The Forest: A history of Japan’s “Sea of Trees”, Aokigahara

As a historian and horror enthusiast, I am always both excited and apprehensive when a horror film draws on the byline “Based on a True Story or True Events”, as so often that true story has been warped and torn in so many ways that the truth which inspired the initial horrific reaction is muted in favour of sensationalism and loud scream-y “jump out” moments. It’s why I am a much bigger fan for movies like “Gojira” and “The Devil’s Backbone” than I am for the mistake that was “The Chernobyl Diaries.” What is worse is the fabrication of horror films based on a completely fake history, or one that takes the tragic history of an event or location and renders it trivial, hidden behind the “story” that is created based on the stories based on the real experiences.

I have spent no small amount of time researching the history of such a place, that is about to reach an even wider audience that it has since the mid 1990’s and early 2000’s as a place of real tragedy.  Aokigahara, known as both “The Sea of Trees” and “The Suicide Forest”, is such a place. I am fascinated by the long history of tragedy, and of cultural association with death, that the forest has endured. On the North-facing slope of Mount Fuji, arguably one of the most iconic places, both spiritually and culturally for the people of Japan, lies a forest of trees so dense and old, that getting lost and never returning from within is not only a fear, but in fact an inspiration and a lure for those who have suffered the many trials of living in the modern world.

Peter Ten Hoopen, Dutch photographer on Aokigahara

The forest has appeared in Japanese fiction, popular/pulp culture, manuals for death, and even been the subject of psychological study since the mid 20th century. Some are drawn by this very “macabre” culture, drawn by the accumulation of death and the forbidden idea. Others seek the loneliness of the forest to make their final escape from life, driven by depression, social pressure to succeed, financial hardship; it is there that they go to disappear, where the must feel that the burden they assume they carry will not pass on to others when they die. The forest also draws those who seek to help; signs caution those who seek to disappear that there are others who can help them, debt services, an ear to listen (Though mental health issues are still a major concern in Japan at this time, due both to stigma and to a lack of adequate supports within the healthcare system). Others, like Azusa Hayano, walk the forest in hopes of discovering the desperate before it is too late, to bring them back to the world and give them the help they need. However, there is a large chance that, venturing far enough into the densely packed forest, they will instead encounter the long missed remains of the very ones they want to help. Shoes, empty bottles and pill packets, and ropes are among the foliage. Where they cannot help the living, there are those who would seek to help the dead; Buddhist monks often dedicate time to walking the forest, either between the trees or around the perimeter, to pray for those departed, to offer their spirits a proper mourning, so that they will not return as ghosts to lure more individuals into the lullaby of death.

Since 2010, American producers and directors have released no less than 4 films which focus on Aokigaraha; all but one of these films is from the horror genre (Notably, 2015’s Gus van Sant film “The Sea of Trees”, seeks a different dramatic approach to the forest, and what it represents). Conversely, the most apparent title from Japan was released in 2013, titled “Aokigara”, and directed by Taku Shinjou, is also a drama/mystery, rather than a horror film. Coming alter this week is another addition to the horror genre’s repertoire starring Aokigahara. “The Forest“, directed by  Jason Zada, written by Ben Ketai, Nick Antosca, and Sarah Cornwell, and staring Natalie Dormer, is set to be released to North American theatres on January 8th, 2016. While The United States’ Golden Gate Bridge is similarly infamous as a site for suicide,  it has already received a rather intimate treatment as a documentary, while Aokigahara seems to feature more prominently in North American films as a “spooky haunted place of supernatural proportions.

While the intersection of horror and history is always interesting, there is something to be said about knowing the real history, and the cultural and social role that such places and stories have. Above everything, Aokihgahara is a place of tragedy, A place that must be understood, based on its long history in association with death and suicide. To merely see it as a “spooky forest”, a “supernatural hive of evil” or “that place where people go to kill themselves”, is a mistake. Aokigahara is much more, and its story should not be swept under the rug of theatrics and superficial scare moments and special effects (I can’t say anything for the movie plot itself yet, as I have not had the chance to see it, though I likely will see it shortly after release). While it is true that there are many who have ventured into the forest and never returned or been found, we cannot forget that they went to disappear, that they felt it was their last option. It must be remembered that this is not merely a place where the trees grow so close together that it is easy to lose your way, that without the proper navigational equipment you may be going in circles, or where the wind blowing through the branches may seem to call out for others to join the countless others who have walked through the trees before. It is a place of dep spiritual connection, of desperation, and of tragedy and loss. It indicated and highlights serious  social issues, and as such is a serious place, that must be given the respect it deserves.

Be warned, some might find this topic difficult to deal with, and this research is still in progress, as much of the more recent sources for historical comparison are not readily or easily obtainable. If the history of Aokigahara as a spiritual place, or as a suicide pilgrimage point does not interest you, I encourage you instead to watch either one or both of the documentaries linked at the bottom of the post, as they are informative both on the subject of Aokigahara, and the reality of suicide in Japan.

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Photo credit: Rob Gilhooly

THE FATALISTIC PILGRIMAGE IN JAPAN

Aokigahara-jukai and the Translocation of Mount Fuji’s Sacred Identity

For the Japanese, Mount Fuji is a place of cultural and spiritual memory; it is the most recognized symbol of Japanese culture and a spiritual beacon shrouded in mythology, mystery, and beauty which is unlike any other place in the world. In her late 19th-century travel letters, Isabella Bird described Fuji as a mountain of lonely majesty, and reports that she understood why it was so spiritually and culturally valued by the Japanese.¹ While Mount Fuji is an awe-inspiring representation of natural beauty, it is not alone in the Fujigoko area in having a sacred identity. Caressing the North-Western flank of the mountain rests the 3,500-hectare forest of Aokigahara-jukai,² called the Sea of Trees, but more popularly documented as ‘The Suicide Forest’. Aokigahara is a place that has been shaped as much by its spiritual associations as by its actual history. Left untouched by the push for Japanese modernity,³ Aokigahara has become the terminus for a macabre pilgrimage tradition, where despair and an eerie sense of foreboding permeate the atmosphere. Long associated with demons and yurei (ghosts),⁴ since the 1970’s the forest has become an infamous locale where weary Japanese venture to end their lives. Scholarly documentation concerning Aokigahara is sparse in comparison to the research that has been done concerning the spiritual and historical role of Fuji, but there is a strong cultural and spiritual connection between these two spaces.

Aokigahara shares Fuji’s sacred identity in a very interesting manner and also has its own associations with cultural memory that make it a pilgrimage location in its own right. However, while Fuji could in all likelihood continue to thrive and exist without the presence of Aokigahara, it might be argued that the forest requires the mountain to retain its identity and to be understood as a meaningful cultural space. However, due to the vast number of suicides, as well as the haunting atmosphere of the forest itself, Aokigahara has come to be considered the most haunted space in all of Japan.⁵ Fuji and Aokigahara are a linked space not only due to their proximity but also because of shared history and the translocation of sacred identity. As will be argued, this allows such polar opposites of beauty and the macabre to be juxtaposed. Fuji and Aokigahara are two sides of the same coin; both are locked in cultural memory and steeped in spirituality, despite the differences in their individual identities.

Understanding Aokigahara-jukai’s appeal as a site of fatalistic pilgrimage first requires an investigation Fuji’s cultural identity as a sacred space. This will be achieved by looking at the sacred value of mountains in the Japanese culture, and particularly at the history of Fuji as a sacred space associated with death. Next, the concept of pilgrimage and the attitudes in regard to suicide in the Japanese culture will be examined. Finally, a closer look at the history of Aokigahara-jukai will reveal how history and association have shaped the forest into a pilgrimage site in Japanese cultural memory. Aokigahara provides pilgrims with a private space which Fuji, as a highly trafficked destination for both foreign tourists and Japanese, cannot. The forest is a sacred space, steeped in cultural memory, and creates a private locale where distraught, desperate, and despondent individuals can completely disappear.

In order to make the connection between sacred space and the pilgrimage which takes place in Aokigahara, the identity and history of Fuji must be briefly addressed. There is no question that Fuji played an important role in the creation of Japanese national and spiritual identity; it is historically one of the most sacred spaces in all of Japan. Despite the role Fuji played in nationalistic fervour during World War II,⁶ its reputation and importance remained unharmed and untainted even when General Douglas MacArthur, as Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers (S.C.A.P.), forbade Japanese film directors from showing Fuji during the Occupation.⁷

The sacred and spiritual identity of Fuji was established by Shinto and folk traditions, which are based largely on reverence for nature and the natural world. Later, Buddhist practices in the area reinforced this sacred reverence by linking both the Buddhist paradises of Dainichi and Amida to the peak of the mountain.⁸ In establishing an understating as to why mountains, in particular Fuji, play such a role in Japanese spirituality, Edmond Rochedieu’s text Le Shintoïsme cites two important principles. First, Rochedieu states that the religious value of any mountain is based on its presence in daily life and practices.⁹ Considering that Japan’s geography is 70% mountainous,¹⁰ and that Fuji is still visible from Tokyo barring certain atmospheric conditions,¹¹ it is not difficult to understand how mountains would take on a role of great sacred and spiritual power in early folk practices. A triumvirate of sacred association exists between Mount Fuji, Buddhist Bodhisattvas,¹² and Japanese kami. These associations allowed Fuji to retain its unique sacred and national identity in cultural memory despite the fluctuations in belief and national political sentiments throughout Japan’s modernization.¹³ This can be argued to make Fuji a space which exists both in the capacity as a provider of identity, as well as a deeply important sacred icon, for the people of Japan.

Most importantly for the translocation of the sacred identity of Fuji onto Aokigahara, Rochedieu emphasizes that mountains were perceived as locations where it was possible to invoke the souls of the deceased.¹⁴ In the vicinity of Fuji, a place that also exists outside the mundane world, such a belief is supported by mythology, folk practices, and religious traditions. This triumvirate served to establish Fuji as a pilgrimage destination early on, as it provided the necessary spiritual, religious, and environmental connections. There are many small shrines dotting the area,¹⁵ in addition to the purification lakes used by those making the traditional Fuji pilgrimage.¹⁶ The whole area offers a great spiritual security and can be understood as affirming a sense of belonging to the larger identity of Japan. However, the mountain itself is an open space, offering little privacy. Because of this lack of privacy, Fuji itself is not able to provide the proper atmosphere for the ultimate and final pilgrimage of one seeking to take his or her own life.

Byron Earhart’s Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan says that “through history Fuji has been celebrated more as a religious or sacred site and as a cultural and aesthetic ideal.”¹⁷ Social and religious history in Japan supports a wide variety of pilgrimage concerns, ranging from leisure pursuits to self-sacrifice. Also, pilgrimages of self-sacrifice are well documented in the history of Fuji. Take for example Jikigyo Miroku. He was the leader of a Fuji-centric Buddhist sect in the Edo period, and within his sect promoted Mount Fuji as “the pivot-stone of the Three Lands,”¹⁸ increasing its spiritual and cultural importance to a new level. Based on the idea that Mt. Fuji is the fulcrum of China, Japan, and India, Miroku scripted his suicide, planning to make the ultimate pilgrimage to the summit of Fuji. However, such action was forbidden by the shrine in control of the summit, Sengen in Fujinomiya, due to a spiritual concern that such a death would pollute and defile the purity of the mountain.¹⁹ With his original plan thwarted, Miroku chose instead to establish himself in a cave on the Northern slope of the mountain, above the Eboshi-iwa, or 7^th station, facing the forest of Akiogahara.²⁰ In 1733, Miroku committed himself to thirty-one days of fasting and meditation, and died as he had predicted.²¹ This choice of location is interesting, as it resembles a similar religious sacrifice which took place much earlier, inside the forest of Aokigahara. Historically, religious deaths, especially suicides and sacrifices by Buddhist teachers, were seen to “serve as models on which future deaths might be patterned.²² Based on this idea, it can be argued that since Miroku’s time, the spiritual associations connected to Fuji have continued to evolve, with the mountain serving equally as a symbol of the sacred and place of cultural memory, as well as a beacon for the ideal death, as its connection with suicide, especially suicides committed for the salvation of others, dates back centuries.

When looking at the nature of pilgrimage traditions, it is important to note that the summit of Fuji is not always the ultimate goal or the most significant space; the true goal of any Japanese pilgrimage lies in achievements of a more spiritual nature,²³ and relies on the experience of some sort of cathartic personal realization.²⁴ In addition, Buddhist thought dictates that the nature of a location in the natural world can aid in the escape from an aggressive karmic cycle.²⁵ Because the forest is closely connected to Fuji, as well as an untouched piece of the natural world, Aokigahara-jukai is tantamount to a true pilgrimage; it is a sacred area associated with and sharing in Fuji’s identity, but designed to meet a different cultural and spiritual need. Where Fuji is a public space, Aokigahara has a haunting and intimate sense of privacy, as noted by those who venture into the forest as ‘tourists’, or to seek out the bodies of the dead.

When examining the fatalistic pilgrimage made to Aokigahara annually by dozens of Japanese,²⁶ there are three additional mitigating factors which serve to validate the forest as a culturally and historically informed choice. The first is the Japanese attitude towards suicide. The second is the historical memories and religious ideas associated with death and Aokigahara. Finally, there are contemporary influences, and physical geography which play a large role in perpetuating the individual identity of Aokigahara. Based on these factors, Aokigahara-jukai’s pilgrimage tradition, though macabre, can be shown to be rooted in history and ingrained in the cultural memory of the Japanese.

The historical attitudes toward suicide in Japan are very different from those held in the West. In Japan, suicide is not considered illegal, or taboo, by religious or moral standards.²⁷ Historically, suicide was sanctioned as a sacrificial act to prove loyalty and regain honour;²⁸ it was accepted as an act of dedication and redemption and came to bear heavy influence on the sacrificial spirit attributed to the Japanese national identity.²⁹ It was also historically viewed as a sacrifice that could be made in times of dire starvation, where the elderly or the infirm would lay their lives down in order to help their family survive, by becoming one less mouth to feed.³⁰ Presently suicide is still believed to be an acceptable solution for a wide variety of social problems stemming from heavy societal pressures.³¹ In

Seattlekifujin, http://seattlekifujin.wordpress.com

Aokigahara-jukai, the number of documented suicides has gone from an average of 20 per year in the 1970’s,³² to 108 in 2004. ³³ After this date, authorities hesitate to release numbers, to deter others from seeking to end their lives in the forest.³⁴ An exact record of the number of deaths which take place in Aokigahara-jukai per year is difficult to obtain, as it is believed that the bodies of many of those who are successful will not be found or recovered.³⁵ Behavioural psychologist Takahashi Yoshitomo wrote in his 1988 case study of individuals who survived their suicide attempts in Aokigahara that those who chose the Aokigahara pilgrimage sought a quiet death in a place where they felt accepted as a member of a group, namely those who had also felt that their only choice lay in taking their own lives. He also states that they want to purify and beautify their death by committing their final act in the seclusion of this culturally important forest.³⁶ This desire for purity and beautification can be argued to be closely associated with the sacred identity of Fuji, and the historical and cultural memories established between the living and the dead at such spiritual locations.³⁷

Aokigahara is culturally connected with death, stemming from religious practice as well as local history. The first documented suicide in Aokigahara occurred four centuries prior to Miroku’s pilgrimage to Fuji. In 1340, a Buddhist monk named of Shohkai entered a cave within Aokigahara and began his ritual fast, saying that his sacrifice would liberate the people from their karmic transgressions.³⁸ The records indicate that Aokigahara-jukai possesses its own deeply rooted cultural memory as a sacred pilgrimage location. Due to the number of important similarities, Shohkai’s actions can be argued to have influenced those later taken by Miroku: both men were devote Buddhist monks, chose the Northern area of Fuji, and committed their suicide through ritual fasting. It is important to note that there were many other religious suicides committed in such a manner.³⁹ These religiously oriented suicides can be seen to serve as yet another justification for the pilgrimage to Aokigahara-jukai. The notion of karmic release from a sinful world,⁴⁰ as created by these religious teachers, can be argued to strengthen the cultural memory of the forest as a place of great spiritual power.

While religious suicides are individually documented, Aokigahara was also the resting place for many rural and peasant people during the Sengoku Jidai (the Warring States Period; 1467-1603).⁴¹ War and bitter famine were common during this period, and it was to Aokigahara and the foot of Fuji that people brought the old and young whom they could not feed.⁴² They hoped that through their sacrifice, the spirits would find rest and pacification in nature. This type of behaviour gave rise to Aokigahara’s ghoulish infamy as a haunted space and is believed to have created a cyclical vortex of the dead drawing the living to final repose.⁴³ As will be shown next, this historical association has largely influenced how contemporary media and art treats Aokigahara-jukai.

Contemporary media such as fiction and journalism have served to perpetuate the understanding of Aokigahara as a place of macabre sacred pilgrimage. Paired with modern religious and cultural ideas, such as the financial burden a suicide by train or a full Buddhist funeral places on the family, it is difficult to dispute Aokigahara’s treatment in stories and reports as a spiritual magnet and pilgrimage spot for those who have thought of suicide. According to modern Buddhists, such as Showzen Yamashita⁴⁴ and Kyomyo Fukui,⁴⁵ the spirits which linger in Aokigahara are actively “calling people [to the forest] to kill themselves.”⁴⁶ Considering the rich and storied past Japan has regarding the ghost story and the concerns regarding the proper treatment and mourning of the dead, such a phenomenon is not unheard of. It has been documented by notable writers and used as a plot device in the creation of truly haunting ghost stories; This phenomenon appears in Lafcadio Hearn’s work In Ghostly Japan,⁴⁷ as well as in the popular manga Kurosagi Shitai Takuhaibin (The Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service).⁴⁸ This phenomenon, the eerie sense of being pulled by some unseen force inside of Aokigahara, has also been by journalists who have ventured into the trees in an attempt to understand the suicide phenomena.⁴⁹ When there exists so much cultural memory and history in a single space, it can be argued to have the ability to affect the minds and perceptions of those who are inclined to believe and serve to shape the pilgrimage route into something more personally and spiritually meaningful. In this, there is a sense of the prevalence of pre-modern Japanese social and spiritual connection, where, as Moerman states, “the dead come to attract rather than to repel the living.”⁵⁰ To this effect, modern Buddhist monks have taken to setting up

Photo credit: Richard Atrero de Guzaman

temporary alters to make offerings to pacify the spirits, and walk the woods in hopes that one day the spirits will stop drawing people to making this fatal and final pilgrimage.⁵¹ Journalists who have ventured into the Aokigahara often speak of the position in which bodies are found; while some hang from the tress, others are on their knees,⁵² a position associated with spiritual thought, and Buddhist meditation.

Popular media has played a role in the perpetuation of the social memory and associations of the Aokigahara pilgrimage. In 1960, author Seicho Matsumoto released his novel Nami no Tou, or Tower of Waves, in which the heroine makes a final trek into Aokigahara to commit suicide.⁵³ It is interesting to note that Matsumoto’s most controversial piece has been adapted for television multiple times since the 1970’s, echoing the fact that suicide in Aokigahara is still prevalent in Japan. In 1993, Wataru Tsurumi’s self-help book, Complete Suicide Manual, called Aokigahara the perfect place to die; this book has since been found with many bodies during the annual search of the forest.⁵⁴ The appeal of Aokigahara-jukai is in the associated history of suicide, the proximity to a place of great spiritual importance, as well as the nature of the forest itself; Aokigahara is not on the agenda for innocent leisure hikes, family trips, or sightseeing due to the high probability that a scene of a past suicide will be discovered.⁵⁵ There is a loneliness to Aokigahara, and a sense of belonging to something larger than self.⁵⁶ This loneliness, previously attributed to Fuji by Isabella Bird, can be argued to provide a sense of separation from the mundane world, while establishing a strong connection to the sacred past and cultural memories.

Aokigahara thus exists as a place between reality and the spiritual; it is at once sacred, accessible, and isolated. Popular belief before World War II was that once one entered Aokigahara, here or she would be unable to find their way out,⁵⁷ trapped in a perpetual twilight, with a limited field of vision which made it impossible to see the stars or even the peak of Fuji.⁵⁸ In that place, one is completely cut off from the outside world and Aokigahara becomes a surreal space cut off from the outside world,⁵⁹ and haunted by a persistent, ever-growing history of death and cultural memories associated with despair and death. This belief is actually supported scientifically: the whole of Aokigahara-jukai is located on top of a lava plateau which formed after the 9th-century eruption of Fuji.⁶⁰ Due to the igneous nature of the ground, the high iron content creates an area of higher than normal magnetic activity,⁶¹ and makes the forest very difficult to navigate in comparison to other forests in Japan; it has been shown that within Aokigahara common commercial compasses do not function properly due to the higher level of magnetic activity.⁶² Based on this geographical anomaly, even the Jieitai (Japan Self-Defense Force or JSDF) admits that commercial equipment would be virtually useless one was lost within Aokigahara.⁶³ All of these elements come together shape Aokigahara as a place of the lost and those who are seeking to not be found, and the earlier assertion that the juxtaposition of identity and the translocation of the sacred identity of Fuji plays a large role in establishing Aokigahara in cultural memory, and influencing the idea and nature of the fatalistic pilgrimage is supported. With the added fact that navigation of the forest is problematic, there is a much higher chance that the individual who has ventured to Aokigahara with the intention of committing suicide will not be found until long after they have died if they are ever found at all.⁶⁴

Cultural memory, history, and spirituality have all been factors in the creation and perpetuation of the Aokigahara-jukai pilgrimage. The forest presents an accessible and acceptable alternative to Mount Fuji; the forest shares part of Mount Fuji’s sacred and cultural identity, and exists as a spot steeped in cultural memory. Aokigahara-jukai builds on the majestic loneliness ascribed to Fuji, and allows pilgrims to find a deep association with Japan and Fuji’s deeper sacred aspects. While the prospect of a pilgrimage for the purpose of suicide is macabre, its existence is not only supported by historical predecessors, but it also serves a required social function. Takahashi’s interviews with survivors of Aokigahara support his idea of psychogenic amnesia, by which he means that the trauma of the suicide attempt has caused the individual to be unable to recall their motivation.⁶⁵ However, some survivors site debt, depression, and anxiety due to the excessive social pressure to succeed as their reasons for attempting suicide within the forest.⁶⁶ Though the inhabitants of local area towns express a desire for journalists to look beyond the macabre nature of the forest,⁶⁷ there is still very little material in the media concerning the forest as a site of natural beauty. Aokigahara-jukai has become much more than a lonely and beautiful forest at the foot of Mount Fuji, chosen due to its seclusion and infamy; it has become a refuge where connection can be established to cultural identity, and a sensation of belonging can be achieved.

1Isabella L. Bird, Unbeaten Tracks in Japan (San Francisco: Traveller’s Tales, Inc., 2000 [1880]), 2.

2Peter Hadfield, “Japan Struggles With Soaring Death Toll in Suicide Forest.” The Telegraph (Nov. 5, 2000).

3Yoshitomo Takahashi “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest.” Suicide and Life Threatening Behaviour, Vol. 18 Issue 2 ( Summer 1988), 165.

4Zack Davisson, “The Suicide Woods of Mt. Fuji.” SeekJapan.

5Ibid.

6Byron Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan (Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press, 2011), 129.

7Ibid., 176-177.

8Byron Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan, 27.

9Edmond Rochedieu, Le Shintoïsme (Paris: Cercle du Bibliophile, 1968), 76.

10Tobira: Gateway to Advanced Japanese Learning Through Content and Multimedia, 2^nd Ed (Tokyo: Kurosio Publishers, 2010), 4.

11 The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Japan. Eds. Richard Browning, and Peter Kornicki

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 9.

12Byron Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan , 7.

13Ibid., 178-182.

14Edmond Rochedieu, Le Shintoïsme, 76.

15“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent (Tuesday October 24, 2000).

16 Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan, 7.

17 Earhart, “Preface: Invitation to Fuji.” Mount Fuji: Icon of, XVII.

18 Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan, 55.

19Ibid., 53.

20Ibid.

21Ibid.

22Bryan J. Cuevas, and Jacqueline I. Stone, “Introduction.” The Buddhist Dead: Practices, Discourses, Representations (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007), 19.

23 Earhart, Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan, 143.

24Antonio Santos, “Hiroshima, mon amour: An Inner Pilgrimage to Catharsis.” Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan, eds. Maria Rodriquez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann, and Dolores P. Martinez (New York: Routledge, 2007), 131.

25 Peter Ackermann, “Pilgrimages in Japan: How far are they determined by deep-lying assumption?” Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan, 99.

26Laura Sesana, “Aokigahara, Japan’s Suicide Forest.” The Washington Times Communities. ( August 19, 2012).

27Rob Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest.” The Japan Times Online (January 26, 2011), 2.

28 Edmond Rochedieu, Le Shintoïsme, 184.

29 Boyé Lafayette De Menth, Japan Unmasked: The Character of Culture of Japan (Singapore: Tuttle Publishing, 2005), 94.

30 Whether a myth or reality, the practice of ubasute (Parent abandonment) exists, whereby a family member, elderly or infirm, would be left or sacrifice themselves to a mountain or forest to slowly die in times of starvation and drought in order to alleviate the burden they placed on their families. The Ballad of Narayama (1968 dir. Keisuke Kinoshita, 1983 dir. Shohei Imamura) depicts a mother encouraging her son to help her sacrifice herself on a mountain so that she will no longer be a burden.

31 Louis G. Perez, The History of Japan, 2^nd Ed. (Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2009), 212.

32“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent (Tuesday October 24, 2000).

33 Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest”, 2.

34 “Suicide Forest”, Studio 360 (Japan). January 8, 2010

35Laura Sesana, “Aokigahara, Japan’s Suicide Forest.”

36Yoshitomo Takahashi, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest” Suicide and Life Threatening Behavior, Vol. 18 Issue 2 (Summer 1988): 172-173.

37D. Max Moerman, “Passage to Fudaraku: Suicide and Salvation in Premodern Japan” The Buddhist Dead: Practices, Discourses, Representations, 285.

38Yoshitomo, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest,” 165.

39 Ibid.

40Ibid.

41“Japan’s Harvest of Death,” The Independent

42Ibid.

43Ibid.

44Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest.”, 2.

45“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent (Tuesday, October 24, 2000).

46Ibid.

47Lafcadio Hearn. In Ghostly Japan (Rutland: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1971 [1889]), 238.

48Otsuka Eiji, “Delivery #4: Waltz” in The Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service Vol. 3 (Milwaukie: Dark Horse Manga, 2004), 141-191.

49 Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest”, 1.

50 Moerman, “Passage to Fudaraku: Suicide and Salvation in Pre-modern Japan”, 267.

51 Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest.”, 1.

52Ibid.

53Yoshitomo, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest”. 166.

54 Davisson, “The Suicide Woods of Mt. Fuji.”

55Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest.”, 1.

56Yoshitomo, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest,” 174.

57 Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest.”, 1.

58Yoshitomo, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest,” 165.

59“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent (Tuesday October 24, 2000).

60Yoshitomo, “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest,” 165.

61Ibid.,” 166.

62“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent (Tuesday October 24, 2000).

63Zack Davisson, “The Suicide Woods of Mt. Fuji.” SeekJapan.

64Laura Sesana, “Aokigahara, Japan’s Suicide Forest.” The Washington Times Communities. ( August 19, 2012).

65Yoshitomo “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest,” 167-173.

66Gilhooly, “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest,” 1-2.

67“Japan’s Harvest of Death” The Independent

Bibliography

Ackermann, Peter. “Pilgrimages in Japan: How far are they determines by deep-lying assumption?” Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan. ed. Maria Rodriguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann, and Dolores P. Martinez. London: Routledge, 2007. pp. 97- 106.

Bird, Isabella L. Unbeaten Tracks in Japan. San Francisco: Traveller’s Tales, Inc., 2000 [1880].

The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Japan. ed. Richard Bowring, and Peter Kornicki. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

Cuevas, Bryan J, and Jacqueline I. Stone. “Introduction.” The Buddhist Dead: Practices, Discourses, Representations. Eds. Bryan J. Cuevas, and Jacqueline I. Stone. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007. pp. 1-31.

Davisson, Zack. “The Suicide Woods of Mt. Fuji.” SeekJapan. As of Oct. 21^st can be found at: http://janettedillerstone.wordpress.com/2010/09/22/suicide-woods-mt-fuji/

De Menthe, Boyé Lafayette. Japan Unmasked: The Character & Culture of the Japanese. Singapore: Tuttle Publishing, 2005.

Earhart, H. Byron. Mount Fuji: Icon of Japan. Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press, 2011.

Gilhooly, Rob. “Inside Japan’s ‘Suicide Forest’.” The Japan Times Online. Jan. 26, 2011. http://www.japantimes.co.jp/text/fl20110626x1.html

Hadfield, Peter. “Japan Struggles with Soaring Death Toll in Suicide Forest.” The Telegraph. Nov. 5, 2000. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/japan/1373287/Japan- truggles-with-soaring-death-toll-in-Suicide-Forest.html

Hearn, Lafcadio. In Ghostly Japan. Rutland: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1971 [1889].

“Japan’s Harvest of Death.” The Independent. Tuesday, Oct. 24, 2000.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/japans-harvest-of-death-635356.html

Moerman, D. Max. “Passage to Fudaraku: Suicide and Salvation in Premodern Japanese Buddhism.” The Buddhist Dead: Practices, Discourses, Representations. Eds. Bryan J. Cuevas and Jacqueline I. Stone. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2007. pp. 266- 296.

Otsuka, Eiji. “Waltz.” The Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service Volume 3. Milwaukie: Dark Horse Manga, 2004.

Perez, Louis G. The History of Japan. 2^nd Ed. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2009.

Rochedieu, Edmond. Le Shintoisme. Paris: Cercle du Bibliophile, 1968.

Santos, Antonio. “Hiroshima, mon amour: An Inner Pilgrimage to Catharsis.” Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan. eds. Maria Rodriguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann, and Dolores P. Martinez. London: Routledge, 2007. pp. 130-137.

Sesana, Laura. “Aokigahara, Japan’s Suicide Forest.” The Washington Times Community. Aug. 19, 2012. http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/world-our- backyard/2012/aug/19/aokigahara-japans-suicide-forest/

Takahashi, Yoshitomo. “Aokigahara-jukai: Suicide and Amnesia in Mt. Fuji’s Black Forest.” Suicide and Life Threatening Behaviour. Vol. 18. Issue 2, 1988. pp.164-175.

Tobira: Gateway to Advanced Japanese Learning Through Content and Multimedia. 2^nd Ed. Tokyo: Kurosio Publishers, 2010.

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The Backyard Photographer Returns

As spring has sprung, wildlife has started to really return to my yard. Following through on the hobby I picked up last year during the pandemic (which, alas, still rages in my area of the world, despite what the provincial government would have most of us believe), I’ve gone back outside with my camera to continue exploring nature in my own backyard.

Mama Montgomery is back again this year, and it looks like she has some more baby squirrels hidden away in her nest somewhere. We recently removed three trees from the property, but she comes to the porch and the bookshelves looking for her daily treats. Little Boy is back as well, bolder than ever and willing to accept peanuts from my hand, a new step in our relationship.

Hansel the crow has also joined the posse, playing lookout for his murder and letting them know when the good treats are ripe for the picking.

The little nuthatches, sparrows, and other birds are also back, along with a mated pair of ducks who visit the neighborhood. They are more reserved and walk away with angry quacks if I get too close. With the trees coming down I’ve also noted an uptick in robin populations. The hawk is still around, I can hear her, but as of yet have not been able to capture another picture of her comings and goings. Now, all that’s missing, is a visit from the troupe of prairie chickens.

I’ll keep working to capture some great images this spring and summer, and hopefully have more little treasures to share with everyone.

Want to see more photographs? I have lots of ways for you to keep up with content, as I am going to be using my blog mainly for writing (Fingers crossed, I have a number of projects on the go that will be ready to post/finish soon and be here for your enjoyment!)

I recently added 10 new photos to my Viewbug profile, and they can be found here. I will be trying to post some new photos there every week, but will also be uploading frequently to my Instagram. Feel free to follow me there and drop a comment or a little love. If you want to leave some love in other places, feel free to check out my linktree for more ways to interact and share!

After the Silence

Susan sat at the kitchen counter, her shaking hands anchored to her cup of coffee, which had gone cold between them long ago. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look up across the small kitchen table in her tiny, empty apartment.
Since Paul had passed, the house had been too big. Too full of memories and other, inescapable things. Each room, previously quiet and calm, was filled with wailing. Not only her own. After months of trying to ignore it, Susan simply could not take it anymore.

“You know dear, you need to relax. Poor thing, you’ve been through the wringer and this just is not good for you.” The comforting voice across the table was familiar, it was warm and caring and everything Susan should have welcomed. And it was wrong. She squeezed her eyes shut, leaning forward as her shoulders shook. Laughter was her only response to the absolute insanity that surrounded her.

Aunt Mabel, in her flowery apron, was not there. Susan knew, because she had looked once, and had not been alone since. Aunt Mabel had passed over 50 years ago when Susan was just a young girl. Mabel should not be sitting at the table across from her, watching her with hollow spaces where heroes should have been

“You’re not real. You can’t be real. Why are you bothering me?” Susan’s voice was weak.
“Oh, I’m very real dear. We all are. You used to talk to us all the time. Don’t you remember? We’re here for you, because of you.” Mabel’s voice was soft, falling, teasing
Susan fought against the weight of the statement. No, they weren’t real. They had never been real. She had spent years breaking herself of the disillusioned teenaged notion that they were real. People had stopped looking at her with pity when she stopped talking about her friends. They had seemed to forget their worry that something was wrong with her, and she had let the idea fade away. But now, in the overcrowded apartment, with Mabel leading the charge, they had come back.

She had ignored them during College when they chided her for being wild. She had ignored them at her wedding when they had favoured her mother, who had passed later that evening. She had ignored them the morning before her and Paul’s small world had crumbled. Again and again, she could catch them from the corner of her eye, just beyond. When she saw them, they preceded every happy moment, every tragedy, waiting for her to see them. When she managed to ignore them, the world was righted; calm and perfect and serene as it should have been.

Susan had steadfastly ignored them the morning Paul had pulled on his boots, groaning at the pain it caused him before he had kissed her forehead and gone off to work. They had sat by her when he didn’t come home, and when the phone rang. Now each day, they were there, more solid, more real than the days before.

Susan had fought all she could against it, ignored it. Ignoring them seemed to keep them out, but what was the point. Without Paul, she was otherwise alone. What could it hurt to have someone to talk to?
Susan took a deeper breath, feeling it rattle her ribs as she raised her eyes, looking directly into the black voids where Aunt Mabel’s vibrant blue eyes should have been. Now, there was only darkness, pulled taut over boney cheeks.
“What do you want, Aunt Mabel?”

The figure smiled, lips pulling back in a rictus grin, teeth too white and hard, skin too paper thin.
“Oh, nothing dear. Just you. You complete us, don’t you know?”

Back In My Day: Anime Video Rentals

Gather round children, and let me spin you a thread of the days of the anime video rental store. Back in my day, the early 2000s, the only way to get anime that wasn’t YTV was to find a little place. My go-to’s were Tramps and Tokyo 7. In those days, downtown here always seemed like a happening place; the bus interchange in front of the park buses. The Library’s main branch just down on the corner, and the Sears at the mall.

Now. In those days, our method for watching most things was VHS. DVDs were still a bit too expensive, reserved for the New Releases sections at Rogers and Blockbuster, and not geared to anime series and their associated nerds. Each type had 3, maybe 4 episodes if you were lucky. If you were even luckier, they were true bootlegs, fansubbed down to their core.

With a bus transfer in my pocket, I’d hop off downtown and scurry to one of my haunts. With my small amount of change, what was saved from bus fare, a lunch of deli meat and baguette from the local Safeway, and the leftovers from whatever allowance was to be had, I would make my trek from the bus stop a couple of blocks to my destination. Rain, driving blizzard. Nothing could keep me away.

Most rentals were 3-5 dollars, 9 if you rented 3 tapes at once. You could keep them for 3 days before the stores started to call you. So, a dedicated local otaku could spin through a series about every couple of weeks (Or, like me, a week when it came to Evangelion and Outlaw Star). Since these were bootlegs or copies the store had purchased at great expense to themselves from specialty suppliers, it wasn’t exactly, how shall we say it, a “legal” operation? As such, no real system for checking them out. So, I’d grab my 3 coveted VHS tapes, and get ready for the handy-dandy rental binder and receipt sheets, repurposes from their original intention to cater to our needs and to make sure the store knew just who to look to if something went missing.

When I first started renting, yes, the days of the rental store, which may have influenced my own desire to work in a rental store (which I eventually did), the clerk at the desk would pull out their big binder of clients. I’d flash my at-home laminated, 6 digit member card. Six digits only because there were at least 0 zeroes at the beginning. I still had that card, in the folds of my wallet, up until a few years ago. It was faded, the sakura blossom motif, and decked out fangirl in the corner recognizable only because of the memories it held. Painstakingly, they would write out the names of the tapes on an old receipt paper, and once they were satisfied that they would remember exactly which tapes were gone, I would sign the line. For the next 3 days, those were mine, and I would run back to the bus transfer spot.

After a while, between Tramps and Tokyo 7, I was a regular. I was given what I felt was the special and revered task of filling out my own rental sheets. I would skip off the bus even if there was rain, sun, or the blistering cold, and grab my little treats, at least 3x a week. It was a pivotal point in my anime and high school memories. Of course, over time they stopped renting the videos, or even closed down. But the memories are still there, and they are fond ones. So here’s to days gone by!

Alice Investigates: An Absurdity in Five Acts

Act One: The Disappearing

Act One, Scene One

Setting: Night time. Wascana Park near the lake. East of the Albert St. bridge.

[A young man stands at the edge of the water, his hair dishevelled as he runs a hand through it, repeatedly. His other hand digs a bent cigarette out of his pocket, brings it to his lips, then puts it back in his pocket. It is dark; he is mostly in shadow]

Tony: That’s all I know, I swear. All they wrote, you know. Everything there is to know, I’m telling you.

[There is no answer. There are the sounds of waves lapping against the shore, as if something is steadily moving in the water near to shore. Tony paces away from the waterfront, turning his back to it for a second before coming back. Again, his hand digs the bent cigarette out of his pocket.]

Tony: Lie, why would I lie? What purpose does lying serve? A man is only as good as his work, you know. That’s what they say, isn’t it?

[Again, there is no response. In the distance there is a goose honk, as if it is disturbed, and the sound of wings beating against water. Over the bridge a car passes, honking its horn, the sounds of joy riding going South to North.]

Tony: You can’t do that, you promised! You said that if I got this for you, you’d let me in. I did what you asked so you have to do what you promised! An eye for an eye, don’t you know!

[Tony crouches down near the edge of the water, puts the bent cigarette between his lips and points at something in the water. He waits for a short pause and seems to visibly relax.]

Tony: Good . . . good. A deal is a deal. We made a bargain and shook on it. I joined the cause and I want what we agreed on.

[There is the sound of movement, water and waves. Tony drags his fingers through his hair again, and nods to himself. Pulling his hands back he sits down on his butt. With some effort he struggles out of his jacket and folds it before setting it down next to himself. He then removes one shoe and sets it aside, followed by the other. Shortly, his socks are removed, balled up, and shoved in the shoes.]

Tony: No, I won’t change my mind. Through thick and thin, we’re in this together now. Thick as thieves, one of the fold, you know.

[Tony scoots himself closer to the edge of the water.]

Tony: An artist must sacrifice himself for his art, right? The cause demands a price. I’m committed, I won’t back down.

[There is a strange surge in the water. Between one second and the next, Tony goes from sitting on the edge of the shore to slipping underneath the water. There is a splash. Slowly the ripples fade to silence, darkness, stillness. In the distance there is the sound of a passing car of joyriders, going North to South across the bridge.]

Act One, Scene Two

Setting: Inside a room. It is well lit. There is a door to the left and a window to the right. Above, a ceiling fan turns lazily, casting a rotating shadow on the figure below. There are three piles of books/magazines/papers on a desk.

[A woman sits in the chair behind the desk, her legs kicked up and crossed at the ankles, precariously resting on the edge of the desk. Her chair is tilted back, her head hanging over the side. Somewhere in the room, there is a radio playing the news.]

Radio Anchor: [Spoken with a slight accent, sentences ended with the sounds of sips being taken from a mug] No one knows where the feet came from, but forensics experts are convinced that more remains to be found. Police are still looking for other pieces to flesh out the body of evidence.

In local news, Regina’s newest mayor, Albert Saint Albert vows to shut down the protests that have been taking place outside of city hall and down at the new wharf. The protests are, of course, the result of the new sweeping city bylaws instituted last month by Albert St. . . . I mean, Saint Albert, which allow for the use of city parks, including Wascana, to be opened up to commercial development by the logging and fishing industries. Those who advocated for the development of the land applaud the decision, as it will greatly increase their ability to create change in the city. Protestors, on the other hand, are concerned over what those commercial developments will mean for the major city park, the largest and last such urban park in the whole of Canada.

[The woman, Alice, raises her hands above her head, splaying her fingers out wide. Carefully she tilts back a bit more, raising her crossed ankles up off the desk, balancing. There is a notebook open on her lap, notably devoid of any writing.]

Radio Anchor: In developing news, police are still seeking information about the recent string of disappearances in the city. All are young, twenty something individuals with devil-may-care attitudes and misplaced notions of their place in the world. Names of the missing, along with photographs and a brief biography, can be found on our website. Any leads you have should be jotted down and brought to your local police station or left in Facebook comments on the official investigations event page. The lead investigator, featured earlier today in a news conference, had this to say about the progress in the case:

[There is a marked change in the audio quality, a hubbub of voices murmuring as a man clears his throat.]

Detective Nickles: [He speaks as if he is still chewing on a sandwich, as though his lunch/breakfast was interrupted by this planned conference] People. People! Calm yourselves down. Hold your horses. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve looked into things. These kids . . . adults really. These adults are probably just fine. Given their background, and the interests listed on their profile pages, they’re probably all at a music festival in a field somewhere, comparing the size of their hands and wondering where the next snack is. All this fuss, all this worry is too much. The search parties, the fliers, the helicopter and night time patrols. All too much and unneeded. You watch. Give it another week, and they’ll all comes wandering back home, dazed and confused, a little sleepy and hungover, but fine. Then you’ll see that this was all a waste of time and effort. Time that you could have spent at the new sport-fishing tours on the lake or experiencing what it’s like to be a lumberjack at the “Lumberjack Experience Camp”, now in scenic Wascana Park. Now, enough of this. All you paper people go back to your paper presses and print something interesting, like the golf scores, or photos of the new stadium sitting there, majestic and wide open, waiting for a big show to book in.

[The hubbub dies down and the radio returns to the previous quality, the feed is obviously now back in the newsroom.]

Radio Anchor: This has been your local news for the hour, stay tuned for international news at the top of the hour. Coming up after the weather, the thrilling finale of “So You Think You’re a Survivalist”, the hit radio drama that has been sweeping the nation. I for one hope that we get to find out what happened when they ran out of firewood.

[Somewhere, over the din of the radio, there is the sound of breaking glass, an obvious tumble, and a recovery. Alice tries to get up as the sounds of rapid footsteps begin to sound, but given that her legs are crossed, she kind of rolls out of the chair, tangled in her own legs. As the footsteps becomes louder, more rapid, she dive-rolls behind her desk, reaching up to grab at something with which to defend herself. First, she grabs a stapler and wields it like a gun, but abandons it and grabs a pen instead, holding it like a dagger.]

Alice: I’m warning you, whoever you are out there, I have a mighty weapon, and I am not afraid to use it!

[The footsteps stop just short of the door, there is a brief pause, and then a series of three precise, loud knocks, followed by a pause. Alice sits up a bit, elbows on the desk, and watches the door. Half a minute later, the three knocks repeat themselves.]

Alice: Come in.

[The door swings open in dramatic fashion, and a man steps in, dressed in jeans and an open flannel shirt, a beanie on his head. Turning, open to the ‘audience’, he closes the door, before making the same turn in reverse to face Alice.]

Jones: [Crosses from the right of the room to the desk.] I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time, but this is absolutely urgent. [Jones stops and looks down at the ground, he takes half a step back and turns himself to be open to the ‘audience’, so that he is not shut off to the desk] It was imperative that we speak immediately, due to urgency. [He speaks as if reading a script his is unfamiliar with.]

Alice: Jones? [She lowers the pen, seeming to relax a little] You should get that checked out. How did you get in here? Was that you breaking in?

Jones: [Takes a breath, looks meaningfully back at the door for a moment, and then slowly turns back to audience] Oh no, I surprised your secretary, he dropped his martini glass. He told me I could find you in your office, said you were in and free to help. That you’d be willing to hear my plea. [He crosses to the desk, pulls out a chair and sits down. After a second, he gets back up, turns the chair to be ‘open’ to the desk, and sits down again, crossing his upstage leg over the other.]

Alice: My Secretary? This . . . this is my house. My private house. And my Office. My private office in my private house! [In a huff, Alice crosses over to the door and throws it open] MAX! Not funny! No more late-night drinking games to black and white movies for you, anymore! And get off of that table! [She throws the door closed again and crosses back over to her desk.]

Jones: [Leans onto the desk, waiting for Alice to look at him] Help me Alice, you’re my only hope! I don’t know who else I have left to go to for help at this point!

[Alice sighs and rights her chair, before sitting in it opposite the desk from Jones, she is closed off to the desk compared to his open. Jones tries to relay through hand signals for her to open herself up from the desk, but she either ignores the gestures or does not understand them.]

Alice: Well, if you really need some help, some advice if you will, I just might be able to help you. Is it writer’s block? It’s always writer’s block, isn’t it, it gets us all. Why, I’ve been battling with a case myself recently, but I’ve put it well behind me. I have some very useful exercises we could work through.

[A voice rings out, echo-y, old-timey, like an old noir film a little smoky, and a little bit slurred.]

Max: It was true, I thought to myself. I had been through a dry spell. Drier than the driest gin you could find in a dive in this part of town. But here it was, the case that could set me right back on track. Jones looks at me, pleading in his doe-like eyes, a look that would spell danger for anyone without their head fastened on tight.

[Jones doesn’t hear the voice, doesn’t acknowledge it, but Alice looks up and around, a bit confused.]

Jones: You need to help me find Tony! He vanished. Poof! Like smoke. He’s been taken, I know it, just like all the others. I need you to find him and bring him home, Alice! [Jones throws himself over the desk, grasping Alice’s hands in his, but makes sure he is still in an open position.]

Alice: Jones! Hold your horses just a minute there!

Jones: I don’t have any horses.

Max: [Still disembodied] Ah, prettier than a blue jay, but about as sharp as a pillow.

Alice: Not what I meant, Jones. Turn of phrase . . . figure of speech? But you got to slow down, explain it to me.

Jones: [Lets go of Alice’s hands] Oh . . . oh! Right . . . right, sorry. But Tony, my roommate, you remember? He’s gone missing.

Alice: [gets up from the desk, walks around it, passed Jones] I really don’t think I can help you with that. This is probably something more for the police to deal with, or social media. You know, people with real power.

Jones: [Stands up and crosses to Alice. He stops. Looks down at his feet, takes half a step back and turns to open] The police refuse to help! They say that the people, like Tony, that they’re not missing, just gone. They won’t even file the report, just shuffled the papers around before filing them in the shredder! Help me Alice, I come to you in my hour of need.

Alice: I write young adult fiction, Jones, not detective stories. I don’t know the first thing about finding a missing person, Jones! How am I supposed to help?

Jones: [Walks up to Alice, takes her by the shoulders, gives her a quick shake] Of course you do, Alice! With nothing but your great mind, you found Olivia Flaversham’s missing toymaker father, and uncovered Rattigan’s dastardly plot to replace the Queen of England with a wind-up toy robot! Without you, a real rat would be ruling the entire Commonwealth right now!

Max: With my brain and his looks, we could go places . . . not fancy places, but you know, places. Maybe this was what I needed to kick myself out of the shadows, to pick myself up and show off my metal.

Alice: That was just a play, Jones. A play based off a classic children’s movie. I only played Basil of Baker Street. There was a script, I didn’t solve a thing! No one even came to the show!

Jones: I believe in you; the script was just your clue to solving the whole case. You’re the only one who can find Tony. Without you, all our hopes will be lost.

Alice: Well . . . when you put it that way . . .

Max: I never could say no, even when I was in over my head.

Jones: [Shakes Alice again, and lets go of her shoulders, grinning and whooping] I knew I could count on you! The last text message I got from Tony said, “Leave me alone, I’m heading out to the lake.” So, I guess he went to Wascana. He never came home after that, and his phone was off. No answer to my 27 calls since this morning. That would be the best place to start, to put your nose on the trail. Call me when you sort this all out! [He turns to go, moving to the door, but as his hands touches the knob, he stops, has a lightbulb moment and turns around] Almost forgot, silly me. Always exit to the right. [He passes Alice, moving to the window on the other side of the desk and opens it, slipping halfway out.]

Alice: Wait! Just one more thing, Jones. Why is it so important to find Tony? I mean, he didn’t even come to the play, and you got him a ticket every night. Is it love?

Jones: [He is halfway out the window but ducks his head back in] He still has my Nickelback CD, and the mailbox key. [Jones goes to complete his exit but stops himself. There are the sounds of tumbling, then of a fall onto ground. A moment of silence, before there are some groans and shuffling off.]

Max: [Voice still disembodied, echoing, more slurred] This was my moment, I thought to myself. The case that could put an end to my dry spell.

Alice: Max! Stop narrating!!

Max: If I could solve the caper of Missing Tony, I would be back in the game. No more late-night bar rooms and smoky dives, no more empty pages taunting me from across the room with promises of great nights.

Alice: Are you in the ventilation, Max?!?!?

Max: I grabbed my trench coat and fedora and closed the shades on my glass front door. Private Eye Alice is going to walk the beat and turn up the leads.

Alice: [climbs up on her desk, pulling the grate off the vent system] How many times have I told you not to go into the ventilation?! No more martinis before noon for you, anymore!

[END ACT I]

 

Nerves: Another Fan Convention, but from the other side of the table this time.

So,

A few months ago I took a leap. Try something I’ve only ever done for myself, on a. larger scale. What is that? making crafts. Specifically, making them to sell at a Fan Convention. So I dove in, and with tittering nerves, I’m there today, putting something I’ve made on sale for the first time. let’s see how this goes. I’ve got awesome support in my table mate. She’s actually the artist, the table holder and the one we are there for. I’m really the supposed to be the support! But I figured, well, no time like the present to dive on in. Wish me luck, and maybe, if I’m not crushed beneath the agony of defeat, I’ll be brave enough to keep on keeping on. Maybe print up books of stories for the next one?

Megan

Face The Morning

Susan sat at her desk, the sun shining in from the East as the sun rose over the horizon, casting everything in a rose gold blush. Something still wasn’t quite right. Reaching out she adjusted a picture frame, angling it just slightly more outward facing so that whoever sat opposite her would have very little choice but to see it. It was of herself, leaning against a low stone wall, arms extended excitedly above her head, a large, floppy straw hat settled on her head. By looking at it, it was impossible to tell if it was old or new, just that the woman in the photo was unmistakably her, being unmistakably happy, in an unmistakably plain field that could be located anywhere where fields could be found. Susan nodded to herself and placed her hands palm-down on the desktop, straightening her own posture and looking to the office door.

Aside from her office light, the office was quiet save for the hum of the overhead lights, and the intermittent click of a copier, spitting out papers somewhere in a supply room. It was as it should be then, Susan nodded in affirmation. After all, it had only just passed dawn, and no one else would be arriving quite yet to begin their day. Still, though, something wasn’t right.

Susan moved again, bringing her chair slightly closer to her desk, and began arranging her pens and paper. Carefully she lined each up by their colour, and then their height, setting them just so next to the pad of legal paper that sat, crisp, pristine and unused, within easy reach. She then removed a small palm full of paperclips from the supply caddy and set them down next to the paper. No. No, that simply did not look right. With an admonishing click of her tongue she put the paperclips back where she had taken them from, one by one, so that each lay flat atop the other within the caddy. With that complete, she nodded again, satisfied for the moment, and folded her hands, looking out her open door to the office floor.

There was a ding of the elevator, announcing the arrival of others, and the quiet murmur of conversation in the distance of the cubicle maze. Good, that was very good, Susan thought. This was how it was supposed to be, perfect and orderly. But still, something felt just a little off. Susan turned her chair just so and stopped so that she herself was angled toward her computer, the black screen showing nothing but her own reflection. There! That was it, now she knew what had been so wrong before. With careful hands, she reached up to her face, and pulled the skin up and forward, just so. It settled back around her skeletal orbital sockets and cleared her field of vision of the slight obstruction the out-of-placeness had caused. Carefully she moved down, straightening out her smile so that her lips framed her teeth, instead of sagging down to show her lower jaw. It would have been very frightful to be seen without her face on properly, Susan mused as she smoothed the skin of her neck down over her protruding clavicles. It simply would not have been a good way to start the day. A chorus of screams and madness were never good for office morale.

It Started In a Tavern

With a final glance at his reflection, Del straightened his eyepatch then, with a deep breath, turned to the tavern proper.

“Alright, you lot. We did a good job last night, closed out some of the smaller requests. On that note, a special congratulation to Dorin, who did an excellent job filling in as the librarian, it was your work that got that last party to clear out the ghosts from the from that basement, and netted us a nice finders fee.” There was a smattering of applause from those gathered at the tavern tables, as was their custom.

Months ago, the tavern had been on the verge of going under; between the damage caused by bar brawls and groups of high ego ‘adventurers’. It had been Del’s idea to band the staff and town together to turn it around. Why was it that it was only adventures that earned all the gold, and spent it faster than they could appreciate it? Now, with the help of the town, Del had a lucrative business running, and the tavern and town were better than they had ever been. All it had required was a little bit of diplomacy, and now all of the contracts for work came to the town. Instead of letting outsiders take all the money, they had worked out a good system. They would pick up each contract from the issuer of the task, and the sub-contract it out to the proper group. They’d offer a reward for the work, much smaller than the true price, and pocket the difference. The local authorities agreed with it, as it kept the wealth local, and meant that they did not need to do the footwork of finding individuals to complete the tasks.

Del picked up the assignments for the evening, and made his way around the room, handing each of them out.

“So, we’ve got a few big ones still waiting for the right group. Olav, down at the Broken Tusk, let us know that a pretty tough group is likely headed our way. We’re to look out for a female halfling, a real troublemaker who lits from shadow to shadow, and a big woman with a sword even bigger than she is.” Del stopped at the table next to Elona and clapped his hand on the small elf’s shoulder. “Sounds like they’re pretty good at what they do. Some news about how they held off an entire goblin invasion at an old fort. I think we can safely send them off to deal with that “little” red dragon problem. Start the reward low, let them feel like they’re really getting away with something, we can let them get up to 500 gold, and still, earn enough on the job to buy that new brewery.” There was a cheer at that, and Del grinned before moving on, handing out a few smaller assignments were needed. They had been contracted to find someone who could turn the undead back into their graves, and the local cleric just didn’t have the time to deal with it himself. If Del was honest, he knew Cleric Palon was just lazy and would rather read his bawdy novels then do the actual work, but a payment was payment, so that was that.

“One last thing though. “ Del stopped in the middle of the group, placing his hands on his hips. “ Turns out we set the alarm spell a little too high on the flaming goblet. Melosa, if you could tune it down, we might be able to get that one taken care of. We just need them to steal it and then the curse will transfer and Lord Bors will pay off the full reward.” There was a groan and a bit of a boo and hiss from various mouths, and Del shook his head. “I know! I thought that that little goblin would have gotten past it for sure. Would have served them right too, we wasted good stew because of the giant Goliath and might have kicked that paladin in the ass a bit for the stunt he pulled back Triboar. Now, everyone to their places, like as not all those adventurers are getting thirsty for a drink.”

The huddle broke up as each person took their place, and Del returned behind the bar. Soon enough evening would fall, and then, as per usual, the tavern would fill up with those seeking their fortune, from the newest adventures, still with a clean blade, to the oldest and most battle-hardened barbarian, looking for their next bit of coin.

 

Touching Stone

The cold marble of the stone slab seemed to throb against Martin’s hands, like the heartbeat of some great beast dug into the earth. He had been unable to resist the urge to return to this spot, despite the warnings he had received about venturing off into the old forest alone. He knew he should have listened to his father, he normally did, but since he had discovered his place it had been all that he could think of.

Martin had come upon it by chance; he and the other boys from the village had been playing a game of Bandits and Knights in the woods. He had been the last remaining bandit, and if he could just keep the other children from catching him and stealing the handkerchief that served as their treasure, they would win. He had turned briefly to glance over his shoulder, and in doing so had tripped over an upturned root and fallen, almost directly into the stone slab, hidden by years of dead leaves and vines.

The other children had caught him, and he had failed to win the game, but deep down Martin knew that what he had found that day was more important that a group of boys playing pretend. He had come back each day for the following fortnight, exploring around the stone slab, removing the vines and forest detritus until he had uncovered a series of several stone slabs and a low ring of rough stone surrounding them. The first one he had found has turned out to be dug into the ground, a long smooth pillar half buried. He had sought to return to this place at every available moment. Sometimes, when the sun was setting and he sat quietly facing it, he could hear voices.

On this day, he had snuck off from his home after dinner. Food and home held no interest for him. He had been sitting at the table, looking out the lone window of their home, toward the forest, his stew forgotten and cold before him. His mother had fussed, wondering why he refused to eat. His father had spoken of idle hands and time, and promise to put him to work in the morning so hard that he would devour any food laid before him the following day. He no longer spoke to them about the forest, about the stones, not since the first night, when his father had all but roared at him in anger, warning him from the place. But what could be so wrong about it?

Martin had waited until his parents had put him to bed, and then longer until he heard them close their door, and saw the fire from the hearth die to embers. On quiet feet, he had snuck from the house and into the woods, intent on visiting one more time, before his father made good on his promise to put him to work. With his hand against the stone, Martin laid down, pressing himself against the cool stone surface. In the dark, he listened to the low murmur of voiced, rising up around his ears, and closed his eyes. He matched his breathing to the pulse beneath him, felt the chill as it pressed in on every side. If he listened just a little harder, he was certain that he could hear his name, being called out from within the stone.

 

Soft Offering

Octavia looked at the blade in her hand. It was curved and nicked. Without a doubt, it was likely older than she was. The candlelight flicked off of its surface, making it look far more menacing that it had the right to look. Soon, she knew, its reflective surface would be slick with blood and lose its shine. She had seen it used so many times, had watched its work and transformation from afar, but she had never been this close. This was the first time it had come to her hand, and she knew that it was a turning point. It was also the only chance she would have to attempt to redeem her family’s reputation in the eyes of the gods. After this, there was nothing left to offer.

Normally her older brother, Octavian, was the one to hold it, to wield it, and to makes its work happen. But he was now gone, having joined their older siblings and their mother in the afterlife. As the oldest, the duty of it fell to her, or so she took on its responsibility. Likely, the ancestors would have something awful and ominous to say, if they could make their voice heard. Never, it all its existence, had the knife been used by a woman, but now there was no one else left. So it fell to Octavia, so she would continue the practice, even if it brought the wrath of the gods down on her. Still holding the knife in one hand, she carefully drew her veil down over her head, preparing for her task.

The lamb before her was calm, meek as if resolved to its fate. It was a good sign, Octavia thought, as they had always bleated and screamed at her brother. She approached it slowly, the knife lowered to her side and knelt down on the ground. The dirt and dead grass beneath her knees biting into the soft flesh. She gritted her teeth and bore the pain of an especially jagged rock. With one hand she ran her fingers through the lamb’s fine wool, and still, the creature did not make a sound, looking at her with its large eyes. They shared a moment, something soft as if the gods were speaking to her through the offering, urging her on to the act.     In one quick movement, Octavia wrapped her free arm around the lamb’s back and drew it close to her, running the edge of the blade surely along its neck until she felt the warm splash of blood begin to trickle and course down her fingers and her arm. Even as it began to fade, the lamb was silent. Whether because it knew that she was offering it to the gods, or because it knew that Octavia would have faltered it if cried, she was uncertain. The lamb had been the best she could do, and she prayed that the gods would forgive her her inability to prepare and complete the ritual in its entirety. Holding the lamb and knife to her, she waited, the only sound her own breath, and the distant rolls of thunder.

 

The Gambler

Kosto watched as the man across from him tapped his newly dealt cards against the table, eyes darting up and down from the meager pile of coins that he had set in front of him. Kosto’s own cards were nothing to brag about, but being that they were the only two men left in the game, there wasn’t much he could do. He could, if he wanted to, keep folding until the man across from him had all of the money, but he doubted that would accomplish much.

“I’m just trying to win enough to get my little girl some medicine. She’s been sick lately, and my boss is a bastard with no heart.” Those words, uttered by the man across from him, kept Kosto playing, waiting to see when he could make a move. The corner of his opponent’s lip ticked upward, just for a second, and Kosto knew it was his chance. Setting his cards down, he took his large pile of coin, easily a month’s earnings, and slipped them to the centre of the table.

“All in.” He uttered lowly, then leaned back in his chair and observed. The man across from him looked at the pile in disbelief but didn’t hesitate long before pushing what remained of his own money into the pile. The dealer nodded, then checked the river, laying it out for the two men. Kosto’s opponent flipped his cards first. Three of a kind, not the most confident of hands, but at least better than a low pair with a middling kicker. Kosto flipped his cards, revealing nothing but a pair of twos, and an assortment of other disappointments. The man across from him didn’t question Kosto’s poor decision, leaping from the table and shouting in triumph.

“A round for all you hooves, who didn’t think I’d ever win! And the good stuff, barkeep!” The man around him clapped his on the shoulders, and Kosto narrowed his eyes.

“What about your daughter?” He asked, picking up his glass of whiskey and draining the last of it.

“I’ll just win again, it’s not hard. Besides, I know my wife has some coin stashed away where she thinks I can’t find it. That’ll be enough for the little biter.” The man continued to celebrate, picking up his newly won coin and slipping it into his pockets until no more would fit, and then he called for a pouch.

Getting up from the table, Kosto pulled another coin from his pocket and placed it down on the table to cover his own drink, before pushing through the crowd, leaving the stale and rank bar for the dark roads beyond. He had thought that this would be the case but was still saddened at what it meant. For a moment he had thought the man had maybe seen the error of his past ways, and simply did not know a better way to try and do the right thing. When the man’s wife had approached Kosto with the accusation that her husband was betting away all their coin, he had held little hope that such was not the case. Over his years of working such things though, he found that very rarely were the quiet ones prone to making rash or false accusations. With a backward glance toward the bar, sound pouring from it into the night, Kosto slipped into the shadows of the alley and started his wait. There would be a message delivered tonight, and it would not be pleasant.