The Significs of Harewood Fragment

The Significs of Harewood

©2010. Robert J. Kuntz

... The notion appealed to Drystaff, though he wondered what a ‘roost’ was, and he said, “Agreed! My need for a real drink has been too long postponed.”

The old man smiled hugely and his teal blue eyes twinkled with youthful delight. He clapped his grimed hands twice while saying, “Start to Finish, Done and Well!* I will meet you at yonder red building,” he directed, pointing down the street at the appropriately colored structure. “Order the hen toddies. Tell Buerthwigh that Sorsyp will take his with a sprig of mynch and a side of plum things.” The man walked briskly into his house, whistling merrily. 

Drystaff strode to a building that many costumed people were entering. He queued behind a person with black plumage, a wooden beak tinted yellow, and a red feather bonnet. The doorman dealt with the pecking order in turn, issuing small bags to those who requested these and accepting coinage in return. 

It became Drystaff’s turn and the man said, “Roost or non-roost?” He emphasized the latter option by an offhand look at the wizard’s attire.

“Non-roost…for now,” answered Drystaff. The man nodded and issued him in.

The building’s interior offered a rectangular room with a service bar and crates for stools. Drystaff stopped to view its most interesting feature: projecting from the ceiling was a pylon from which were suspended twelve wooden seats by as many stout cords. Several costumed patrons were mounting to different seats, into which an attendant strapped them. Soon half the seats were filled. This satisfied the portly barkeep and he nodded to the attendant, who responded by thrusting forward a nearby lever. There was a loud grating noise and the pylon, obviously part of some greater mechanism, slowly revolved upwards above head level. Three musicians began a shrill piping with recorders as it gathered speed, carrying its screaming and jeering riders into harnessed flight. 

Drystaff moved to the bar and motioned to the barkeep. “You are Buerthwigh? Good! I’d like to order drinks, but a question, first.”

“Of course. For you are a stranger and find the entertainment indecipherable, correct?”

“You strip away the nonessentials and expose my point exactly.”

“The explanation is simple. Haras is located far in the wilderness. Most of our customers are farmers who lack any diversion except drink. Times being hard and clientele light, we have made this a theme inn. This month’s spectacle is by the horologist Quimkwok, who created the circling device especial. It is our best show to date.”

“And the costumes fit the theme,” said Drystaff.

“Yes. Now, what would you order, sir?”

“I order for two: a pair of your best hen toddies, a sprig of mynch in one, and a side order of plum things.”

Buerthwigh gave Drystaff a serious look. “You order for Sorsyp?”

“Yes. Is there a problem? I have coin.”

“Sorsyp is not always welcome here.”

“What has he done? Is he a scoundrel?”

“No, not in that sense. His wife, Hareengu, leads the other wives in a consortium against such merrymaking,” said Buerthwigh. “She often gathers the hens when her rooster flies the coop. Excuse the jargon, but the theme does imbue one so.” Buerthwigh mused aloud, “I hope she keeps distant today. The patrons are many and lively.” He then prepared the order and set it before Drystaff. 

Drystaff watched the circling show for a time, noting that each rider’s bag contained feathers that were gleefully showered upon the area below them. 

While Drystaff was removing a feather from his toddy, Sorsyp appeared. The man had changed his grey work clothes for a costume of black and red feathers interwoven with silver thread and pinned with many brass-like eggs. His purple bonnet represented a rooster in a nest, eyes crossed in confusion. Sorsyp favored his tail feathers as he sat next to the wizard. Drystaff noted that these were partially burnt – probably the result of some practical joke, but thoughts of an irritated wife with flaming brands soon came to mind.

As Sorsyp munched plums stuffed with minced juk fruit and pine-meat, Drystaff questioned him. “What of the wise man?”

Sorsyp slurped his toddy through a reed straw and, nodding his headdress vigorously, said, “Yes, much returns after a single sip. The man you describe always appeared during Harfest. He purchased herbs I gathered at that time.”

“And his name?”

“Never was it given.”

“Did he indicate his dwelling place?”

“Not directly.” Sorsyp grimaced in thought and leaned forward. Drystaff avoided the rooster headdress, which almost pecked his own hat. 

“Phaustwood! That’s it.” Sorsyp shivered. “But the Phausts brought evil to that place.”

“Where is this wood? And what are Phausts?”

“It lies southwest. A short walk for the stout-legged, but the only water available for many leagues thereafter is in the woods. The Phausts,” said Sorsyp between slurps, “were a band of brigands who based their raids from its depths. One day they attacked Duke Caffalafha’s royal carriage as it passed near the forest and the archducal wizard, Xommph, blasted them with a curse.”

“Of what type?” queried Drystaff.

“As I recall, the brigands were magically impelled to a riddle game. Failure brought mayhem upon the participants – it is believed they strangled one another. The brigands dispersed but the curse is thought to be timely still, attending all those who enter Phaustwood.”

Drystaff was about to elicit more information when the inn was beset with a commotion. Many women armed with clubs, rolling pins, brooms, and other bludgeoning devices burst through the front door, trampling Buerthwigh as he attempted to stop them. Leading the group was a large, grey-haired woman armed with a wooden mace and ugly features. 

There was no time for argument as the women separated to their spouses and started an almost idle routine of shouts in between clouts. Many feathered frolickers fled with wives in pursuit, and soon the inn was cleared except for several rigid-faced women, Drystaff, Sorsyp, and the remaining patrons still circling above. The latter squealed as their mates struck at them with brooms and poles, but they were soon lowered and went screeching from the inn as well.

Hareengu approached Sorsyp. “You lout! There are roots to be pulled! You promised that by week’s end our coin total would be enough for my hair dye! And here you sit, swapping profits for stupor!” Sorsyp merely cringed, rejoinderless.

“And who is this?” she said, eyeing Drystaff with equal vehemence. “Another of your costumed cabal, or I’m a princess! See here,” she exclaimed, while repeatedly patting the head of her mace in one open hand, “your jubilations interfere with my man’s work!”

Drystaff stood and addressed the woman. “I am but a wayfarer seeking information about a sage. And having found that he dwells in Phaustwood, I will be about my adventure.” Drystaff turned to issue Sorsyp a farewell but managed only to say, “Sorsyp…” before Hareengu, having misinterpreted the moment, shouted, “You’ll not take my man away on some devil’s quest, you toddy swiller!” 

Drystaff ducked and dodged mace blows as he was chased from the inn. As he ran before the mad woman, other women, still returning home with their mates in tow, became re-enraged--no doubt in answer to a renewed boredom attendant upon their completed raid--and supportively fell in behind Hareengu. Drystaff reached the outskirts of Haras and ran onto the plain beyond it. Behind him, a mass of screaming women offered a variety of curses and brandished weapons to properly energize his flight. ...

Drystaff the Mercenary Fragment

Drystaff the Mercenary

©2010. Robert J. Kuntz

His decision made, Drystaff exchanged his wizard’s hat for a cap of fine haxel fur that Gandal had given him for cold nights. He pulled his tattered grey robe close about him, and with a bounce to his step and as cheery an attitude as he could summon he walked through the gate, staff in hand and a bulging sack slung over one shoulder.

Minutes after he departed a litter carried by two red-liveried man-servants appeared from the north and stopped before the gate. A man in red and black robes dismounted from it clutching at a crutch to prop himself, favoring his right leg. The man-servants stood disconsolately as the passenger regarded the area about the gate with an air of suspicion. He turned his head to and fro as if having sensed something, then, shrugging, he hopped in a tight circle by means of the crutch and confronted the litter bearers.

The foremost servant spoke, “Will you now enter the city, Lord?” The man’s toady expression masked any other purpose beyond servitude.

“Mindless fool! You shirk your instructions!” The man propelled himself haphazardly toward the servant, aiming a hand for his throat as if he meant to throttle him. The servant back-peddled out of reach and the man stopped.

“So you avoid punishment as well? So be it. Since my servants now number but two, I shall no doubt have to sustain such antics!”

The servants looked down at the ground, properly chastised.

“Now repeat the instructions I spent so many hours impressing upon your dull minds!” The man said this while throwing up his arms too far, which lost him the crutch, and he fell to the ground shouting, “Fools! Help me!”

After being righted he looked at the first servant, who said, “‘You will not mention my name in or near the city of Garnash.’” The man looked at the second servant.

“‘Avoid taking me under any conditions into the palace quarter, where the Duke’s aides now reside.’” The man looked back at the first servant.

“‘Treat me as a common merchant who has been injured, not as one of any higher or lower stature.’” The man punctuated his servant’s words by vigorously nodding his head twice, once when he said “higher” and once at the mention of “lower.” He then looked to the second servant.

“‘You will obey all my commands until released from service or until passing to that final resting place only Axallaxa dares to tread.’” 

The man looked about and then raised his free hand to his forehead in mock distress: “Now is that so hard to remember?”

The servants stared at him, mouths open as if to spur their thought processes to suitable responses. 

The man shook his head dejectedly, but said, “Shagan! Margoon! You are the cadre of my future cohorts! Remember, last in loyalty is but first in reward!” With these exaltations complete, the ex-baron Wynquyt and his two enlightened servants entered Garnash.

****

Garulam noted Drystaff’s look. “Ah! You recognize the Wand of Ziff? Good. I earned it from my master for many years of competent service. Prepare yourself, then, if you still hold spells, outcast!!”

Yuug intervened before spells or blows were exchanged. “Surely not in the inn! I will meet both of you out back after I convene with the innkeeper about the matter.”

And so preparations were made and minutes later the two mages faced each other across a rectangular cobbled courtyard. Drystaff was at a loss for what to do. Evoking a spell would reveal his inability to Yuug, and fighting hand-to-hand would allow Garulam his chance with the wand. Drystaff decided on his spells. They floated in his mind like apples in a tub, but every time he dunked for one he found his mouth without teeth and his jaws rubbery and thus procured none, or worse, only gained part of a power. He gritted his teeth, and turning his attention from Garulam, who stood tapping his wand on his hip, he regarded Yuug, who had just placed an hourglass near the edge of the yard. The glass had a small measure of sand in it: ten minutes worth, as had been agreed upon. The remaining mage, or the one having the advantage at the end of the allotted time, would be granted the post.

Thefol Yuug marched to the center of the yard and held up his hands, “You will begin as I lower my hands and clap my thighs.” With hands held high he walked to a side of the yard. Turning, he then brought them down with a meaty clap.

So began the shortest spell contest in unrecorded history. 

As Garulam ran forward, wand held high and a smile of victory already smeared on his face, Drystaff cast the first spell that came to mind. He intended to loosen the wand from his antagonist’s grasp, thus giving him the advantage in melee. The spell instead caused Garulam’s robes to lift above his head, blinding the mage, who then began staggering about the yard in confusion.

Drystaff was about to run forward and club his assailant when Garulam tripped and pitched forward, landing headfirst on one of the cobblestones. There was a nasty thumping sound and Garulam collapsed, unmoving. Drystaff strode up and claimed the wand. Putting one foot on Garulam’s back, he struck a statuesque pose and looked at Thefol Yuug, “Need more be said or done?”

“Indeed not,” said Thefol Yuug, his expression changing from one of utter astonishment to joviality as he came forward and regarded Garulam. “You are hired as first captain in the van. Report to the caravan outside Southgate tomorrow. I will give you orders and a monetary advance at that time.” Yuug bowed, and then with a swift motion stooped and lifted Garulam’s inert form. Yuug then disappeared into the inn.

Drystaff stood amazed but satisfied. What luck! And now with the wand he’d have a chance of defending the caravan if the need arose. As he walked to the back door, he couldn’t resist the urge to cry out, “I did it! I vanquished the mage!” He then entered the inn.

Moments later a faint light illuminated the ground as if issued from a source up high. 

The Baron had heard the voice again, and now he leaned almost fully out the window with a lamp to scan the courtyard, squinting at the shadows and feeling a chill that he did not immediately blame on the evening air. He roused his servants, but they had heard nothing. The Baron closed the window, and later as he sat drinking a glass of milk he felt the dread feeling subside like withheld gas. He looked at Margoon, who stood with ready pitcher. Margoon smiled absurdly as the Baron burped; and he shook the pitcher, offering another glassful. The Baron waved him away and then retired once again to sleep the sleep of the tortured.

Drystaff and the Pot O' Gold Fragment

Drystaff and the Pot of Gold

©2010 Robert J. Kuntz

The clouds were puffs of gold-rimmed white sprayed upon a yellowing sky as Drystaff stopped on the road. His vestments were simple: a tattered gray robe drawn closely by a threadbare cord tasseled with two small copper bells, cracked leather boots of some dark origin with a thick coat of dust currently obscuring their true color, and a pointed hat, also dust-ridden, that nearly tottered from the perch of his long, black hair as he craned his neck to survey the road sign above. 

Drystaff steadied himself with his staff as he swayed heel-wise and boomed, “Must the accursed baron of these lands post the distances as well? Lucky it is that I am in a good mood for all my exertions, or I would level a spell of calamity upon this land, and none but those who collect dust would traverse it again!” He stamped his feet and a great cloud arose to choke him. He spat and coughed, waving his free hand about defensively, and then staggered ahead toward the city of Garnash, the direction of which had been indicated by the sign.

Fields loomed up around him after a short walk and he halted before one to regard the workers therein. The closest batch was near at hand, and no doubt they had food, he thought. Drystaff tugged at the cord about his waist that he had tightened too often since departing Silverscall, the mansion of his former preeminept Evvelon the elf-witch, overseeress of the Order of Magicians Purplex. He would strike even with that witch someday! There were spells to gain and allies yet to make. Much would be changed and restored, including his temporary loss of memory, before he entertained the desired upliftments and recompenses due him for the many outrages he’d suffered! Momentary weaknesses called for nourishment, however. He scrutinized the toilers again, routinely noting their sunned and dirt-smudged faces, and thought, “No doubt they’d turn me away, deigning to defend every last food scrap for this or that reason!” 

Drystaff raised his head high and bellowed, “Thirteen turbid curses upon the gods of morbid amusement! But laugh only shortly, for Drystaff, as your beguilers have named me, will not play this act. I cannot! Beggary is beneath me to begin with, but rejection from such as these? The moons would freeze over with haranguu* excrement before such an event transpired!” 

  Satisfied with this outburst, he then considered a side pouch containing his last silver od. Though he had counted the coin for a bath and other refreshment upon reaching Garnash, he now acquiesced to the notion of buying some of the peasants’ provender. He stepped forward and was mounting a fence when he felt a tap on his back. 

Drystaff stepped from the rail and regarded a man of slim and sharp features, blue eyes, greasy brown hair smelling of cheap perfume, and vested in a cloak, tunic, and pantaloons of dusted black. The man carried a bag slung over his shoulder and winked at Drystaff, motioning to the fields. 

“No good there. They’re scrappers, those. The baron’s worse.”

Drystaff sought amplification. “Scrapers…or tillers, you mean.”

“Scrappers, scrapers, whichever. They’re cryms. Cut your throat without so much as saying ‘gourd’.”

“You talk oddly. Cryms, it seems, alludes to their alternate stations?”

  The man assented, pointing to his neck. “They’re cryms, minding the fields for the baron to get a day’s worth before they stretch.” The man motioned upward with his fisted hand while making a “ycch” sound, indicating the inordinate stretching of the neck. 

Drystaff nodded, “It is properly understood.” He gestured to the man’s bag, “Perhaps we could better depart upon such subjects by imbibing mixtures to heighten the degree of sensitivity.”

“What? Oh, the bag! Yes, it’s mighty thirsty work, walking, and without food as well. It can become....”

“Famishing,” said Drystaff, his eyes following the bag as the man moved it back and forth like some tempting pendulum. He soon became perturbed. “Your manipulations are uncalled for, sir, since I am willing to pay for such viands as you have.”

The man checked an offended look and then opened the bag. Moments later Drystaff was pulling from a skin of wine. “Ah. The bacchans are indeed worthy this year, though a trifle wetted.”

“Walks are long, and only greater pleasures attend those who are patient.” 

Drystaff considered the obscurity of the comment, but only grunted - with mind to his future payment - and withheld argument. The man pulled forth a large loaf and, breaking it almost center-wise, handed Drystaff the larger of the two pieces, only to pull it away as the wizard made to grab it.

“Such frivolity! It does sour the palate!” said Drystaff.

“Payment in kind fills the pocket, however,” rejoined the man. “Your bill, with this breakage,” he said, while repeatedly flipping and catching the bread with one industrious hand, “amounts to five mars.”

“Outrageous! The wine was cheapened! The bread flakes as you handle it, indicating severe decrepitude!”

The man shrugged, and made to place the bread back in the bag.

“One moment,” Drystaff countered. “I concede to your total, but I have but one silver od. Perhaps after our repast we could settle the account at Garnash.”

The man said, “I have change for the od.”

Drystaff grimaced but accepted the bread, bringing forth the od and trading it for the change pouch offered him. The man then hoisted his bag and made off down the road with hurried steps. Drystaff, somewhat surprised at his sudden departure, shouted after him while crunching a mouthful of bone-dry bread, “Why the impatience? Surely good deals deserve good meals!” Drystaff said this while slapping the change pouch, which emitted unfamiliar clicking noises. He opened the pouch and examined its contents: five wooden slugs.

Acting quickly and casting aside the bread, he pointed his staff at the man and shouted, “You have earned a wrath unlimited!” The man broke into a run as Drystaff pronounced archaic words to summon potent powers. The spell proceeded without restraint until the closing hex pattern confounded him, but he spit forth the curse amid particles of bread nonetheless. “Deeble and Gleeble! You are Feeble!” For the next twenty minutes Drystaff sat bewildered, wondering who he was, how he came to be where he was, what he was to do, and why. Another spell had gone amiss.

Drystaff jumped to his feet after the enfeeblement desisted. He immediately noted a peasant leaning against the fence, feasting on mouthfuls of his hard-bought bread. The man looked at him with great surprise, no doubt having been lulled by the wizard’s former immobilization.

“Return what you’ve misappropriated!” said Drystaff, shaking his staff at the man. Dismayed, the peasant ran into the field. Drystaff realized that his own prowess was in no way equal to that of his adversary, so he turned his thoughts to the road ahead and began walking. He lurched along, hurling curses to the air and stomping so hard and long that a constant trail of dust marked his progress.

Four Blogs I Almost Never Fail to Read

1). Journalize This.

2).  Joe the Lawyer's Wondrous Imaginings.

3). Old Guard Gaming Accoutrements.

4).  The Grand Tapestry.

All of them have many things in common in their own distinct ways: Unique voice, out of the box thinking, creative focus, manifold curiosity and inquiry combined, a professional mind-set (though Joe might argue with me for that...), a no-holds-barred approach.  But the most striking feature of all, all of them are asking, or portraying, WHAT IF?  To me that's worth the price of admission.

I have talked personally by phone with all of these stalwarts except Lauren at 'Journalize This' and I am sure we shall do that some time in the near future.  I not only commend what they do out of a distinct understanding and appreciation for this type of mind-set, a type that just won't let go--call it part of  a perfectionist nature which drives the best in us to do better--but I heartily support their endeavors in whatever way I can, this reaction out of what is decisively being sought by all of them:  the path of creative and unending, stand-apart-from-the-rest, expression.

Whether it's personal discovery, extending your creative range, finding the humorous mixed with the serious, or a hard look at World Crafting, and sundry other subjects ranging the creative rainbow in between, you just can not go wrong with these folk and their quests.

My Novella's Release Date!

Here it is:  Black Festival.  20,000+ words of Swords & Sorcery to dig into.  :)

Available February 17 from Noble Knight Games (link above).  If you wish to receive an email update when this is released, just go to NKG and subscribe to their mailing list, simple as that.

Additional Update (This is being emailed to PPP Customers & Fans)

"Pied Piper Publishing and Noble Knight Games are pleased to announce the availability of Mr. Kuntz's first published novella - Black Festival!  Black Festival is a 36 page"chapbook" available for the low price of only $9.95. It tells the tale of the Barbarian Frank, Wolfar, who dominates this novella of 20,000+ words along with his off-and-on companion the rogue, Thekela.  It is written in the style of Gardner Fox's and REH's Kyrik and Conan tales. It also includes several full page interior acrylic illustrations by Eric Bergeron.

To make the release of this product even more special and to reward our most devoted supporters, preorders will receive one of the following:

LIMITED EDITION

This product is a 1st printing, limited edition of only 150, signed and numbered by Mr. Robert Kuntz.  Aaron Leeder, owner of Noble Knight Games, has witnessed the signing in house here at our location in Janesville, WI. The first 20 copies are signed in red ink with the remaining 130 signed in black. 

AUTHOR COPIES

Mr. Kuntz has also generously offered to include in the mix five AUTHOR copies!  These author copies are part of a limited edition of only 15 (fifteen), all hand signed and numbered in gold ink and featuring the official Lord of the Green Dragons seal!!  Past author copies of PPP products have commanded over $100, each, and have never before been generally available!

PREORDERS PLACED ON WED FEBRUARY 17TH FROM 12PM TO 12AM CST ELIGIBLE FOR RANDOM DRAWING FOR LOWEST NUMBERS

In the past PPP products have been available first come, first served. With this product we are trying a new way of disbursing the orders, a drawing (held in house) will decide the lucky winners of the earliest numbered copies and the 5 very special author copies!  In order to be eligible, you must order on the first day of preorder availability, Wednesday, February 17th, from 12pm to 12am CST.  The product will then ship out Thursday, February 18th. If you're wondering why we are doing it this way, this gives everyone preordering an equal shot at getting the earliest most collectible numbers, and a shot at one of the 5 author copies, and prevents one person from gobbling up the first 5 issues at once.  Also, some like to combine other items with the purchase to minimize their shipping costs. This isn't possible when "racing" to checkout.  We will assume that everyone ordering would like an authors copy or the earliest remaining number possible, depending on the number they draw.  All the authors copies and the lowest #'s will be mailed out to preorders! We will notify anyone preordering of the number(s) they will receive.

At any rate, you're guaranteed a copy of the limited edition 1st printing and a great afternoon read!!!! :)

ORDERING MORE THEN ONE COPY

You can preorder more then 1 copy if you wish to receive additional entries, limit 5 copies per order.

PIED PIPER PUBLISHING PRODUCTS STILL AVAILABLE

Dungeon Set #1 - Levels 1-6 $9.95

Dungeon Set #2 - Levels 7-12 $9.95

El Raja Key's Arcane Treasury $21.95

Fan Appreciation Pack #2 $41.95

Daemonic & Arcane $9.95

Tower of Blood (2nd Printing) $14.95

Stalk, The (Ziplock) $10.95

Stalk, The (Limited Collector's Edition) $11.95

Bottle City (Limited Collector's Edition) $17.95

Cairn of the Skeleton King (2nd Printing) $29.95 *extremely limited supply on hand"

If there are any questions please email me:

rjk@pied-piper-publishing.com

2081 Trailer

2081 Trailer from 2081 on Vimeo.

Wiki Film Link

Hypatia of Alexandria

Some quotes by Hypatia:

"Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond."

"All formal dogmatic religions are fallacious and must never be accepted by self-respecting persons as final."

"Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all."

Hypatia Link.

Eric Pape

My Adventure Thru Fairyland...

More news later on Black Festival, all of the copies which I signed and numbered today.  But this in between.  Now if this is not a major reason to evoke wonder and stretch the limits of creativity, nothing is. I have a poster-copy on my wall and it does nothing but inspire me to greater heights.

More Inspirational Art

Black Festival Received From Printer

Black Festival was received from the printer today and I will be traveling to Noble Knight Games and autographing and numbering these some time this week.  This may occur Tuesday or Wednesday.  I say "May" because our area of Wisconsin is under a winter storm advisory which would make extended travel (like this 120 mile round trip) dicey.  In any case, the likelihood that these will be available some time during the week end or slightly afterwards is very high.  I will provide specifics as my fight with Wisconsin weather unfolds.  These Chapbooks look really cool, btw.  :)

Three Versions of the "Spore Room"

As some may know, I get inspired now and then to "play" with Photoshop.  In designing a particularly weird encounter for the Castle El Raja Key product release, I was inspired to render these images.  I am not giving away the encounter details, but let's say it is a rather unusual encounter.

Gary's Ghosts

From my gathering Memoirs.  ©2010. Robert J. Kuntz

Gary Gygax was not only a great story teller, but he had some real scary stories that would keep you at the edge of your seat.  And he insisted that they were real.  He had convinced his daughters and son, Ernest, of these, and when I was about 14 years of age he related them to me.  Without going into extravagant detail, these all transpired at his mother's house on Dodge Street in Lake Geneva, just a block away from where I lived on Madison Street.

They included a friend (Tom Keogh, c.f., OD&D credits list) sleeping over and feeling a horned hand pressing down upon his back as he slept, which he later accused Gary of doing, and which Gary denied any part in.  The hand kept his friend pinned down.  The way EGG told this really effected me and I would not sleep on my stomach for months thereafter.

Another involves him being at home alone at night with his cat.  He is reading at the front living room table by dim light.  The door to the kitchen opens of its own accord and creaking noises, as made by approaching footsteps, come from that direction and proceed across the room towards him.  At mid point they reach a position parallel with the chair on which the cat is sleeping. The cat immediately wakes up and stands, arching its body upwards in a hair-raising scene.  The footsteps stop right before the table he is siting at, stunned.  The cat lays back down.

And the last is the sound of something very heavy falling in the attic with a great booming noise and then proceeding to make this same dreadful sound as if something were walking across the attic floor from one side of the house to the other.  Upon investigation by himself and Don Kaye, they found nothing moved or unordinary.

To say the least, I was never too thrilled being in that house at night when we visited his mom, or later, when Ernie Gygax was the soul occupant after her death. It had a very spooky quality to it.

At Milwaukee Gamefest 2004 EGG and I met to co-DM again and BS over old times, him just having suffered a stroke and myself a broken left leg.  While gathered afterwards at his Hilton Hotel room I reminded him of those stories he used to tell.   A twinkle grew in his eyes as he regarded the others present, and through no more encouragement on my part, out they came again, for the "amusement" of all.  I often wondered how many who heard these told in that same serious tone, in that same air of truth that cannot be confounded by doubt, actually slept on their stomachs that night...

Some Images That Have Recently Inspired This Writer

Is it Science Fiction or Reality?

© JournalizeThis 2010. Please ask to use.

Recap of a Journal Entry
Journalizer's email to a friend on January 13, 2010

On July 21st 2008 I had an experience that changed my life and made me question all I've ever known. This experience made me realize my vision is different from other people and maybe even significant. A friend of mine thought I "lost energy" during trauma I experienced and suggested I have three Shamans she knows, that are Reiki Healers, “journey” to my energy and reclaim it for me. I agreed to meet with the Shamans out of curiosity, however, I did not really take any of it seriously. I mean, I wanted to believe it, but I was pretty sure it's just "hocus pocus." in fact, when my friend told me about her Shamanic adventures I kept thinking to myself, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Long story short: While the Shamans journeyed to my energy I lied down with my eyes closed and watched the "glowing pixels" in my vision do stuff. It is not until the Shamans were finished that they told me what they did on their journey. This discussion completely and utterly shocked and amazed me because everything they did, down to very specific details, was exactly what the "glowing pixels" did in my vision.

This event absolutely astonished me. I walked through that Shaman’s house afterwards in a daze. My brain could not process what had happened because it did not align with my concept of reality. I was completely floored.

The first thing I did was google "reiki healing" and then I discovered a Reiki School where I attended class shortly there after. The same thing continued to happen in these classes. Each time someone did Reiki I "saw" the things they intended with the energy.

I have a background of disbelief and ignorance to spirituality (public education) and so I could not believe that this was something real and I wondered why I was never told about this. And what are the possibilities? I obsessed and painted paintings and wrote about my experience.

I was eager to meet someone who has similar eyesight/vision than I. I met people at Reiki school that have seen ghosts and we all experienced intuition with our "third eye" (more stuff not mentioned in public education) but the "glowing pixels" I see are in my "real", "earthly" vision and I could not find anyone who relates.

However, I recently discovered examples of people who see the "glowing pixels." There is a website called isitnormal.com where people can ask if other people relate to the world similarly or not. Here is a link to a page where someone asked "Is it normal to see colorful dots?" My comment is under the handle "astralvision."

Is it Science Fiction or Reality?