afterlife whereabouts, she’d surmise that he was in Heaven.

She was hurt, not angry, and not vindictive.

But Jenna’s dirty trick did the job: he was going to go for it, even if he thought it was an exercise in futility.


The audience cheered as Suki-Chan and Madame Coccinelle came on the stage.

“Are we ready for an epically good time, baby?”

“Yay!” cheered the demons in the crowd.

“Good, because this a special edition: the winner gets to become a messenger for very nice Goddess!”

“Ooo!” shouted the crowd.

“Now, here are our three contestants: Desmond Ashcraft, Rhys Crowley, and Denison Garber!”

“Woo woo!” yelled the crowd.

“Why don’t our contestants introduce themselves?”

The first British man spoke first. “My name is Desmond Ashcraft and when I was alive, I was the head of a ruthless cartel and tried to kill a female psychologist and her male amputee companion repeatedly during the Second World War because my grandfather hated her grandmother. I died when that cartel blew up my airplane, and I realized I wasted my entire life because I believed a senile old man.”

“Yay!” shouted the crowd.

The second British man introduced himself. “My name is Rhys Crowley and I was a thug who happened to be in the same cartel around the same time, and when I was younger, I killed an undercover agent, and then stole ideas as I became a ruthless tycoon in Toronto. I had every intention of killing the secret son of the police officer just as I kept right on killing people who got in my way, but then an undercover agent infiltrated my company, posing as the new secretary and I was so madly in love with her, I was willing to leave it all behind, but then even though she confronted me, I became in more in love with her, but unfortunately, I plunged to my death before I could declare my love and tell her I never took her act against her.”


Denny frowned. He was a black man of modest origins and not some fancy rich British white man. Worse, his death was far less glamourous than the other two, and he wasn’t ever in any cartel. Even in the afterlife, rich white men had all the advantages.

He sighed as he spoke dejectedly, feeling inadequate. “My name is Denison Garber and I was a newspaper reporter in Canada, and I got hooked on drugs trying to infiltrate a street gang because I wanted to do an exposé on them. I became mean to my friends, and died when I overdosed on cocaine in a motel room. I’m real sorry that I disappointed my folks, was mean to nice people, and never apologized for any of it.”

“Yay!” cheered the crowd.

“You know how this game goes,” said Suki, “We have an obstacle course all three contestants go through, and at the end of the game, we weigh them on the Scale of Anubis with the feather, and whoever weighs the same or less than the feather wins!”
Madame Coccinelle swanned on the stage holding the feather in her revealing black and red outfit.

“Ooo!” shouted the crowd.

“Are you ready?” asked Suki-chan.

When everyone cheered, a large tub of goo was wheeled into the centre of the stage by Madame Coccinelle.

“Here’s the deal,” Suki said to the contestants, “You will all jump into this vat of goo where there are three sleeping demons. You have to find the demon, and bring him back up to the surface.”

The three contestants made faces of disgust, but as the reward was a ticket out of Hell, no one refused the peculiar request.

The three men climbed up three colourful ladders that had steps that were shaped in the letters of their first names.

They all jumped in at the count of three and began to swim in the goo that was very ticklish.

“Stop! Stop!” laughed Rhys, “This is too much!”

“I never knew I was this ticklish,” chortled Desmond, “It is a confounded inconvenience!”

Denny would have laughed except he was too sad to do so. He bumped into Rhys, and suddenly, Rhys looked serious.

“Your touch makes it stop.”

Desmond swam over and held on to Denny. “You’re right, he does have that calming effect.”

Denny nodded, “Since none of us are ticklish when we touch each other, we can help each other by swimming together to the bottom, getting a demon one at a time.”

“Isn’t the point of the competition who gets their demon first?” asked Desmond.

“Suki never said that,” said Denny, “All she said was we all had to find a demon and awaken it. She said nothing about time or order.”

“Yay!” cheered the crowd.

The three men took turns swimming to the bottom, and bringing the three tiny demons to the surface where they awoke, giggled, and flew away, dazzling the crowd.

“And the first point goes to Denny who helped his teammates with their task!”

Denny’s eyes widened. He did not think he would be getting any points, let alone the first one.

But there were two more tasks up ahead.

When all three got out of the vat, Madame Coccinelle removed the tub and came back pushing a large trampoline.

“The next task is to jump to the top and give the three demons a bubble bath in the upside down tub on the ceiling!”

The three contestants stared blankly at each other. They sighed as the all climbed onto the trampoline and began to bounce, but none of the men could reach the top.

“This is frustrating!” said Desmond.

“I am getting tuckered out,” said Rhys.

Denny looked at the trampoline before he spoke. “It isn’t very elastic.” He thought for a minute before taking some of the goo stuck to him and rubbed it on the trampoline. “Maybe if we all coat this with the giggle goo, it will get bouncier.”

“What a strange idea,” said Desmond as he and Rhys followed the directions, and soon all three jumped to the top, got a demon and bathed them in the

Upside down tub until the demons were all clean and giggly.

“Woo hoo!” chanted the crowd.

“Denny gets a point in this round for thinking that cooperation would solve the problem!”

Denny seemed nervous. He won two tasks in a row, and he didn’t want to be resented for it. He wanted his chance to get out of Hell, but so did the other contestants. There was only one more task, and then the weighing.

“Suki,” Denny said, “I would like to sit out the last round.”

The crowd gasped.

“Why?” asked a shocked Suki.

“Because it isn’t fair that these two men are being left out of the points system. They weren’t mean, and they cooperated with me. Just because I thought of it…”

“It’s all right,” said Desmond, “You earned it. Even though two of us will lose today, we are allowed back on the show for another chance.”

“We have been in Hell longer than you, son,” said Rhys, “And we did far worse things, such as murder. We had to work our way up through countless designations over the decades, and in all fairness, you should be the one who gets out first. You have a fighting chance. So, if we miss the mark, it is our first time here, and there is a light at the end of the tunnel for us. A second or even third chance is a blessing, not a curse, especially in a horrible place like this one. To be frank with you, Denison, both of us have been rooting for you all along.”

The audience wept at the touching scene.

“Well,” said Suki, “The last point goes to all three contestants who are rooting for each other instead of competing!”

“Hurrah!” roared the happy crowd.

Madame Coccinelle then brought out the scale of Anubis as the crowd gasped.

“Time to see who gets on the scales!”

Desmond went first and he weighed as much as the feather, shocking everyone.

“Yay!” said the crowd.

“Rhys went on scale, and he too, weighed as much as the feather.

“Woo hoo!” shouted the crowd.

It was Denny’s turn, and he was lighter than the feather.

“The winner is Denison Garber!” cheered an overjoyed Suki, “But since our other two contestants weighed as much as the feather, for the first time in the show’s history, all three are released!”

The crowd gave a standing ovation as all three mean wear teary-eyed and overjoyed.

“But the big prize still goes to Denny!” said Suki as she clapped her hands with the audience applauding along with her.

Denison Garber gasped as he looked at Suki and Madame Coccinelle. “I won?”

Suki danced around as she squealed in delight. “Yes, baby! How epically exciting!”

“I won!” Denny cheered as he jumped up and pumped a fist in the air. “I am getting out of Hell and feeling better than ever!” He turned to Suki. “Now what?”

She jumped up to hug him before turning around and pointed to a beautiful red-haired woman wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. “Your new boss, baby! She is an epically cool Goddess in need of a messenger!”

“Woo woo!” cheered the audience as the Goddess came over to shake Denny’s hand. “Congratulations for winning, Denison. My name is Thomasina Darlington, but everyone calls Me Tommie.”

“So I am your new Messenger.”

“Well,” said Tommie, “You are also My first and only one. We’ll be winging it.”

“I’m cool with that.”

“The original idea was for you to take a job as My personal messenger, but if you have anything you wish to say, do not be afraid to say it…”

As the two walked off stage, Denny shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d want to say at this point. I don’t have previous experience of being an Otherworldly messenger.”

Tommie shrugged. “Neither do I. The longest job I ever had as a mortal was working as a knight. I was never a messenger.”

“A knight?”

“I lived in the early 1400s in England where I was a governess, then a knight, and then the wife of an English lord before I was widowed, and became a painter before I was murdered protecting My infant daughter and seven brothers who I took in to protect them. I did originally intend to become a governess, but with all the violence around Me, I was compelled to change the course of My life. I became an artist as I had to weigh my options.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I was painting the battleground; so to speak, and did not want to draw attention to it. Unfortunately, I was killed before I had a chance to refine My original plans.”

“And You became a Goddess.”

“Against My will. I am warning you now that the game plan is to dismantle that religion devoted to Me so I can return to My parcel of Eden and do whatever I wish with My loved ones. Do not worry, your place there is secure no matter what.”

“Thank you. Is Your daughter in Eden?”

“Yes, and the brothers I looked after in the waking world. We are a small and informal group of free spirits, and We embrace free will.”
Denison looked thoughtful and nodded. “I’m game for whatever happens. I’m Your man.”

Tommie smiled. “I am glad. I will meet you on the other side when you are ready to go. You’ll adore George when you meet him.”

“Who’s George?”

“My closest friend who loves Me, and took everything I ever said to him to heart, and when I breathed My last in the waking word, was the one who held Me as he declared his undying love for me, and it was his kindness and goodness that got that horrid religion started in the first place. He is as anxious as I am to put an end to their distortions and lies. They had no right to misuse Me, just as they had no right to take his love and twist in so cruelly. I’ll wait for you on the other side, Denison.”

Before Denny could reply, She was gone.

Tommie was not what Denny would have thought was Goddess material. She was easy-going, and wasn’t speaking in tongues. She was informal and seemed to do most of the heavy-lifting Herself. He could see why this George person mourned Her to the point of wanting Her legacy to live on. Denny only knew of Her for a few fleeting moments, but when She left, he felt his heart longing to see Her again. She was a living lesson and an enigma, but with lessons from the heart. Her story must have been fascinating, and Denny wanted to know more.

As he looked around, he saw he was no longer in Hell. For the first time since he died, he was looking at the other side of that dividing line.

He then saw a familiar, beaming face running toward him.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jenna Shaw said happily as she pinned an orchid on his lapel. She paused as she then gave an impish grin. “I always knew you didn’t belong there. About time you came back to join us.”

“What’s this?” he asked.

“As you know, I am from The Women of Orchid. We find anyone who was murdered and we pin a flower on all those whose lives were stolen from them. As you were assassinated pursuing a story, you qualify in our little club.”

“Until I met you, I always thought I overdosed. So, it’s official. I was murdered.”

“The man who knew of your cocaine habit gave you a lethal dosage. You thought he was in danger and you were trying to warn him, not knowing he was setting you up to isolate you and kill you because he was doing horrible things and thought that’s why you were after him.”

Denny looked at the flower and sighed sadly. He was out of Hell, but now he had a constant reminder of how he got there in the first place. Yet he received a reprieve and was the official messenger to a goddess who was very nice and eccentric, and her looks and ways suddenly reminded him of a friend he knew when he was alive, and then realized why Suki-chan wanted him to win. Being a deity may have been the ultimate Establishment position, yet this one was a rebel and ultimate outsider whose ways Denny would be immediately familiar with. He could never make amends to his friend, but he could start again with the Goddess whom Suki referred to as Tom-Tom.

He smiled. This was someone’s benevolent wish from the waking world, and it was finally granted.

It was a happy new start, and he was ready to embrace it.

But best of all, he knew Jenna when they were still alive in the waking world. She rooted for him and was the one who pushed for his freedom. She didn’t have to do it. She could have just as easily seen him as unredeemable and make a beeline in the opposite direction.

That was a powerful message, and one that would be Denny’s starting point in his new afterlife. He walked side by side next to Jenna as the one known as Thomasina Darlington walked toward them, ready to greet him and help him learn to speak from the heart once again, without fear and without hatred that had once consumed his soul for no good reason at all.

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Sixteen: A war changed my life. I didn't have to be in the tangible one. The intangible one opened my eyes, and I became an author of manuals.

I am Serbian by heritage and Canadian by birth, and because I am both, I am neither.


I was so traumatized by Western journalists, that it completely changed me.


When a collective can walk over one set of bodies as if they were garbage, and then demonize those people they walked over, you lose more than just faith in that group.

You lose all respect for them.

It was then that I realized journalism was a sham. The worst thing was that it took me very little time to find out where they were really getting their information.

From a cabal of PR firms. Not the war zone.

It was traumatizing, but liberating.


It was then that I became an alchemist.

Alchemy begins after a spiritual death, and the old Alexandra died when she realized everything she believed about her government and her media was a lie.

But as it was the Left who demonized the Serbs the most, it also meant my original political ideology was also a sham, too.

I was crushed to death by a cabal of Establishment liars. This isn’t my opinion. I kept hoping I was wrong, the way Harry Houdini kept hoping he was wrong about his skepticism of the mystical and kept challenging people. He exposed them all, when deep down, he was hoping to find the one who was real and he could reconnect with his dead mother.

I know that pain because it was too horrifying for a teenaged girl to face.

But I faced it. That war changed my life. It wasn’t the tangible war that had any impact on me, but the intangible one of war propaganda.

So the old Alexandra suffered a spiritual death, and like the phoenix, a new one awoke.

She was surrounded by the same lead that killed her predecessor.

Alchemy is the noble art of turning lead into gold.

And the gold in my case, was writing war manuals: how to see the manipulations of journalism and counter them.

It became a calling, but also my own alchemy. I keep right on target.

The Target symbol Serbs wore was nearly identical to the alchemical symbol for gold.

It just has one circle too many inside. I had no idea at the time, but I eventually saw it.

We all have talents. Mine is to see through mental manipulations. Over time, I began devising systems to counter them both reactively — but as time went on, proactively.

It is the reason I refined Matriarchal Storytelling, and created an alternative to journalism called F.R.E.E.D.

A Dangerous Woman Story Studio is the manual for overcoming the manipulations of patriarchal fiction writing.

Chaser News is the manual for overcoming the manipulations of nonfiction narratives.

Education, when it is not used to indoctrinate people, expands thought.

When it is misused to condition people into thinking a set way, constricts thought.

If you are not coming up with new ideas, theories, and experiments in a class or course, that is a sign that your thoughts are being confined, not expanded.

If you keep insisting that everyone who doesn’t think just like you is evil, you absolutely know that what you believe is a lie, and now you are trying to cover it up by suppressing other people’s ideas as you force everyone into thinking like you so that you are never challenged.

It is a sign that somewhere along the way, you were miseducated, but in the words of Anna Freud:

Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.

It means you have to let go of the lead, and then learn to turn that lead into gold.

In other words, there is no excuse for being miseducated. You rise above it.

But it is much easier if you have the methods of education. In journalism. In fiction.

We learn how to learn in school, but those are habits we take with us as we inform our minds reading nonfiction, and also our hearts with fiction.

Chaser News is a school of sorts, just as is A Dangerous Woman Story Studio: it is the intangible school of learning how not to agree to be placed in an intellectual and emotional confine.

I became woke because of a war.

But I can also make dreams come true in peace.

War and peace do not stop me.

I learn and grow. I still create manuals and come up with new theories to test every single day.

It is an adventure. I survived a spiritual death, and came up with Method Research.

But life is to be lived, and shouldn’t always be alchemic.

Alchemy is the ultimate act of rebellion and defiance: you are not going to let anything or anyone prevent you from living.

Or creating.

With goodness, kindness, and altruism, even in anarchy...

The re-launching of Chaser News, Part Fifteen: Maverick? How dare you be a maverick?

The Daily Caller pointed out something I have been saying as well: we have people do racist things and are still bankable and employed, but should someone talk about it, they get fired.

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It is the reason the US cannot have any more good ideas.

You have a populace trained in throwing temper tantrums in a bid to seem moral and intelligent.

It is a stupid strategy.

People spew scripted propaganda as they demand everything be their own way and any discomfort must be punished.

This is a shortsighted stupid strategy.

But I do not agree on the Hollywood Reporter’s take on the Kelly Affair.

The only reason why Megyn Kelly didn’t work out had nothing to do with anything else save for the fact that she has a mind of her own.

She isn’t some Stepford Democrat. She isn’t some Stepford Republican. She isn’t trying to appease everyone by being some ideological maid or servant.

After all, her autobiography is called Settle for More. (A nod to Dr. Phil McGraw’s philosophy, I know, but it is still true).

She dared to settle for more, and as a woman, you are supposed to eat shit and smile as you are grateful and feel blessed and lucky to be a shit eater.

Democrats and Republicans alike like their women to be little, not mavericks or visionaries who are eccentric, enigmatic, controversial, and outrageous.

She continues to settle for more, even as she is being cast as a villain for demanding what she is owed. She wants monies owed to her, and she should get it. She doesn’t want to be silenced with a NDA, and good on her for it.

The notion that the Left have anything to do with feminism is absurd: feminists know what it is like to be bullied, maligned, isolated and repressed for not following a rigged script — so there is no way a true feminist is going to do the same to another woman who doesn’t march to a rigged script.

I have also said that feminists failed by not pushing their way into conservative parties. You don’t put all your damn ovaries in the same basket. You don’t make yourself dependent on a single source as you allow other venues to go unchallenged.

But feminism was hijacked and co-opted by Corporate America and they allowed their message to become sexist propaganda that paints women as victims and damsels having to shake in their boots in case abortion rights are taken away.

That’s a passive and weak strategy.

Stop wearing those fucking little girl pussy hats, put down the placards, stop watching The Handmaid’s Bullshit Story, and grow up.

What is the plan?

What is the goal?

What is your map for making it happen?

Expecting the whole world to just agree with you is not going to happen. You either begin moving into conservative parties, or you denounce them both and start a new political party.

You have to be active and not be confined by a public-service mindset of committees, consensus, and any other life-sink used to ensure that you never actually reach the goal, always postponing, diluting, bickering, nagging, virtue-signalling, and philosophizing.

Kelly defied that mindset and that’s why she is being raked over the coals.

For the record, I am not a fan of Kelly, or her remarks. I am no fan of the Fox News Channel, either.

And I am no fan of NBC News.

But I am confident enough not be threatened by someone who has her own mind.

And I have been around long enough to know when people are using a contrived moral excuse to hide their more baser and more abusive motives for attacking her.

Had it been about racism, then Jimmy Fallon would have gotten the boot, but no one demanded his head on a platter for doing far worse things on his program than Kelly did on hers.

And boy, did #MeToo suddenly turn silent after it had its first major failure with failing to stop Brett Kavanaugh.

Ladies, there are no hacks for a 100% guarantee in anything. Take the movement back from the DNC, and modify your strategies, up the goals, and settle for more.

And stop dissing Kelly. It sounds petty.

Which brings me to Chaser.

When I worked on it the first time, I decided it was going to have a feminist bent.

I also decided I was going to be blunt and honest, and be me completely.

I am outspoken, eccentric, and I make no apologies for my unconventional life, career, and beliefs.

Take it or leave it, but you are not going to shame me into retreating.

Manipulating, bullying, threatening, slandering, arguing, belittling, patronizing, and all the other feints and ruses will not work because I am who I am, and that’s all there is to it.

If you haven’t read my manifesto, now is the good time to do it.

I am not buying your bullshit strategies. Fuck you, asshole.

I was woke long before it was a thing.

And I knew the trajectory when I started it the first time. People ignore you, then they “correct” you with fake praise and negging, and then comes the insults, putdowns, threats, and then the melodrama.

Been there, done that, didn’t buy into the scripted propaganda the first time.

Then life took a very prolonged catastrophic turn for me, and I absolutely had to put everything on hiatus to navigate out of a series of unrelated crises that came out of the blue and could not possibly be prevented. No one could have prepared for it, and I am a person who thrives in chaos.

In the middle of it all, I started A Dangerous Woman, and even a series of cataclysms didn’t stop me. They slowed me down, yes, but somehow, I still managed to produce work, teach art, and get a book published based on the material incubated through my experimental writing venture.

I am still not out of that vortex. Soon, I find out whether I am out of it, or not.

Regardless, I march forwards and upwards, demanding for more, not less.

I am not settling. I am not retreating. I am not walking away.

Every god and every demon in the universe can gang up on me, I know who I am, the content of my character, and my worth, and I don’t back down.

And if the mortals on this planet have a problem with that, fuck them. I don’t care.

I have started my preliminary interviews for two of the three stories I wish to pursue, all while writing the latest edition of A Dangerous Woman.

Life is too short not to follow your dreams or not listen to your heart. I am not destructive. I am a creator by nature, and I am in a good place with it.

Ignore me, insult me, that’s your loss, not mine.

Never mine…