Midnight At The Estanaula Hunt Club

“Eat.” She plunked the wooden bowl down in front of him, and the sweet smell of the clover was simultaneously nauseating and enticing. Clover salads and water were all she had given him for longer than he could remember, and although he definitely didn’t want to eat it anymore, his body wasn’t giving him a choice.

She unshackled one of his hands, and he knew better than to try and escape. He had made that mistake the second day, and his head still bore a knot where she had clocked him with a baseball bat. Slowly he began to pick at the greens as she sat down across the table from him.

Her cold eyes studied him while he chewed like a cow, her jaw clenched tight as always. He had been in this basement for what seemed like forever and he hadn’t asked her why. He knew. He knew it was because of the child he had hurt. He knew the minute he had woken up to her face looking down on him.

The clover made no sense. Why in the world would anybody eat something like that? But after three days without food and water, he had. She had barely spoken, but one of the few things she had uttered was to inform him that he would receive no water unless he ate the clover, and that was to be his only option for food. Eventually thirst and hunger wins out.

Just like every other time, she stared at him in silence until he had finished the bowl. The sheen of sweat from her recent run showed on her cheeks. She always fed him after she’d been out running. Her lithe frame might fool other people into thinking she was small and weak, but he knew better. He had already experienced the wicked power living in that tiny package.

She allowed him a few swallows of water, and then re-shackled his hand to the metal chair. The only other time he had been somewhat free was the two times a day she allowed him to pee into a plastic bottle as she stood guard with the Louisville Slugger in hand.

He watched her move around the room, setting up an elaborate display with an old iron bed frame on top of a large tarp that seemed to be covering several wooden pallets. There was a hole in the center of the tarp, and she carefully re-taped a plastic drain into it, snaking a tube out underneath the pallets and into a large industrial bucket. The panic began to creep over him as he realized that this tableau was most likely to be his end.

She walked back to where he sat and leaned close to his face.

“I’m going to unlock your feet,” she said calmly, “and I’m going to shackle your hands together. If you so much as flinch in my direction, I will make you regret it, understood?”

He knew she wasn’t bluffing. He was too weak to fight her at this point, anyway. Once he nodded in acceptance, she did indeed unlock his feet and hands, cuffing the latter together behind his back.

“Get on the bed,” she ordered, hoisting him to his feet. His legs nearly buckled underneath him, but he shuffled as best he could. “Lie down.”

He lay back onto the old springs and she fastened his ankles to the lower end of the frame. She painfully wrenched his arm out to the side and loosed one wrist, quickly attaching it to the headboard before repeating the process with the other. Once she had him secured, she turned to the workbench along the wall, grabbed a large pair of scissors, and carefully began to cut away his grubby jeans and shirt. Soon he was stripped, her having even done away with his boxers.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she finally explained, looking down on him as she pulled a tiny knife from her pocket. “I’m going to cut you, little by little, starting at your feet and working my way up to your neck. They won’t be deep; just enough so that you bleed. My knife will touch you everywhere. And every time it does, every time it burns into your skin, I want you to think about that little girl. I want you to know that your hands burn into her the same way when she closes her eyes.”

He swallowed hard, trying not to cry. He knew he deserved whatever was about to happen, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.

“But don’t think it’s just going to be about making you feel the pain,” she continued, taking her eyes off of his long enough to study the way the bare light bulb glinted in the knife blade. “Thanks to my beautiful clover, your blood is now overwhelmed with a natural anti-clotting factor. I’m going to slice your skin to ribbons and then sit here and watch you drip to death. It’s going to be extremely painful and slow. Just so you know.”

“You bitch…” he spat at her without thinking and she backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip against his teeth.

“Now look at that,” she sighed. “You’ve gone and messed up the process. Oh well…we can fix that.” She turned a pulled and old rag from a box behind her, stuffing it in his mouth until he started to gag. “That should keep you from distracting me. Now let’s begin, shall we?”

The knife blade drug its first red rivulet into his ankle and he couldn’t help but scream against the fabric, kicking with all his remaining strength against the shackles.

(I submitted this to @elsewhereuniversity , but I wanted to also post it over here, since this is my actual writing blog.)

“You’re so fucking weird, you know that? You and your damn friends,” he said, his smirk belying the fact that he and I both knew what he’d done. “Hell, everything is weird in this place. I don’t even know why I ended up here in the first place. Some bullshit about my mom’s great aunt promising to pay for my whole four years if I came here. Might as well if it’s a free ride, right?”

He shrugged and crushed the now empty beer can in his meaty hands, the same hands that left marks all over Katie’s body. I felt my fists ball up at my sides and my blood turned cold.

“Why do you wear this?” I asked, trying to feign idle curiosity as I reached for the iron disc dangling around his neck. “Surely you’re not superstitious.”

“Naw, man,” he scoffed. “Somebody gave me that when I moved into the dorm, and I guess I’ve just never taken it off.” I popped the chain with minimal effort and slipped it into my pocket. He barely even noticed.

“You’re not scared, are you? You don’t really believe what people say, do you?” I was baiting him and I knew it.

“What, that some weird kid with a funny haircut is gonna drag me off into the woods? Yeah, right. What the fuck ever,” he snorted.

“Make sure if they ask for your name, you say it really clearly and slowly,” I told him quietly, leaning close to his sweaty, drunken face. “Sometimes they don’t hear our words very easily.”

He blinked numbly for a second and then laughed out loud, spraying me with spittle in the process. Then he shook his head and stumbled out the the back door and into the dark night.

The next day’s twilight approached as I sat on a bench outside the library. Chad hadn’t been seen all day, not that anyone was surprised. And unlike some others that had been Taken, no Replacement had been offered. It seemed everyone was simply grateful for the removal of a problem.

No sound was made as the creature sat down next to me, the dying light of the sun causing its glamour to shimmer slightly. “I suppose you expect a thank you,” I offered, rather than bothering with a greeting.

“No, child, it is I who should be thanking you,” it pointed out, the click of its blinking eyes making me twitch. “Rarely has anything been so simple. You practically offered him up on a plate.” It grinned at me then, multiple rows of teeth barely visible, but enough to unnerve anyone other than me.

“He didn’t deserve his life any longer,” I muttered. “He hurt her.” I knew I should feel bad about what I’d done, but the truth was, I felt nothing.

“Your rage is admirable, but it’s only due to your love of another. Why, Halfling, do you love these base creatures so much?”

“I can’t help it,” I sighed. “They’re not all like him… most are decent and kind, and they have the capacity to do such great good.”

It sniffed in disdain, unable or unwilling to see my point of view. But then again, no one knew what it was like to be me.

It had been 19 years since They had let my mother go, stumbling out of the woods and back into the middle of campus with me already growing in her belly. She was never solid after that, always too quiet, too easily startled. But she loved me fiercely, told the best bedtime stories, and quietly taught me the ways of the Gentry.

I knew what I was very early, and lived with the silent knowledge of my difference. I saw things others didn’t, knew things when I shouldn’t, and spent too much time playing alone. The thin-limbed, shy child, with eyes too big that seemed to know too much. Elsewhere University seemed to be the only place I could go and feel truly accepted.

So now I sit on a bench with one of Them by my side, wondering what sort of deal my father made to make them let my mother go. Was he important? Powerful? Or had he sacrificed himself in some way for her? Not only did They let her live, They let her remember. That was rare.

“Come with me,” it implored. “Come to where you truly belong. Your power is great, and you should be with your people.”

It wasn’t the first offer I’d received. They coveted my ability to walk between the worlds seamlessly. I could be very useful to Them.

They almost had me at the age of twelve, when mean girls had me ostracized and shunned in my tiny middle school. But I knew They didn’t love like my mother; their tricks and games were merciless, and I would be killing the only good within me if I ever said yes.

I stared back at it, no answer crossing my lips. I knew better than to anger Them, but neither would I accept. Finally, it let out a sigh.

“Very well, then,” it said, fluidly rising to its feet. “Until next time…”

“Stay away from Katie,” I warned.

“Careful, careful, Halfling. You cannot save them all.”

I stared back at its golden eyes, never blinking. Something in mine must have told it there were consequences behind my warning. One foot in either world also allows one access to everyone’s weaknesses.

There were bloodstains on the snow. The blanket of white otherwise covering the world dampened all sounds, the quiet filling his ears like soft cotton. The body lay just outside the door to the cabin, a massive spear of ice straight through its neck.

“Death by icicle? Well… that’s creative… ” he muttered. Looking around for tracks other than the victim’s, but finding none.

“Couldn’t it have been an accident?” she asked, the tremor in her voice noticeable.

“Nope,” he answered simply, popping the p just a bit on the word. He reached down and ran his finger across the wide end of the icicle. It was easily three inches across at its base. “There is only one icicle broken off the edge of this roof, the temperatures are entirely too cold for it to have melted off, and if it had fallen naturally, it would’ve hit him on the head, not conveniently gone straight through his carotid.”

“So you’re saying what…..? Something just floated up, ripped one giant icicle off this roof edge, and stabbed a man to death?” she prodded, attempting a tone of sarcastic disbelief, but instead, landing somewhere in the vicinity of nervous.

“The only thing I’m saying right now is that we are definitely leaving. Immediately.” He turned for the truck and she followed.

The wind whistled through the trees like a softly howled warning, and the sudden sound of snapping twigs caused him to throw the truck into gear before either of them had their doors fully shut. She opened her mouth to speak, to throw out some theory as they careened back down the icy gravel, and he cut her off.

“Don’t,” he warned. “It ain’t gonna make a difference.” She signed in defeat and stared out through the windshield.

They’d both lived long enough in these hills to know not to look back, not to stop and stare into the woods at night, not to try too hard to put a name or reason into the things that happened in the shadows.

Michael Jochum

Here’s the hard truth, stripped of slogans and denial:

The boat is taking on water. Fast. And the people still arguing about the paint color on the deck are going down with it.

This is a plea, not to the extremists, not to the true believers, not to the cultists who have fused their identity to one man, but to the millions of Americans who are still on the fence, still rationalizing, still telling themselves “it can’t really get that bad,” still trying to balance comfort against conscience.

It is that bad. And it’s accelerating.

When federal immigration agents can operate inside American cities, kill a U.S. citizen in the middle of a raid, seal off the scene from local authorities, block investigations, and immediately brand the dead as a “terrorist,” we are no longer talking about policy disagreements. We are no longer in the realm of normal governance. We are watching the emergence of a federal security apparatus that sees itself as above law, above oversight, and above accountability to the people.

That isn’t rhetoric. That’s structure. That’s architecture of power.

The Nazi analogy isn’t some edgy metaphor people throw around for effect. I don’t like it. I hate needing it. But history doesn’t announce itself with swastikas and stormtroopers. It announces itself with normalized force, manufactured enemies, propaganda ecosystems, dehumanization, and state violence wrapped in language of “security.” It starts with “exceptions.” It grows into routine. And by the time people admit what’s happening, the machinery is already built.

What’s happening in Minneapolis isn’t an “incident.” It’s a warning flare.

Go look at the “Americans for Trump” spaces. People openly calling for the Insurrection Act. Openly calling for the arrest and execution of elected officials. Openly demanding military rule. Openly celebrating state violence. All built on fabricated narratives, algorithmic lies, and the refusal to believe their own eyes even when video evidence is available.

This isn’t organic. This isn’t accidental. This is a designed information ecosystem, built by tech billionaires who engineered platforms to amplify outrage, distort reality, reward extremism, and turn mass deception into a business model. The GOP didn’t build this alone. Silicon Valley didn’t build it alone. Oligarchy, propaganda, and political power fused, and this is the result.

A nation psychologically fragmented. Reality shattered into tribes. Violence normalized. Authoritarian language mainstreamed. Democracy reframed as weakness. Compassion reframed as betrayal.

And still, still, millions of people think this is just “politics.”

It isn’t.

This is systemic collapse behavior. Here’s the part people don’t want to hear: Voting alone is no longer sufficient. Necessary? Yes. Sufficient? No. Peaceful, massive, coordinated pressure is the only thing that has ever slowed authoritarian systems in history. Millions marching, not on Minneapolis, not on symbolic targets, on Washington.

A nationwide general strike that shuts down the economy.

Organized labor. Industry leaders. Unions. Civic leaders. Faith communities. Veterans. Students. Workers. Artists. Doctors. Teachers. Musicians. Truck drivers. Nurses. Engineers. Service workers. Parents.

Not performative protest. Not social media hashtags. Not symbolic outrage.

Real disruption. Real pressure. Real consequence. Because power doesn’t reform itself out of moral awakening. It reforms when it becomes afraid of losing legitimacy, stability, and control. This requires sacrifice. Discomfort. Risk. Courage. Coordination. Discipline. Resolve. All worthwhile causes always do.

Time is not on our side. Systems harden. Surveillance expands. Emergency powers normalize. Legal guardrails erode. Violence becomes procedural. Language becomes bureaucratic. Atrocities become paperwork.

And then people say: “How did this happen so fast?” It didn’t. You’re watching the middle, not the beginning.

If you supported Trump, it’s not too late. If you defended him, it’s not too late. If you stayed silent, it’s not too late. If you sat on the fence, it’s not too late. If you told yourself “both sides,” it’s not too late. But the window is closing. This isn’t about parties anymore. This isn’t about ideology. This isn’t about left vs right.

This is about whether we remain a constitutional republic or slide into managed authoritarianism with elections as theater and violence as policy.

Come to the side of integrity. Come to the side of law. Come to the side of human dignity. Come to the side of accountability. Come to the side of compassion. Come to the side of truth. Come to the side of the country you claim to love. Because what’s forming right now is not strength. It’s not security. It’s not patriotism. It’s not order.

It’s a parasite state, feeding on fear, rage, lies, grievance, and manufactured enemies, draining the life out of the nation while calling itself salvation.

The grief I feel over the murder of another citizen is inseparable from the grief I feel watching the slow suffocation of the republic itself, the death of trust, the collapse of institutions, the erosion of law, the normalization of cruelty, and the quiet burial of hope.

Our nation is very ill. But it’s not dead yet. The boat is sinking , yes. But people are still on deck. And the pumps still work. And the hull hasn’t fully split. It’s not too late, but it is late. Choose wisely.. Not later. Not when it’s easier. Not when it’s safer. Not when it’s comfortable. Now.

Because history doesn’t ask whether you were polite. It asks whether you were brave.