[Spellbound - Siouxie And The Banshees]
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Opening Notes
Just a quick note: I don't smoke. I don't use narcotics at all, though thirty-five days ago, on March 28, 2025, I purchased legally from a cannabis dispensary in Ontario, Canada, CBD capsules, which are often used medically for stress management and mental focus, though I have since stopped using such supplements as of April 18, 2025 and for my own personal reasons.
I completely support the decriminalization of cannabis in Canada despite the fact that I refrain from using it or any other substance (with the exception of alcohol which I consume occasionally and responsibly).
The main reason I am speaking about this and have ceased using such products is because in some places in the world, cannabis and its byproducts are banned or controlled substances, and I don't want the weight for my legal usage of such products to end up as a burden upon the shoulders of any of my readers located in regions where such products are still illegal, especially China, Korea and Japan for instance, whose readership and support I value as much so as other regions throughout the world.
Regardless, I still strongly support Canada's decision to decriminalize cannabis and stand with that decision despite my refraining from it.
If you are experiencing health or mental health issues related to substance abuse, please look up Harm Reduction resources in your area, or if you're financially capable, then perhaps rehab is more fitting. In any case, such agencies will safe guard your privacy about such issues and consider that the yardstick, ie the beliefs by which live, are a yardstick by which to measure yourself alone, and not others except where the actions of others contravenes your rights or the laws that protect your person, identity and property.
On The Protection Of Innocence
The protection of innocence about which I often speak when writing stories that take place in The Butterfly Dragon entails using our experience as adults to recognize potential situations that could compromise the innocence of young lives while protecting them from situations that exploit them or are otherwise predatory in nature, though without using those ideas as weapons by themselves, ie for the purposes of revenge or or as an instrument to cause harm in the face of jealousy or greed.
The precarious balance of life and growing up can be a maze for young minds, keeping in mind that many of the challenges that youth will meet in growing up, are perfectly natural and aspects of life that we as adults too have faced. Some of us earlier while some of us later.
Innocence is and of itself arriving at knowledge and experience, ultimately coming to understand it when we're ready for it, though in all honesty, we seldom are. There are standards within our respective societies that do their best to determine when and where those aspects of life should be introduced, such as the age of consent. The age in which we're eligble to vote and make decisions that determine the future of our society by way of representation. The age in which we're allowed to make decisions that govern aspects of our body, most often related to the consumption of alcohol or other substances and most certainly the age at which we make decisions regarding our own body and sexuality, a topic that is perhaps the most difficult to navigate, whether it be seasoned parents of large families, Psychologists and other experts in the social sciences.
The protection of innocence entails those of us who've learned from experience, utilize that experience to safegard the life and progress of those who've not yet arrived at the challenges to learning and understanding that many of us have learned the hard way, sometimes through the measure of those whose experience in such matters is fogged behind the windshield of ideological zeal, vengeful spite or just plain malice, for what better weapon is there to crush others out of malice than to imply the violation of innocence. Howwever, and given the importance of what is involved, it is far often better to err on the side of protecting innocence, than protecting its violation.
My point being that recognizing the difference between those who'd weaponize such implications simply for the power they hold over others to radicalize them towards the ends of a lynching, versus the systematic pursuit of justice according to the laws protecting such innocence. We need to be aware of both and certainly as adults, and most certainly as parents and caregivers for this is the fine line between becoming the monster against which we're protecting innocence, and ensuring that we never become that monster. Either the violator thereof, or those who'd use the power of implication to weaponize its violation against the innocent.
For some ideologies and groups (including criminal rackets), such conduct is merely part of their procuring viable weapons for their war chest to use against their detractors, or to pressure their members into submission, reminding them not to stand against their ideology lest such weapons be drawn forth from within and employed to destroy innocent lives.
What makes this practice so horrendous is that it stands to compromise the protection of innocence by way of the rebound effect. That is, when society has arrived at the discovery that there are malicious groups who employ such tactics, the tendency is for people to rebound to the opposite side, giving respite to those who've purposely harmed innocence or trafficked it, and when at the opposite extreme, leading to the punishment of the innocent.
There are groups who practice doing this to others as a manipulative force, attempting to time such extremes appropriately for their benefit as weapons. Again, being aware of this is very important for the health and welbeing of our youth and our society as a whole at any age, because this can put us in situations where our personal privacy and aspects of our adulthood come under the scrutiny of ideological zeal and criminal malice, rather than the discerning eye of the law and those who systematically protect innocence according to the law. Their work benefits from our eyes and ears, but not from religious laws governing our bodies or sexuality, as they are so vast and differing with each system of belief and can lead to violations of privacy simply because an adult couple enjoys their intimacy in other ways apart from the missionary position or some other doctrine that seeks to determine what adult couples (or adult single persons) can and can't do in their own bedroom.
Add in the fact that there are people in pursuit of policing what we think, and you'll soon see that policing such ideas is very dangerous to the future of society. In my experience and what I've found both in the darkest recesses and brightest lights of humanity, it is often thought that is persecuted, and action that is held without responsibility despite the fact that we should be entirely free to think and responsible for our actions.
It is from within this understanding of innocence, that we can better protect it without becoming the monsters or socially engineering them from others.
Though I don't live in Nova Scotia and have never been there in my life, a recent story in the National Post involving the RCMP and Dalhousie University was used for context in a recent harassment attack where my harassers used the bias of a situation involving said story, to imply that my post here on the subject of protecing innocence was biased against children versus African culture, on the claim that I was being remotely controlled by African or Caribbean culture in writing this post (by someone named Michael Jacks) to whom the credit my writing would have been given if I'd have not brought this issue up.
That's basically one of the problems with said cult and their efforts, for they're about wearing the efforts of others as their own bling, even erasing the people from whom they steal the credit for their writing, work and effort, and ironically, this isn't the first time that this has happened where this specific person is rewarded with the credit for my efforts and most often as part of a racist effort that denies me of my own culture, and even efforts connected to said police force and even at the risk of my own life, silencing my protests against such efforts by labeling me as using crack cocaine or having issues of mental illness, none of which are true. There are ideologies whose sole effort in life is composed of watching people and taking the credit for their effort, and then erasing and discrediting them if they blow the whistle.
I put the protection of innocence way ahead of these matters that seek to turn the protection of innocence versus culture into a competitive gameshow and turn the wins of culture into egotistical bling at the expense of missing children. No, I am not being remotely controlled or manipulated by someone seeking to replace my culture and steal my writing efforts at all.
If I were the concerned public, I'd be more supportive of efforts to investigate such activities rather than turning them into the prize bling of situations where children's lives or famly's closure are on the line.
I think that the group responsible were trying to force me in the direction of protecting the violation of innocence in order to claim they were controlling or influencing me, which is abolute nonsense. Keep reading as I'll be revealing some of their deepest and darkest secrets when it comes to methodology, and that will be the case over the next few weeks.
On Ageism
Now the reason that I chose to write an introduction or essay on this topic is because during my writing of this reimagining of Tales Of The Sanctum: A Lady's Prerogative, rewinding back to the story's early beginnings, I encountered a lot of grief that was related to aspects of age and innocence and with myself being an older person, I'm assuming that the reason for this is because of that: ageism.
Now that is not an accusation against the young, for most of this particular episode deals with women and men in their late teens. Now, when I'm writing something of this nature, and despite the fact that I have to delve into the roles a little bit, I am still entirely myself and able to walk through the setting, the characters and the story without entirely losing myself in the process. That is, after writing a few paragraphs, if was then to go out to the grocery store to buy some veggies and chicken for a stir fry for instance, I would not be wearing the consciousness of a seventeen year old man, and putting similarly young or younger women at risk by gawking at them longingly amidst the raging hormones of a teen.
Moreso, I'd be wearing my own identity and conscious being, and in as much, when I go out or do anything in life in a social environment, I seldom gawk at or objectify women (I'm a heterosexual male) in a sexual manner despite being fortunate enough to be sexually aware despite being an older person. Part of that is being responsible with the sexual aspect of one's life and considering I've never gone to the grocery store to pickup women (I don't think I've ever picked up women quite honestly), that's not on my mind. If I'm not dodging verbal harassment and gas lighting, I'm usually deep in thinking about aspects of what's next on Shhhh! Digital Media, or my own life.
On Culture
When it comes to the cultural aspects of the stories here on Shhhh! Digital Media, and representing women of those cultures (some of the adult women characters whom I find attractive or appealing), I am not making a declaration of ownership over women or any culture. Something I often encounter and find challenged any time I wake up and put myself towards something that exposes me socially. There's always someone who wants to take those aspects from me, as if they're my property and I find this to be a sickness in society that disgusts me, because I do not own women, but I'm more than happy to speak up for them and give them a voice when and where they don't have it. I do not own the people of China, or Korea or Japan or Vietnam or Thailand, despite having a multitude of characters who originate from those places in the world, amongst many others including Canada (my home), the United States (our neighbours), Austria, Belgium, Romania, Britain, France, Russia, Ukraine, Italy, Greece, Israel, UAE, Australia, India, Malaysia, Indonesia, Columbia, Cuba and Mexico too. Probably more. I've forgotten more of what I've written than most people remember of their own lives.
I do not own any of them nor do I feel that they're my property, despite often encountering people who would fight in order to take those cultures from me as if they up for grabs in that way (which they're not). This especially happens for China and Japan, and certainly for Korea, but also Britain and France too and others in many different ways.
People treating those countries and their people as if they're a commodity or simply "bling", to be worn as a symbol of status (I say that on a day when I'll be wearing my Japan t-shirt).
There's a difference between representing and speaking up for, and owning, which in any case, is strictly attribute to the people in question. Japan owns Japan. I am merely standing with them as much so as I am with all of the characters and their cultures of origin and doing my best to honour them and their history, while sometimes treading the difficult ground of what drives people to conflict.
I do my best to stay away from cliché or stigma (a very difficult line to walk when representing culture), while making even the antogonists of the plot as interesting as possible. Culture is never the enemy. I define antagonism by what people do, rather than what they call themselves.
There isn't a machine in every country that simply prints people who fit a given description and eidos where every single person is exactly the same, given a label. Common ideas and concepts, most probably, and likely just as many uncommon, but each very different and unique within themselves. It is these commonalities that can make a people recognizable, and most often does if you take the time to understand them as a people, but ultimately each and every one unique unto themselves.
I don't own them. I am merely humbled to be at their service as a writer, and hopefully, when I write, I get it right. There are those for whom I'd carry shame a thousand kilometers or more, and those who will always have my undying loyalty and affection, given the difference they made in my life, rescuing me when I needed it most.
They're heroes of my own.
Now let me get out there and be an a**hole for a bit today ;-)
Regardless, Butterfly Dragon, Tales Of The Sanctum and We Who Stand On Guard and Night Boat and every other property on Shhhh! Digital Media is still with me and not leaving into anyone else's arms.
Thank you,
Brian Joseph Johns
I am an Atheist that leans toward Buddhism and Taoism.
I'm not Michael Jacks or Ting "N" and hate isn't love and love isn't hate. :-)
I am not a member of the Jehovah's Witnesses with all due respect and never have been and never will be.
Finally, I don't own a guitar and I've never been a guitar player in my life.
My name isn't Ian or Bobby and I'm not Guyanese.
I am not a paedophile and never have been.
Chapters
- A Natural Little Lady (May 3, 2025 7:00 PM EST)
- A Shadow Requires Light (May 6, 2025 11:00 PM EST)
- The Artist Alone (May 9, 2025 1:00 AM EST)
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Brian Joseph Johns
Notes: I actually started planning and writing this last week sometime, and had been thinking about it since my first failed attempt at writing Singularity about nine years ago.
Recently, the idea resurfaced because I realized that instead of writing these big, bloated epic adventures, I needed to focus on bite sized adventures that together form an epic story arc, much like The Two Butterflies, or We Who Stand On Guard, or Night Boat (which recently almost died as a result of harassment from the same group who've been attempting to take the credit for my writing).
Fortunately, I decided to keep Night Boat, but also to focus on a new Tales Of The Sanctum based series that picks up the story from a different time, and from a very different dynamic. This is that story, which I call Era Of The Spellbound after one of my favourite goth songs of all time. Ironically, the very first draft for this idea, which I initially wrote when I first created A Lady's Prerogative was what I went with, though heavily edited and updated. That original draft is something I wrote fifteen years ago that I found while digging up alternate drafts of my books and stories from long ago. I recently republished some of these drafts (the original Butterfly Dragon II: Dragon Butterfly) that I written initially in 2015.
This draft however is up to date, and consistent with current Tales Of The Sanctum: A Lady's Prerogative canon despite the post-Singularity mess. Readers new and familiar alike should be able to jump right in without finding themselves lost.
Warning: this material is intended for a mature audience. Reader discretion is advised.
Three Little Ladies
A Natural Little Lady
May 3, two decades ago
Shepperton, London, England
The sun shone brightly, overcast ever so slightly by the few clouds that pocked the sky in dabs of white and splotches of gray. The sound of children playing nearby kept the silence at bay as a solitary man adorned in a cloak watched them from the distance.
If it were any other person, the citizens of Shepperton would certainly have seen him, possibly even finding it strange that a man in his sixties or possibly seventies would hold such captive interest in child's play, but this was no ordinary man.
He stood from the bench he occupied, and stepped forward in the direction of the school yard. The grass around his feet withered, along with the flowers that lined the garden through which he'd passed to get there.
The irony was that he needed not to traverse this space in the Prime Plane, for he was not a regular in these parts nor the dimension it occupied. Point A to B linear traversal was only necessary to maintain his incognito status, for if he moved how he usually did, it would most certainly draw a lot of attention, and attention was something he sought to avoid. He preferred to be the floater in the peripheral vision of one's eye, rather than the retinal burn in the center that arose from looking directly at the sun.
His path wasn't a perfect line in the direction of his goal, but rather a diversion. He'd chosen to stroll through the field of living things because he loved the feeling of extinguishing them, for it pleasured him. Not unlike bathers who frequent beaches on hot days to feel the tingle of warm sand between their toes. For him, it was merely a serendipitous thrill, and he worried little over the trail of dead foliage that was left in his wake, like a boat cutting through the sea.
The children played at the playground, their laughter and screams rippling through the air around them, perhaps presenting a illusory sense of safety to those who heard them.
Some of them played on swings, while others on the climber, a few chasing each other in circles through the gravel filled sandbox. Others with felt bags populated the nearby asphalt, playing marbles as part of a micro-economy that had developed. Boulders and ballbearings having accrued the most value.
A distance away, a little girl of no more than twelve sat alone, leaning against a tree which itself was amidst a small grouping of other such oaks. Their shade provided a welcome shelter from the sun, though none of the other children dared to venture there, for it was where the strange girl liked to play. They simply kept their distance from her, preferring her absense moreso than friendship.
She didn't seem to mind this, and had long been used to the fact for she was seldom truly alone. As the scene unfolded, it became apparent that she was not alone at all, for a family of squirrels (three of them in all) had acrobatically descended the trunk of the oak, and circled it to find themselves in front of the girl.
They sat there for a moment, the larger one leaning back onto its haunches as it looked at her with curiousity as the other two remained hidden behind it, perhaps out of caution.
The larger one then began to squawk and squeek, a long protracted series of enthusiastic syllables coming forth from its mouth as its whiskers twitched sympathetically.
The girl sat and listened for some, and then responded similarly to the squirrel, without the benefit of whiskers however. The squirrel as had she, sat and listened carefully to her and when she finished, it pondered what she'd said.
At that point, a friendly smile stretched across her face and she presented a handful of peanuts, still in their shell, placing them gently on the grass before her. The larger squirrel squawked softly to the two little ones, and they emerged from behind it and started gathering the nuts, perhaps a rehearsal in benefit of their own future responsibilities. When they'd filled their cheeks, they skirted the tree once again and scurried up as the larger squirrel moved close enough to grab the remaining shells.
When the squirrel and reached them, a hand suddenly shot out from nowhere, and grabbed the little creature up. A tall cloaked man had appeared, and was now standing to his full height with the squirrel firmly clasped in his fingers.
"He's a friendly little fellow, isn't he?" the man asked her, the long cloak adorning his elderly body flowed as if gravity were alien to it.
"She's friendly," the little girl responded, correcting the man who by that point had lowered himself and was seated on his hauches, not unlike the squirrel had moments earlier.
"Oh yes. Of course. She," the man responded with a smile, his voice barely concealing his resent at being corrected.
"It takes someone special to be able to converse with these creatures... And with nature too, don't you think?" he asked her, still petting the squirrel as he gripped it, denying it any escape.
The little girl looked to the man, trying to see his face, which remained hidden in the darkness that clung to him, while he smelled like an old rotten mattress and stale bedding. She began breathing through her mouth to avoid the scent, her attention turning to the squirrel, who sat paralyzed with fear as the man's withered fingers stroked the creature's furry little head, its eyes bulging from their sockets with every stroke.
She then noticed a most horrific sight: the squirrel's fur was changing colour. Its shiny black fur was rapidly lightening, first dark gray and then grayish-white, as its body became thin and frail.
"You're hurting her!" the little girl stood, confronting the man from behind strands of her shoulder length blonde hair.
A silence gripped her, and the air stopped moving. Stagnation had replaced the breaths of wind, while leaves began falling from the oak behind her, as if the autumn had arrived early. The surrounding oaks that neighboured it followed suit and one by one they began withering, their branches quickly emptying of leaves.
"Put her down!" the little girl yelled as a rage filled her, the dying grass suddenly rising up into sharpened spikes as if spurred to action by her pain, though each blade withered further and died all the same.
She cupped her hands over her ears, trying to stop an invisible pressure that had begun compressing her head.
The little squirrel in the man's hands was now frail and shaking, thin and decrepid as the man continued to stroke her.
Suddenly, as if spurred to life by the girl's grief, a flock of birds that had previously been occupying the limbs of the tree suddenly swarmed downwards, encircling the man and little girl both. They flew inward, tightening their circle with fierce aggression towards the man, pecking at his cloak and ripping at his form, feathers and dust flying everywhere as they did.
The little girl screamed as she hung onto her head, trying to relieve herself of the pain and pressure. The whirlwind of birds that surrounded him then perched upon his form, covering him completely as they clawed at him with their talons, their wings flapping furiously, the girl's pain driving them to protect her. As the pressure reached a crescendo, the tension suddenly broke and the man vanished, the air he'd occupied collapsing with a loud pop, leaving the girl who'd fallen to her knees gasping for air as she hyperventilated from the stress.
The birds gathered themselves in the air and then together they flew up and into the trees, the lush foliage that had covered the branches slowly returning. There upon the ground before the little girl, the squirrel got to its feet, still frail and struggling as its fur slowly darkened and life returned to its drained little body.
The little girl's hands fell from the sides of her head. She then pushed herself to her feet and ran over to the squirrel. When she saw that it was healthy again, her breath returned to her, eyes suddenly tearful with both joy and relief.
A short distance away and from amidst a group of panicked children, one of the teachers had arrived, hollering her name as she ran in the little girl's direction:
"Nelony! Nelony! Are you alright?" the teacher yelled, kneeling down beside her to ensure the little girl's health.
The squirrel darted up the tree, grabbing the last remaining peanut as the two little ones peered out from their nest, just before disappearing to eat their bounty.
"I'm fine!" Nelony defied the sudden attention of her teacher, instead her attention on the squirrel as it fled.
"You shouldn't be playing with the animals. They could bite you or worse - you might catch a disease, and with your hypertension... I don't want to even think about what could happen... Do you understand?" Mrs. Griffiths held onto Nelony's wrist, but gently as she tried to make her point.
"Could you just leave me alone. We still have ten minutes left..." Nelony said to her, as the teacher in her early thirties released Nelony's hand.
"Alright. How's you're little friend?" asked Mrs. Griffiths, her intensity now dissipated.
"...She's fine! Hungry, but fine," Nelony replied, looking down to the dirt where the man once stood.
Mrs. Griffiths turned and began walking back towards the schoolyard where the child's play had already resumed.
"Mrs. Griffiths?" asked Nelony as her teacher left.
"Yes?" Mrs. Griffiths slowed, turning around to face Nelony.
"Thank you..." Nelony said to her, looking up from the ground to face the older woman.
"Get yourself back to class in time... and maybe next time, we'll bring a big bag of walnuts for your friends and feed them together..." Mrs. Griffiths turned and walked away.
A Shadow Requires Light
May 6, a decade and a half ago
Shepperton, London, England
The guitars ground the notes into a fine pulp from where they were pushed by the bass towards the double-kick. From there, they were compressed into a solid and continuous beat, hidden well within the iPod ear buds of a seventeen year old girl, their white wires contrasting her pitch black gothic eye makeup against her blazingly bright red hair, the aspects of her individuality she'd both cherished and retained despite the enforcement of her wearing a school uniform.
She walked the length of the halls of Halliford High, hidden within her own world. A place whose walls were well defined by the sounds of the alt.goth.rock music to which she was listening and whose darkness she felt a sense of familiarity within, while the world of light mocked her without her awareness.
"Oi mate, here comes trouble..." said Neville, one of the male students to his best friend Wes, who upon seeing the school's most notorious red-head ran his fingers through his jet black spikey hair.
"Don't be such a muppet. She's just chillin'..." Wes responded, reaching into his locker to grab his history books for class.
"Gatcha! You think she's peng, mate. Don't you," Neville accused Wes mockingly.
"Way... However, I'm not such a bellend like one of my mates," Wes responded, slamming his locker door shut and throwing his backpack over his shoulder as they trailed the girl from behind.
Neville picked up his pace and caught up with Wes, and then quietly snuck up behind the red-head and tapped her on the adjacent shoulder from the side which he was standing.
She turned around and Neville by that time was already on her other side, leaving only Wes to face her, nearly bumping into her.
She faced him now, her foundation painted face as pale and white as her ear buds. Her brushed eyes and red lips heavily contrasted by the black makeup pencil with which she'd outlined them.
Wes stood there looking at her, very much dumbfounded and lost of words, when she pulled the ear buds from her ear, using her other hand to stop the iPod.
"Can't let a girl well enough alone?" she asked him, her voice piercingly brazen with boldness and confidence as she looked through him with two chillingly blue eyes.
"You can't live in the world like the rest of us?" Wes asked her, seeing Neville over her shoulder, who was now a good distance down the hall, laughing as he walked backwards to keep track of their progress.
"What world? Its all going to the wheelie bin..." she said to him, once again looking right through him.
"Well you could at least pretend to like it. Might be fun? Like your ear buds?" Wes suggested to her.
She simply watched him much the same way as a cat might watch a bird just before it pounced, perhaps enjoying seeing him shed his feathers in fear.
"Are you on your way to a wake or something?" he asked her.
"No. A funeral. For the world, and I'm in mourning. Walk with me," she said to him, offering him one of her two ear buds.
He accepted it and placed it in his ear, quickly removing it due to the volume.
"You planning on retiring your floppers* early?" he asked her, handing her ear bud back to her.
"Floppers? Mine are tinier than yours. If your hair was much shorter, you'd be aerodynamically unsound with ears like that..." she responded to him as they began walking together.
"That's my da's side for you. Big ears. My ma she's always goadin' me about it..." he responded to her remark, though she'd suddenly become quiet.
"What about your parents...?" he asked her, prompting her to immediately cut him off.
"Is that how its going to be? Play soft, and then go in for the kill?" she accused him, immediately grabbing her ear buds from her pocket and replacing them in her ears as she picked up her pace.
By that time, they'd just passed Neville, who was leaning against a nearby school locker just outside of the class whose doorway she'd just stepped through.
"So how'd it turn mate?" Neville asked Wes.
"Like rubbish... in the skip..." Wes responded, crumpling up a candy wrapper from his pocket and tossing it into a nearby trash bin, which he then leaned against.
"What'd you say to her?" asked Neville.
"Nothing. Just talked about my ma and da is all..." Wes replied, folding his arms across his chest as he lost his balance and nearly fell in the trash bin himself.
"Oyyyy... Wes is right up there in the mosh, cheering with his hands for the peng of his dreams... and then like a chav, he crashes to the floor. You didn't know? Her parents are pushin' up daisies... so I heard," Neville told Wes.
"Nooo...! Really...?" Wes confirmed, his voice becoming weak and withdrawn.
"Her ma first. When she was like three. Her da? He was like Five-O all the way. Bought it during an investigation. At a south London warehouse. He was shot dead. It was in the news back in '99... KAPOW!...errrhhh errrrhhh..." Neville told Wes, lacking restraint in his slang or his performance as he faked being shot, falling to his knees in the hall in front of Wes.
Wes shook his head at Neville in disgust.
"You're the real bellend mate. A real London chav you are! A class act all the way..." Wes said as he abandoned Neville, stepping into the history classroom.
Neville felt a menacing presence from behind him and turned to face it, bumping into Headmaster Brasskins as he got to his feet. Neville brushed the dust from the knees of his blue slacks.
"Afternoon Neville. Aren't you 'sposed to be getting ready for track and field?" Headmaster Brasskins asked Neville.
"I was just on my way..." Neville immediately turned and ran down the hall quickly running out of breath, realizing that he had less than a minute to get into his locker and get his track shorts.
...
Wes searched the room for a desk from the front of the class, seeing his favourite already occupied by one of the more brash jocks of the bunch. In a desk nearby, a blonde haired girl sat, doodling on a notebook with a pencil, drawing a sinister looking stick man in a hood and cloak.
In the desk two over from her sat the red-head, her ear buds still drowning the world out as she mourned for society and the world she'd left behind.
He eyed the only remaining seat which lay between the blonde haired girl and the red-head, both of whose names he realized that he didn't know, kicking himself for not having asked the red-haired goth girl for hers earlier.
Not realizing that she was still hiding from the world behind her ear buds and buried in her music, he spoke, addressing her formally and with respect.
"Can't really say I've been as brazenly careless with girl's heart before, but I could make it up to you if you'd give me a chance..." he said to her, not looking directly at her, but from the side as he placed his history books upon his desk.
"She can't hear you..." the blonde haired girl said to him.
"I'm sorry, and you are?" he asked her.
"She can't hear you because she's mourning the world..." the blonde haired girl continued as if she heard him, deeply into her doodle art.
"Are you an artist?" he asked her.
"Does it look like it?" she responded, revealing the stick figure she'd drawn on her notebook.
"Well...maybe?" he paused, not daring to risk another girl's dignity that day.
"I'm no artist. Not really. I'm Nelony. Nelony Ardbloem," she introduced herself to him.
"What's that around your neck?" he asked her, pointing to a necklace which held a pouch in the center just above her breast plate.
She reached up and loosened a drawstring on it, and revealed a fragrant and colourful tiny flower that was growing within.
"Its my perfume..." she turned to face him and smiled, blushing as she did.
The flower seemed to accent her naturally pink lips and flushed cheeks, and he found himself suddenly in admiration of her in much different way than her regard for the red-headed girl.
"That's brilliant. Are you a tinker? An inventor maybe?" he asked her.
"Not really. I just like the smell. The colours. The feel of a living thing so close..." she responded, blushing once again.
"How utterly boring... That's sooo droll..." the red-haired girl suddenly spoke up from the other side.
"Not as droll as spending your life hiding. So glad you could finally join us," Nelony responded to the red-haired girl.
"Well I wouldn't read too much from it. I just had to move my jaw and lips to avoid rigor mortis from setting in with a friend like nature girl over there," she responded, addressing Wes but referring to Nelony.
"Does Bella Lugosi know you're wearing his duds? Tell me She-gor, how's Doctor Frankenstein?" Nelony responded, clearly capable of defending herself against the gothic mistress.
"Oh, he's fine. He told me to ask you not to raid the local park's flower beds. Speaking of which, they grow those flowers in cow dung," she responded to Nelony.
"No they don't. You're just jealous because my flower is brighter red than your hair," Nelony replied, her chin elevated in victory.
"Let's get a second opinion on that," the red-haired girl responded, looking to Wes and then winking at him as if any of his earlier transgressions had been swept under the proverbial rug.
"Alright. Deal," Nelony replied, carefully removing her living potpourri necklace from her neck and then carefully handing it to Wes.
"Gently now. That's a living thriving wonder of nature..." she said, placing it in his hands.
Wes suddenly felt like the same bird he'd been earlier, only this time instead of one cat, he was now caught between two.
The red-haired girl moved closer to Wes, even close enough that he could now smell her fragrant red-hair.
He held up the living potpourri necklace next to the red-haired girl's hair and checked it carefully in the light of the classroom as silence fell over the scene. The red-haired girl looked at him, her eyes much less intimidating this time as he admired both the smell and colour of her hair.
His eyes darted back and forth between her hair and the flower and her hair again, until he'd decided.
"It was really, really close... but I'd have to say that it was her hair..." Wes said to her, now unable to take his eyes off of her.
"And there you have it, nature girl," the red-haired girl smiled, slowly making her way back to her own chair and desk as Wes watched her.
Wes then turned and handed the flower back to Nelony, a slight look of regret and sympathy on his face, though her smile still held fast and strong.
"No worries. They only get brighter. They're the brightest when they bloom you know," she said in a most flirtatious fashion.
Wes smiled at her and nodded respectfully, admiring her that much more, though he kept is gaze upon her for only a moment longer before returning his attention to the mysterious red-haired girl.
"I've been ever so rude, and I apologize. I'm Wes. Wes Davies at your service," he smiled at the red-haired girl, leaving everything up to her from that point forward.
She looked to the pile of books she'd laid out before her on the desk, and to a book of astrology, thumbing through its pages quickly before closing it again. She then turned her attention to Wes, her blue eyes now soft and nurturing, at least as much so as the affectionate colour of her bright red hair.
"Wes Davies? My name is..." she began, as a loud and pronounced voice interrupted her.
"Shaela! Shaela Sheowellyn!" a man's bold voice broke the attention they'd placed upon each other, and they all looked to the front of the classroom at once.
A man had silently perched himself at the teacher's desk, though he was not the same teacher that had normally delivered their lessons.
"You are finished I take it?" he asked her, looking right through her as she'd looked right through Wes earlier.
"It appears so," she responded, unsettled yet unintimidated by the teacher's glance.
"Mr. Corkham has called in sick. I'm Mr. Norbid. I'll be taking over for him today," Mr. Norbid stood from his desk, counting the number of students in the class with a piece of chalk in his hand.
"Seems we have everyone, so we'll just skip attendance and get right into the lesson. Today, we'll be speaking of the revolution of 1654..." Mr. Norbid turned to the chalk board where a rough map of North America was drawn in bright green chalk.
"Who can tell me where this is?" he asked the class, and the jock's hand went up.
"Mr. Feldman?" Mr. Norbid addressed him.
"That's North America..." Mr. Feldman responded, quickly leaning forward in his chair from where he'd been against the back wall.
"Very good. Now, who can tell me what this is...?" Mr. Norbid asked the class as he drew a chalk line across the Atlantic Ocean from where Europe would have been situated, following a waving line that found its way to the entrance of the Saint Lawrence River.
Wes put up his hand.
"Mr. Davies?" Mr. Norbid acknowledged the young student.
"That's the path that colonizers took to North America. Possibly James Wolfe?" asked Wes.
"Close. This is 1654 we're talking about, remember? Who can tell me what happened in 1654...?" Mr. Norbid turned away from the chalk board to face the class.
Nelony was the first to feel it. The classroom had suddenly dropped in temperature and a shadow had spread throughout the school yard, as a storm closed in around the school.
A flash of lightning flooded the windows, making some of the students jump in their seats.
Shaela felt her skin tingle as the sound of distant thunder closed in on them shortly thereafter.
Wes looked to Shaela as she glanced to him, perhaps seeking the solace of a familiar face for the first time. The two of them then looked over to Nelony whose fright was visibly upon her face as the sound of rain upon the aluminum window sills filled the room.
The teacher stood silently at the front of the class as the lights went out.
The bright flash of lighning once again broke their pause and then the crash of thunder, spurring Nelony to scream aloud, while spurring Wes into action. He stood from his desk and looked around the class but found it to be devoid of students.
Instead, what he did see, was that all of the wooden desks had been piled upon one another and from their midst were three poles rising to a height beyond where the ceiling had once been. Each of the poles had straps affixed to them, perhaps bindings to hold a prisoner in place.
By this time, the roof had disappeare and they were now out in the open as the rain pounded them from above.
Wes ran his hands through his soaked hair, as Nelony grabbed one of his arms for protection, and Shaela the other, both women on the verge of tears. Somewhere in the distance, a chanting of many voices had picked up and joined the sound of rain that battered the ground from above.
"Where's Mr. Norbid?" yelled Shaela.
He suddenly appeared with the most recent burst of lightning. Gone was his formal school teacher's attire, replaced by a hood and cloak. His wet face shining in the lightning, giving Nelony a glimpse of the man behind the hood.
What she saw was a face she'd not seen in nearly six years.
"Remember me?!!!" he said to her as he stood before her, her eyes fixated on his.
When she'd mustered the strength to break away from his gaze, she looked down to his hands, where he grasped a familiar squirrel as the other hand stroked its head.
She screamed at the top of her lungs as the squirrel quickly aged until only a receding layer of rotting flesh and a tiny skeleton remained.
"This rain? The world's tears, for its mourning for you!" Mr. Norbid said, looking to Shaela as if mocking her earlier conversation with Wes.
Wes recognized this and forced both Nelony and Shaela behind him.
"You brought this upon yourselves... for you lust for something more. Something hidden that only the chosen are meant to know!" Mr. Norbid said to them, though they knew not about what he was speaking and his words merely confused them as fear gripped them to the core.
"These tears from the sky are for you! Realize that to yearn is to cry and to learn is to die!" Mr. Norbid said to them, all three as they backed away from him, eventually running into what remained of the school's walls as he closed in on them.
"You broke the line... but you can unbreak it... the boy... you only have to give up the boy..." Mr. Norbid said as he threw his hand violently forward, pointing at Wes, the squirrel's skeleton tossed to the mud accumulating around their feet.
"Unbreak it! Give him over and together... we will cleanse the broken line in fire!" Mr. Norbid by that time had closed the distance enough that he reached forward and clasped Wes by the wrist.
With a tremendous tug, Mr. Norbid pulled at Wes, behind them the pile of desks had become a pyre, flames shooting skyward.
He pulled again and Wes no longer had the strength to resist him, but Nelony and Shaela both held him firm and in place, daring not to let him go.
"Noooo! I'm losing him!" Shaela screamed, digging her shoes into the mud as she slid towards Mr. Norbid, struggling to resist his tug of war for Wes' life.
Water poured down, drops of it bursting upon Nelony's head and from there, dripping onto her potpourri necklace. Upon the flower within becoming soiled with rain, it suddenly spurred to life, rapidly growing, breaking free of its binding as it fell to the mud.
Its roots found purchase in the soil, quickly piercing the slime and the dirt until it found solid firm soil to hold it in place. It then grew upwards and against the force of the rain, wrapping around Nelony's legs first, and then Shaela's, holding them both firm where they were.
Wes slipped and for a moment as he struggled until it appeared he'd been taken from them. His hand reached out towards them as Mr. Norbid pulled him towards the pyre, readying himself to cast Wes into the flames and unbreak the broken, but at that moment, a branch quickly grew from the flower's stem and wrapped around his wrist, holding all three of them against Mr. Norbid's zealous fury.
Mr. Norbid gave it everything he had as he wrenched Wes' arm, almost ripping it from its socket.
Then all of the sudden, with the bright flash of a lightning strike and coinciding crash of thunder, they were all cast into darkness and silence.
The lights came on, and they were once again seated at their desks.
"Shaela Sheowellyn?" Mr. Corkham tallied the attendance sheet from the front of the classroom as Nelony, Shaela and Wes looked forward in amazement and disbelief.
The classroom had returned and the class had begun, though there was no sign of the other teacher.
"What happened to Mr. Norbid?" asked Shaela of Mr. Corkham.
"I'm sorry? Who...?" Mr. Corkham looked at Shaela, an expression of puzzlement on his face.
"Mr. Norbid. The supply teacher?" Nelony backed up her friend.
"He was here. Where is he?" Wes looked both to Shaela and then Nelony, the three of them having realized their bond.
"I'm sorry, but the only supply here is an over abundance of imagination and a poor sense of humour!" Mr. Corkham said to the class, drawing laughter from the other students at the expense of the three and from there, the class went on as it did every other school day.
Nelony, Shaela and Wes spent every class from that moment forward, together, and in support of each other.
They never spoke about Mr. Norbid and they never had another experience like the one they'd had that day.
That is, until their final form of high school exactly one year later.
Until that time, the only confirmation they had about their experience was the nightmares that would mark every single night of their life until that point.
Nightmares where the chanting repeated the same lines over and over again:
To yearn is to cry and to learn is to die.
The Artist Alone
May 6, "Year 13"
Shepperton, London, England
The Bentley was parked in the passenger pickup area, the driver standing in front of the car, a cardboard sign in one of his hands, his phone in the other and pressed up against his face as he spoke with someone on the other end.
The sound of a jet on its final approach rose in volume until it drowned his voice out, despite his best efforts to speak louder and louder as it passed overhead.
"Sorry about that, honey. So how's the weather there in Waterloo?" the driver asked.
"Its a pretty hot afternoon. Nice enough that Cindy and I might go out and catch a flick tonight..." a sultry woman's voice replied to him.
"What movie?" the driver asked.
"I don't know... maybe The Prestige? The Illusionist? Maybe The Lady in the Water. That might be good. Sooo, what are you going to be doing tonight?" she asked him.
"Studying for sure. Exams are next week and this is the last season before the big year. Just think, this time next year, and a thesis later, and I might be a full PhD..." he said to her proudly.
"Have you decided yet...?" she asked him.
"No. No. I haven't. I think its a bit early to discuss this, don't you?" he said to her.
"No. No its not. This isn't just your life. I deserve to know. This affects both of us..." she said to him.
"Look, I've got to go. Her flight just arrived and this is probably going to be a little tense. Lets talk about this later, alright?" he asked her.
"Alright. But you're not going to side step it again this time. I want to know. Are you going to stay there, or are you going to move back here?" she asked him, trying to trick the answer out of him.
"Bye honey. I'll call you tonight," he deflected her question and then hung up, pocketing his phone and then clasping his sign in both hands and holding it before him.
He situated himself like a few other drivers beside him on either side, ensuring he could be seen, and when he was in position, they started arriving from baggage area in several different crowds.
He'd seen photographs of her before, most of them accompanying her portfolio, though a few had been taken and sent to him via messenger app on his phone by the agency to ensure he'd not miss her.
When the first group arrived, pushing through the passenger pickup doors, he straightened up and put on a friendly smile, looking at everyone passing through the doors while trying not to appear like he was looking at them.
Most of the group quickly found a cab or van, with the remainder hooking up with their respective drivers, particularly those who stood alongside him to either side. Their parking spots once freed were quickly taken over by other drivers, who again set foot out from of their car and presented a sign seeking their particular passenger.
This continued for the next ten minutes, with four groups leaving the terminal and quickly finding their transportation shortly thereafter. It wasn't until the sixth group that he noticed a young woman, perhaps approaching her late teens if not early twenties as she pulled her wheeled baggage behind her.
Her black hair was quite long, falling gracefully over her shoulders while her bangs were trimmed in a perfect line that stretched across her forehead, just above her brow line. She looked down as she walked, though that did little to his her puffy blushed cheeks or her rounded lips that peeked out from beneath her nose. A smooth and well rounded chin supporting it all with grace and balance.
He looked to her, perhaps five feet and nine inches tall in her lowrise heels, her tiny frame not much bigger than her luggage, though she seemed to be doing alright pulling it through the door.
He then stood tall and held up the sign and said:
"Mila? Mila Ren Dubel?" he looked right at her, already knowing that it was her.
She looked up and towards him, presenting a short but sufficient smile to acknowledge his sign and walked towards him, pulling her luggage behind her.
He quickly pocketed the sign and greeted her.
"Mila?" he confirmed with her.
"Yes. That's me. You're not British?" she asked him.
"No. I'm not. I'm from Canada too. I work for the agency part-time as a driver, picking up arrivals and running errands. Making ends meet. I guess it was sheer luck that the agency picked me to come get you. How was your flight?" he asked her, picking up her luggage and carrying it around to the boot, which he then opened, placing her luggage within.
"It was fine," she replied quietly, seemingly feeling no need to talk further, which suited him.
"Do you prefer the front seat or...?" he asked her.
"That'll be fine. I'll take the passenger seat if you don't mind," she asked him, bowing to him a few times out of politeness.
He too bowed, though he wasn't quite sure why.
He went around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She bowed again quickly and got in with a quaint but withdrawn smile.
He went around to the driver's side and got in the front seat.
"Have you been here before?" he asked her as he searched for his keys.
"No," she replied.
"Your place isn't too far from here. South a bit, not to mention its near a lake. Its quite scenic too," he said to her, starting the car.
"...Your name. Is it... European?" he asked her.
"Last name? Austrian, possibly Belgian I think. On my father's side," she replied to him.
"And your middle name?" he continued to press her.
"...Japanese. My mother was Japanese," she continued.
"That would explain the bowing... all that and you're from Canada too...?" he said to her.
"Look, could we just keep this conversation to a minimum. I'm exhausted and I'd like to get to my residence and sleep if its all the same. I don't mean to be rude or anything, but you're putting me in an awkward position, and I feel very uncomfortable talking about this," she said to him, turning to face the passenger window.
"Very well. I'm sorry," he said to her, clearly not meaning it at all, but offering it up automatically without thinking about it.
She didn't answer him, instead making another request of him.
"Could you wake me up when we get there. Maybe use the horn?" she suggested, preferring that he not touch her.
"Certainly. Good idea," he said as he pulled the car out from the parking lot, navigating the length of it until he found the exit.
From there, he pulled out onto Southern Perimeter Road, finding his way to a roundabout and onto Bedfont and then Stanwell.
By that time, Mila was fast asleep, the early afternoon sun warming her hair through the passenger window against which she was leaning.
She'd been in the terminal at Pearson International Airport in Toronto, though it was much different than she'd remembered it. For one, the jets pulled into the building itself rather than the docking bays as they usually had, the terminal being lined with escalators and ramps leading up to the doors of the various aircraft.
She'd been lying sideways on a bench, fast asleep, having been there waiting for days when she'd awoken in the strange airport. She sat up, her toes feeling cold on the granite floor. She spent half a minute locating her shoes before getting onto her feet and searching the terminal for a particular flight.
She'd come all the way from Paris, France to get here and had left early in order to ensure that she didn't fail at her intended task. She'd been at Le Louvre, presenting her work, her first ever, when she'd realized that something horrible was about to happen.
She'd been speaking with a small audience viewing her work, when the realization struck her. She looked around in terror, panick thick upon her face as she ran from the gallery and through the immense foyer, navigating people and displays alike until she flew out through the front doors.
There upon the road in front of Le Louvre was a chartered jet. A big one which miraculously sat in the middle of the triple lane road, lined up for take-off. She quickly climbed the ramp and was on board, the flight attendendant not waiting for her before signalling to the pilot to taxi for takeoff. She quickly found a chair, and strapped herself in as the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling. She clipped one to her face, and woke up hours later on the bench at Pearson.
After she'd found and donned her shoes she got up to look around and get her bearings. The jets in the terminal were all loading, readying for departure directly to Le Louvre, when Mila recognized the passengers she'd been seeking.
At that point, they were already up the escalator and into the door of the plane as the flight attendant closed and locked the door.
Mila screamed at the flight attendant as she burst out in tears, pleading for her to open the door.
She ran up the escalator and pounded the door with her tender bare hands, screaming and crying as she did. The jet began to move away from the escalator and she quickly looked through the passenger windows as they passed, searching for a pair of familiar faces. As the wing arrived, she spotted them, both of her parents peering out from a window. They smiled and waved at her as the jet picked up speed, turning in the terminal in order to line up with a gigantic garage door that had opened to accomodate the jet's exit.
She screamed at them as they watched, pleading for them to get off the jet, but they continued to smile and wave to their daughter, even showing the other passengers, pointing to her boastfully, their pride and joy in their daughter beyond measure.
Mila quickly descended the escalator, though not by the stairs but by climbing down the device from the other side, slipping and falling a short distance onto the runway tarmac as the wing passed overhead, knocking over the gigantic escalator.
The terminal and garage door had disappeared and they now were outside. The jet lined up with the runway and began to accelerate away from her as she chased it down the runway, screaming and crying as it picked up speed.
The jet's nose then veered upward, ascending slowly into the sky, as Mila's arms flailed frantically, trying to signal them to land.
To stop.
As the jet climbed further into the air and the night rapidly descended upon them, the runway lights came on, the jet now hundreds of feet in the air.
She watched as a tiny burst of light erupted from one of the wings, a tiny fire burst forth from one of its engines and a trail of smoke emerged from it as the smell of burning jet fuel began to fill the air. The engine burst entirely into flames, which crawled the length of the wing towards the cabin as she watched in horror.
She inhaled for one last scream and...
Her eyes suddenly opened, and she was seated in the passenger seat of the Bentley, lost and confused.
The driver beside her was pressing the horn, when he realized she had awaken.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked her, though she didn't reply.
"Well. You'll be happy to know we're here. This is your new home..." he said with a smile on his face as if everything were simply hunky dori.
She looked to him with crazed eyes, underlined with smudged eyeliner and dried tears.
He looked at her, staring in disbelief before realizing she'd been in anguish.
"Here. Why don't you take this tissue here... Are you ready to...? I'll get your luggage and... we'll just..." he said to her, offering her a tissue to wipe her eyes.
She looked to it as if it were diseased, and then turned her attention to the door, prying the handle to get it open.
"Uhhhh... you've got to unlock it first..." he said to her.
She quickly yanked the lock, and then the handle, throwing the door open, quickly getting out after which she began searching the sky.
By that point, the driver had managed her luggage, carrying it all the way up to the double doors that made up her front entrance.
"There you go... will that be all?" he asked her, watching her as she continued scanning the sky for something which she was searching.
"Do you... need some help?" he asked her again.
"...I'm fine. I'm... fine. Thank you..." she said to him making her way to the front doors. When she arrived, she looked at him quizzically, as if to ask him why he was still there.
"Its sometimes customary to... you know... a gratuity?" he said to her.
"Of course. Here," she faced him, reaching into her purse and retreiving her wallet from within, pulling a crisp Canadian hundred dollar bill and handing it to him.
"Thank you. Enjoy your new place..." he said to her, quickly turning around and almost running for the driver's seat of the Bentley.
As he drove away and back to the street, she unlocked the front door and stepped into her furnished two bedroom home, where within she climbed the spiral staircase, finding her way to the master bedroom where she threw herself at the bed and fell asleep for two days.
...
On the Sunday morning she'd awoken since having slept from the Friday afternoon, she quickly took a bubble bath, washing most of her trauma away. It had been a year since the accident, and she'd had much time to say goodbye to them, living it out in her dreams every single night for the previous year, for without that time, she'd have never set foot in an airport, let alone a flight.
As she sat in the bubble bath, she considered that perhaps when she'd boarded her flight to London from Pearson, that by that time and unbeknownst to her, that she had already been in shock. That the duration of the flight was simply a boiling kettle. Her accumulated emotional pain building pressure until when she'd landed at Heathrow, it was ready to burst and that it did.
She'd had similar episodes over the course of the year. Some of them mild, and some of them quite pronounced. Regardless, she'd managed to get through all of them, sometimes after hours of crying, finding herself reliving a joyous memory of her time with them.
Her pillow would be wet with tears at that point, while she'd struggle with emotions, and then all of the sudden, as if a beam of sunshine had poked its way through the darkest of clouds, she'd burst out laughing. Like finding a gem in the midst of a pile of of coal. A treasure trove of her family memories that had worked their way to the top just in time to save her.
When the stormy days hit, and they had many times, she'd often find one or two memories whose cheer would guide her from the low spirits and despondancy of darkness and into the joy and elation of light.
She'd spent enough time in her lows since that fateful day and knew that her parents would want nothing more than for her to continue onward and confidently into life. Her chin up and her spirits high, for despite their absense, she knew they'd always be a part of her, for they were closer than close.
The trip to Shepperton was more than just to complete her schooling. It was about turning the page. It was about beginning a new chapter, and given the overwhelming loss with which she'd coped over the course of a year since their passing, it would be a chapter that she'd write. Maybe for the first time in her life.
A new beginning, in her new home and with a new sense of purpose. Waking up every morning in a new land.
That morning, she had unpacked her easel and set it up on the dock on the lake in her backyard, and under the light of the morning sun, and with a cup of her favourite tea on the table by her side, she began to paint a new life.
To be continued in Tales Of The Sanctum: The Era Of The Spellbound - Episode 2 - Friend And Foe Alike
Credits and attribution:
Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Stable Diffusion (Easy Diffusion distribution), InstantID, Sadtalker, Google Colaboratory, Microsoft Copilot (Windows 11), Hitfilm, Borderline Obsession...
DeepSeek AI for suggestions on exercises to improve aspects of describing scene and settings with a more sensory focused grammar.
InstantID by: Wang, Qixun and Bai, Xu and Wang, Haofan and Qin, Zekui and Chen, Anthony. Research Paper Title: InstantID - Zero-shot Identity-Preserving Generation in Seconds.
Sadtalker by: Zhang, Wenxuan and Cun, Xiaodong and Wang, Xuan and Zhang, Yong and Shen, Xi and Guo, Yu and Shan, Ying and Wang, Fei.
Research Paper Title: SadTalker: Learning Realistic 3D Motion Coefficients for Stylized Audio-Driven Single Image Talking Face Animation.
Gratitude: Our Mentors, Senseis, Sifus, Sebomnims, lifetime inspirations, family, friends, the Nomads (ask Stanton about that one), the Music, the Movies, the Theatre, the Arts, ASMR, (both YouTube and Bilibili and the many other creators on those platforms), the Gaming and Developer communities and of course, the audience.
Martial Arts (in the words of real experts and at least one comedian): https://brucelee.com (home of the real Dragon and an entire family of inspirations), http://iwco.online International Wing Chun Organization (International presence of a very scalable intensity martial art, protected and developed by Shaolin Nun Ng Mui) and the alma mater of Jinn Hua's own specialized variation thereof, https://iogkf.com International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karatedo Federation (even Hanshi had his teachers), https://itftkd.sport International Taekwondo Federation (Here there be Taegers), https://tangsoodoworld.com Tang Soo Do World (the path of Grandmaster Chuck Norris), https://www.aikido-international.org International Aikido Federation (how else would Navy Chef Steven Seagal liberate a Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier from a team of hijackers?), https://www.stqitoronto.com Shaolin Temple Quanfa Institute (The City Of Toronto's own Shaolin Temple), https://www.enterthedojoshow.com Master Ken's Ameri-Te-Do presence (If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we can at least laugh the loudest at others, and other Zen)
Special thanks to Aitrepreneur, Mickmumpitz, Hugging Face and the YouTube educational content producers, including those catering to the AI content production pipeline and of course AlphaSignal.
Special thanks to Bandcamp
Something to give you perspective: The very first teacher had no formal education, didn't graduate and was self taught, but only because they had no other choice. We do.
This content is entirely produced in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701 under the Shhhh! Digital Media banner.
