CONVENTIONAL TILLAGE VS CONSERVATION TILLAGE - A REVIEW

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[Spoilers All] Franchise Retrospective Part II: Inquisition—A Game at War With Itself

As I mentioned in my recent retrospective on Dragon Age II, last year I put aside my disappointment in the direction of the franchise post-Origins and committed to a full series playthrough.
Much like when I started Dragon Age II, I was tentatively looking forward to Inquisition by the time I got around to it. Interesting plot and characters, a more robust dialogue wheel than II’s, and mods that added tolerable hair (I went with Zevran’s). Combat that looked to strike a balance between Origins’ overly deliberate pace and II’s frantic, grueling minion spam. But having been burned by my faintest expectations for II, I was leery of letting myself build any hype.
Let’s see how that panned out.

Disclaimer

Same deal as last time, although with less snark. [Edit from the future]Nope, regular amount of snark.[/Edit] I recognize that my opinions are nothing more than a reflection of my own preferences and expectations, and I know this game means a lot to tons of people. I’m not tearing anybody down, but I’m also not pulling any punches in terms of this game and what it means to me, personally.
I tried to make the exaggerations and sarcasm non-offensive and tongue-in-cheek, so apologies if any of it comes off badly.
Now on to my shit opinions.

You Can (Not) Play the Game—Interface

I’m going to get this out of my way right now to reduce the number of times I need to keep bringing it up: holy shit Inquisition’s interface is a chore to deal with. A game with this much going on demands an interface that facilitates smoothly interpreting and manipulating all of its systems. What we got just isn’t up to the task. It’s possible that I’m just a cretin who can’t find his way around a menu, but believe me, I’ve tried. This is the best I’ve been able to manage.
I’m pruning some things from this retrospective since it ended up at 20 full pages. So to condense a full page of interface complaints down to 3 bullet points:
However, I can’t just breeze through the combat interface issues like this. The above just represent processes being longer and more tedious than they had to be. The combat interface actually poses a serious barrier to enjoyment and playability.
The 8 ability slots are often criticized, but at least I understand the idea behind it. What I couldn’t understand is why the game was so insistent on obfuscating combat information. How much stamina does Caltrops cost? You certainly won’t learn from mousing over the bar. You have to bring up the talent menu, scroll over to the appropriate tree, and tunnel down from there. And where Origins gets criticism for not giving you enemy stats, Inquisition is tight-fisted with even player stats. How much health am I missing? How much does a potion heal for? What’s the cooldown on Stealth again? I spent the majority of the game thinking there wasn’t even a way of answering these questions without diving menus—and in some cases, there isn’t one AFAIK. Why you can’t just mouse over someone’s health bar and actually see their health boggles my mind.
Oh yeah, it’s because controllers can’t mouse over, and they didn’t add mouseovers to the PC version. But wait, it can’t be that, because you can mouse over an ability to see its name and have it reiterated what the hotkey is, both of which are of course completely useless.
Of course I learned near the end of the game that some information is gated by the tactical camera. But we’ll cover that in a bit. Oh you better believe we’ll cover that.
And then there’s character stats. Inquisition distilled II's simplified system even further, then did its damnedest to hide all useful information from you. I know there are codex entries that explain what the stats do broadly, but the game fights you tooth and claw to keep from giving you any practical information. Cool, I get +3 Cunning. No idea what that did in practice but OK. Oh this armor made my shield icon go up by like 5 widths of a typing stylus? I guess I should be celebrating?
It feels like BioWare wanted the benefits of the Skyrim stripped-down stats (“Just click Health, Stamina, or Mana! Oh my god you guys I’m so accessible!”), but without the stigma of ripping out the traditional RPG core. So they split the difference to achieve the absolute worst of both.
This, it turns out, will become something of a theme. And from there we arrive at our title. A game that at multiple critical junctures can’t quite bring itself to commit to a lane, and ends up at odds with itself.
All right that’s enough of that. I think. Hopefully. I’ll just sum it up by saying holy gods, the barrier raised by the interface would make Solas blush. It’s not a deal-breaker, but I’d point to this as a textbook case of an interface that, while robust, isn’t suited to the demands of its game.
OK now that I never have to talk about any of that ever again for the rest of my life, let’s move on to the game.

Champions of the Just—The Inquisition

As per usual for BioWare, the highlight of the game is your merry band of followers and their eccentric personalities. While a few were a little meh, this might be my overall favorite bunch to date—if perhaps only by sheer volume. I don’t even want to get into it here because it would just turn into me gushing about my strapping, adorable, curly boi, and my handsome, charming Gay Best Friend™, the Seeker that I kept flirting with just to get on her nerves a little even though she virtually screams Raging Hetero, the legit Ben-Hassrath who feels well integrated into the narrative without selling short his deeply alien cultural upbringing… and see I’m already doing the thing. Plus a bunch of great cameos from previous entries. Especially Morrigan and Flemeth.
Also, the voice acting throughout the entire game is top-notch. I cannot give enough props to the cast and directors.
And much DAII, Inquisition surprised me by delivering a pretty solid character arc of my PC. Granted by 2 hours in, my Lavellan felt sick to death of being called the Herald of some quaint human prophet. But Cassandra actually surprised me by pointing out this was a chance to help mend the rift between humans and elves. The way they worked my PC’s background into the story, while usually just little bits of fluff text, was really well done. It actually reminded me at times of how one’s origin would recontextualize big segments of the story in the first game, and that is a significant praise.
Overall, while Inquisition is less robust than II in its ability to chart a personal course for the PC, it still does an admirable job of finessing a blank-slate-shaped PC peg into a defined-cinematic-character-shaped hole. I’m incredibly grateful BioWare ended up broadening PC selection from human-only to the most options the franchise has ever seen, and the amount of work that went into that (at least judging by the Lavellan side) was impressive. Big tip of the hat for that.
Also I appreciated the subversion of the chosen one narrative. It was a very Dragon Age way of subverting it, and I loved that.
Also Skyhold. Skyhold is great. While the customization fell flat for me, it was a marvel of design and really elevated the feel of running the Inquisition.
Just typing this out brings me straight back to the high highs this game had to offer. Unfortunately, with such highs come some low lows. Which brings us to…

DoOm UpOn AlL tHe WoRlD~~!!!!!

Before I get into the central conflict, permit me a brief tangent.
BioWare. Dude. Having just played Legacy, I would have been so stoked for this bombshell of a reveal.
That is, if you hadn’t spoilered it immediately the first time I opened the War Table.
Did you really have to name-drop Corypheus in the Black Emporium operation text? Like would it have been really hard to remove the words “against Corypheus”? Sure, sure, by the point the DLC dropped the true chosenest of the chosen would already have known. But we all know these games have a long tail. Throw me a frickin bone here!
sigh
OK, let’s just… let’s just move along.

What Pride Had Wrought—Main Story

I want to bring up one mark against Inquisition's story before I dive into the good parts. It was a major letdown that after all the effort DAII put into building up the Mage-Templar war, it had very little relevance to Inquisition other than a few lines here and there, and cutting down rebel mages left and right. Other than the calamity at Haven (and really, killing some high-ranking VIPs didn't require a worldwide calamity to bring about), it just felt like window dressing rather than the central conflict that it had earned the right to be. Having the ways I interacted with the world largely unchanged from previous mage-Templar tensions made this feel like a major case of tell-don't-show that, along with relegating Hawke to pretty much a footnote, really deflated the arc of DAII.
Anyways, Inquisition tries to go back to basics with Origins’ cataclysmic conflict looming over the player at every turn. Each major story beat does a good job of advancing that overarching conflict. And many of them are quite good on their own. In Hushed Whispers is a hell of a ride, easily one of the best vignettes the franchise has seen. Here Lies the Abyss was delightful with its sharp turn into crazy town (as well as getting to interact with my beloved Hawke and dark-horse woobie Loghain [RIP][also RIP hair]). What Pride Had Wrought delivered some cool ruins, neat puzzles, and a sweet plot beat with the Well.
And I want to call out In Your Heart Shall Burn in particular. It stands out as one of the few moments of deep vulnerability and exigence the franchise has had since Origins—a game so steeped in that pervasive sense of threat that it seemed like the bedrock that would carry the whole franchise. Stumbling through the blizzard, snowblind and dying of exposure, was a beautiful moment of experience-crafting. And The Dawn Will Come is legitimately one of the greatest single moments the franchise has ever offered, demonstrating in concrete yet tender terms the power of faith in community during a moment of utter despair. Overall, the mission serves as a dramatic volta and represents a return to form for Dragon Age storytelling.
Speaking of The Dawn Will Come, Inquisition earns some serious points for how well it handles its central theme: religion. The Chantry faith has been a fascinating part of the Dragon Age world since its inception, and it’s front-and-center here. IMO, Inquisition succeeds fantastically at demonstrating on macro and micro levels the ways that religion and faith can drive division and friction, and how it can unite, inspire, and heal. Popular media seems largely uninterested in exploring these topics with much nuance or subtlety, so Inquisition’s success on that front, both overtly and subtextually, is exceptional.
There are definitely issues with the way the Elven Pantheon is addressed later on, but that’s actually better suited for the franchise retrospective, so stay tuned for that one.
Before I move on, I want to take a brief detour over to companion quests. In traditional BioWare RPG fashion, they were all good. But their brevity often left me underwhelmed. Of course some had you track down X number of Y things across Z zones, which sure lengthened them but served as a really obnoxious gating mechanism for the content. I’d have been much happier removing one or two entire zones, but having more fleshed-out companion quests—not necessarily as in-depth as those in Mass Effect 2, but something a little closer to them.

In Your Heart Shall Burn—Combat

Credit where credit is due: the core of Inquisition's combat is functional and even—dare I say it?—good. Although I do question why they decided left mouse button was going to be “hold to auto-attack” when the mouse buttons are the most nuanced way of interacting with and gaining information about the game world—why would you relegate half of such a flexible function to auto attacking—that does so much to flatten the range of interactions with—
Nope nope nope we’re back on interface gripes again. We said we were done with that. smacks wrist with ruler
OK good things first. The visceral nature of combat was preserved from DAII, but with a more focused and controlled overall design which I vastly preferred. And the endless waves of identical creatures are gone, which is good because truthfully I don’t know if I could have gone through that again. Do not let it be said that BioWare has never learned from its mistakes.
Executing each characteclass’s role feels really good. I played a Daggers Assassin Rogue, and setting up to sneakily pick off a vulnerable flank or high-priority target felt awesome. By the time I unlocked my specialization, I immediately saw the synergies of a build that could leverage lingering Stealth to gain near 100% uptime on guaranteed crits, threat reduction, huge armor penetration, cooldown resets, and ample energy to string together kill after kill. That kind of synergy hasn’t really been seen, or at least not been realized that well, in a Dragon Age game to date.
Unfortunately I do actually have to go back to interface topic for a minute here. I know that I’m not blowing any minds here, but the clumsy execution of combat sucked out so much of the joy I could have had with combat in Inquisition.
Once again, I will condense a page’s worth of issues down to some bullet points just to keep things moving along.
As it is, the only joy I found in combat was in the simple submission of executing my Inky’s routine and watching numbers tick by. There’s nothing wrong with this way of enjoying the game. But this kind of more—observational?—experiential?—combat just doesn’t do it for me. It’s still a step up from DAII, but a significant downgrade from the tactical challenge finding the perfect orchestration to overcome the odds of Origins' Nightmare mode.
This is also partly a matter of Inquisition's encounter design itself, or lack thereof. As necessitated by the (semi)-open world, I found it quickly became uniform and bland due to the lack of focus and variety. Sure, Origins had too many combat encounters, and many of them were rote. But then you had times when you went through a random door and found a concave of Genlock archers. The brutal power of the Revenant (likely your first) within the gates of Redcliffe Castle. Being ambushed by Ser Cauthrien and about a billion crossbowmen while trying to escape with Arnora. Ogres battering down the barricades in the Denerim alienage ahead of a swarm of darkspawn grunts. Undead pouring into the fields of Redcliffe as you desperately fought to save the townsfolk. Even encountering just several Deepstalkers as your Dwarf Noble struggled to find Duncan before succumbing to the Deep Roads.
You can tell these encounters received real attention—even the ones that were just minor encounters along the way to the next plot point. Each of them feel fresh and engaging, despite pulling from a not-so-deep pool of asset variety. And that’s what Dragon Age II and Inquisition have both failed to recapture by and large (with some exceptions, mainly boss fights). The rinse-and-repeat nature of combat encounters—even in major set pieces like Adamant—makes combat’s shortcomings just that much more apparent and disheartening.
And the acumen behind Inquisition’s encounter slash lack thereof design dovetails perfectly with…

Here Lies the Abyss—The Not-Actually-Open World

…Inquisition’s approach to environmental design. Open and expansive, with a lot to take in, but sacrificing most of its depth to achieve its breadth. And this is where Inquisition really started to lose me.
To be fair, I started out semi-positive on this front. I began exploring the Hinterlands, enjoyed the vistas and the rustic countryside, grabbed a couple of shards and then said nuts to this, and generally had fun poking around.
And I absolutely need to give proper credit here. The design of the world itself is fantastic. The environments are splendid and varied, the ambience is wonderful, the weather is moody and evocative, the ruins are haunting and ethereally beautiful…. In a game this focused on exploring the world, having such a variety of gorgeous locales is an irreplaceable, essential quality and its importance cannot be understated. To those for whom this is enough to get them onboard, I’m really happy for you. Because I can see the value. I can see the effort and love that BioWare poured into making this world. The building blocks are there, and they’re really damn good blocks. I genuinely wish that I were able to enjoy them more in the final estimation, but I just wasn’t able to push myself over that hump, no matter how pretty and lovingly crafted my surroundings were.
This was largely a factor of the collect-a-thon grind. While Dragon Age II had me lamenting the lack of an overall point to a lot of my activities, Inquisition says “hold my Legacy White Shear” and divorces nearly everything you do from any meaningful narrative. Fill requisitions. Get shards. Find mosaics. Place traps. Take keeps. Plant flags. Kill bandits. Ad nauseam. In every zone. Always the same. Why? I honestly can’t remember, but a number ticked up incrementally so good on me I guess. The game provocatively drapes the thinnest veneer of importance on some of these, but it barely covers up the fact that they’re primarily excuses for the busywork that gates progression. Losing the personal connection and feeling of importance behind the actions I felt in previous games—yes even II—is a pervasive miasma that followed me through nearly every zone.
Granted, plenty of games do this. Some games that I like do this. But they all have other things bolstering that loop that Inquisition lacks, which I have broadly categorized as traversal, discovery, and cosmos. Which again I will condense to bullet points.
In games like Morrowind and Breath of the Wild, I got immense joy from just being in motion within the world. It’s not necessarily tied to traversal—although that generally factors into it. Rather, it’s the sense of inhabiting an organic, holistic place rather than a discrete bunch of video game locations that just exist to provide specific experiences to the player. (Even if this is largely an illusion, as video games in general are catered events.) And this is largely because, when you get down to it, Inquisition isn’t an open-world game. It’s a game with large, discrete, segregated zones.
And this is where I think Inquisition again tries to split the difference, and ends up with two conflicting halves. Its expansive breadth forces it to sacrifice the focused attention to varied, curated experiences like we saw in Origins. At the same time, its half-hearted commitment to the open-world formula robs it of this sense of cosmos. The great big world that BioWare poured so much heart and effort into generally felt like it was interposing itself between me and the joy I found in the game’s story and characters rather than driving or enhancing the experience.
A good example of this is how Inquisition nearly universally segregates its story from its world. The overworld zones and the story locales are separated by a wrought-iron fence made of tigers. This lends the overworld an air of artificial, lifeless irrelevance. The one exception is In Your Heart Shall Burn, which incidentally is one of the best parts of the game for how it recontextualizes a core part of Inquisition's world.
Imagine if, say, Adamant stronghold were actually within the Western Approach zone. At first, it’s closed tight, allowing you no entry. Once the order starts to fall more squarely under Corypheus’s influence, the area begins to crawl with corrupted Wardens. Getting too close to it would cause endless waves to spawn under cover of siege weaponry, repelling your assaults. Eventually, you unlock Here Lies the Abyss. Now instead of bringing you to a completely new place that you have no emotional relationship with and will never be relevant again, it takes you back to that stronghold that has always impeded you. You launch your attack from a war camp backed by the full might of the Inquisition. Once you complete the mission, the fortress is open to you—a ghost of its former self, but a place of rest and healing from which the Inquisitor can freely come and go. The place has been recontextualized as an organic, dynamic part of the greater world that is the gameplay’s primary vessel. Like what happens with strongholds, but in this case with an emotional and narrative anchor.
That is what it would have looked like for Inquisition to capitalize on its structural focus on its world. But it sadly never comes to pass. Which makes the sacrifices BioWare made in order to actualize this world feel somewhat hollow, and all the more tragic.

The Wrath of Heaven—The Inquisition War Machine

The exploration side of Inquisition feeds directly into, and is in turn fed by, the crafting and War Table systems. And while they have promise, it’s another promise that, to me, failed in the execution.
I didn’t find the cosmetic or crafting elements of the game at all fun or engaging. A shame considering how much work clearly went into them. But trying to negotiate if this new schematic is useful, and if it is what I’ll need to make it a reasonable upgrade, and where I’ll have to go to get the materials that will give it those boosts I’m looking for, was a huge amount of micromanagement for the reward, and I gave up on it very early on. (Incidentally, this seemed like this was the one remaining way of optimizing combat that the interface hadn’t cut off, so… there goes that.)
Upgrading potions was great, though. More of that, less of 400 different pommel recipes, please.
At its core, War Table and its unlocks seem like BioWare's attempt to give meaning to the hoops it has you jump through, to accommodate the nonlinear content gating and lack of emotional/narrative linkage behind most of its tasks. And in that regard it's functional, but not exactly riveting. I’ll spare you another block of text and just bullet point a few things.
OK OK, I’m good. I’m good. I’m OK. I just… I just needed to get that out. Sorry. phew
By the Maker this is already 4000 words long. Well past time I started wrapping it up.

The Final Piece—Rising Action & Endgame

Man, this just didn’t quite go how I’d hoped.
After In Your Heart Shall Burn, I saw so much potential. The Inquisition had suffered a major blow. Maybe a little bit of that crushing, desperate atmosphere I’d loved in Origins would find its way back.
And then someone (I think it was Curly) says (paraphrasing) “Corypheus is embarrassed that he didn’t kill you, so he probably won’t even acknowledge us here as that would be a sign of weakness.”
And I knew it wasn’t to be.
I know, I know. This is a common concession in video games, especially ones where the rising action is gated by open-ended exploration. But some games handle it well. Origins used its world building and tight plotting to make you feel under constant threat of spiraling out of control even if you know you have all the time in the world. Some games handle it excellently. Breath of the Wild makes its core game a training montage and lets you tackle Ganon whenever you think you’re ready.
And some games flat-out tell you that your nemesis is too embarrassed to show up and finish the job.
Maybe more tension wouldn’t lend itself to the fetch-quest-ful nature of Inquisition. But that kind of underscores how unsuited the story, world, and gameplay are to each other. If you reduce the tension, you lose the crushing narrative weight that I and thousands of others loved. If you have more tension, you can’t make your core gameplay loop farting off collecting Elfroot. (Well you can, but there’s more narrative and cognitive dissonance.) Once again, it feels like they split the difference and ended up kind of having it neither way.
I think Inquisition wanted to go back to Origins’ “Big Damn Crisis Go Go Go!” attitude. Which is admirable, but it missed the mark. Because in each mission from Skyhold and beyond, you’re effectively dismantling Corypheus’s power structure, and/or directly thwarting him. Can you imagine what level of threat the Darkspawn would represent if every major plot point in Origins was “The Darkspawn are trying to do X” and each resolution was “Good job, you stopped the Darkspawn from doing X and undermined their operations across the continent.” Do you think that would make the Darkspawn seem lame as hell, and like they were totally inept and no threat whatsoever? (Yes. The answer is yes.)
And that’s what this structure does to Corypheus. After Haven, it's crippling blow after crippling blow to his machinations, all while he fails to accomplish literally anything of substance. This really comes into focus in Here Lies the Abyss. Unless I'm missing something, we learn that the entire plot happened because Inky literally just walked into the room that apparently all of Corypheus’s influence couldn’t grant him an agent or two to secure. This is such a colossal and compromising failure for our villain—a villain who started out so promising.
So after proving him ineffectual at every turn for the last 70-ish hours, eventually you get to the end of the game where you must kill this exceptionally immortal darkspawn and his red lyrium dragon. (Note: I’m going to convey this as if Morrigan drank from the Well so that I don’t have to split narrative hairs.)
But lo! Morrigan reveals that Corypheus should have been entirely unkillable, but he made himself vulnerable by transferring some of his power to his dragon. OK, so that dragon must be a cataclysmic, world-ending threat in its own right if he was willing to give up virtual immortality to empower it.
No, not really. Morrigan deals like 20% of its health and then it’s just yet another dragon fight. You can fill in the gaps narratively and say maybe it would have been invulnerable or something without the fall, but it entirely failed to impress me. You easily dispatch it while Corypheus completely ignores you rather than incinerate you from above while you’re busy and vulnerable.
And then you kill him. Because he traded immortality to make his pet look a little meaner or something.
I get that they’re plugging “pride cometh before the fall”, but this undermines the theme more than it elevates it. I really question why the Corypheus = immortal thing was even brought up if this was the resolution. Sure, it’s later revealed to be important in that it allowed him to survive unlocking the orb, but it does irreparable damage to his credibility as a villain, and by extension to the fabric of the entire game.
In the end, Corypheus is a joke. The first darkspawn, the ageless magister who crossed the vale and blackened the golden city, and returned, who saw with his own eyes the empty throne and rocked the foundations of Thedas, is a joke.
I didn’t enjoy defeating Corypheus. I still remember my jubilation at the end of my first play of Origins, after so much blood and sacrifice and regret, compromises and calamities, finally laying the archdemon low and the bittersweet nature of my victory. All of that had given way to watching the narrative self-conflagration of what should have been the series’ most monumental villain to date.
It left me feeling… done. Not angry. Not elated. Not frustrated. Just like I’d had an experience, and it was over.
The finale is fine. Chatting everyone up brought some nice closure. It wasn’t the final parting at Denerim, the last words of camaraderie and love before Lady Aeducan gave up her life to protect those she cared for most. But it was nice.

Conclusion

Inquisition had its share of highs and lows. But most of my time there, I related to it like I would to a mindless clicker game—doing 20 minutes of rote, comfortable tasks before getting bored and wanting to close it down. I know lots of people find those loops engaging, but to me, it feels alienating and antithetical to the ways Dragon Age succeeds as an IP.
Inquisition still has BioWare magic, but the gameplay stood between it and me rather than enhancing it. To be rewarded with 20 minutes of story, I had to plow through hours of what to me felt like a mindless, unenjoyable grind. I legitimately spent around two-thirds of my 84-hours playtime zoned out listening to podcasts or YouTube video essays. That’s… not the kind of experience I turn to Dragon Age for, and it’s diametrically opposed to the kind of story that I think the franchise is best equipped to convey.
Confronting these questions tears me up, because Inquisition still has those great conversations. The loveable companions. The strong narratives—at times. Feels. There’s a really good experience in Inquisition, but it’s buried under so much mediocre game that it’s hard to find at times. It feels like 20 hours of content butter spread over 80 hours of gameplay bread.
It’s too bad that this is where the game left us, because there was a lot of—

The Threat Remains—Story DLC

Haha, didn’t expect a post-credits stinger did you? But of course I couldn’t leave this out.
On the surface, Jaws of Hakkon is Inquisition but now with Nords. But it also represents the best implementation of Inquisition’s core components. The environments are fantastic, the quests have a little more narrative thrust, and it even dynamically changes a major zone feature after integrating it with the central story. Plus, said story is very good, the final dungeon was well done, and the fights felt genuinely challenging and gratifying, requiring some good execution of the combat system rather than just feeling like a loot-fueled slog.
But Descent—now that’s what I call DLC. This was Inquisition’s Legacy moment: A high-quality, self-contained experience with a compelling narrative that gave me the constant urge to dive deeper.
I know so far in this piece I’ve come down hard on the linear side of the linear-vs-open debate. But actually I’m largely ambivalent on this issue. To me, different styles suit different games. I just find that for what BioWare and Dragon Age are doing, I think the linear delivery, with some branching points, is better suited.
And that linear, driven experience is what makes Descent feel, to me, like top-notch old school Dragon Age. Nothing is wasted. Everything relates back to the central mystery of the quakes, and then later, the Titans. Each new level you explore sheds a little light on what’s going on, but also raises more questions.
The combat encounters are again a breath of fresh air. More telegraphed abilities that reward counterplay. Large-scale skirmishes that add some variety and scale to encounter design that has been largely stagnant up until this point. I even had to problem solve during combat once. All welcome additions to the formula.
Add to that the fantastic environmental design and you have a recipe that—much like Legacy—makes me think I could have really loved this game as a whole, had it more resembled this overall direction.
But we all know what the real star is. Whereas Awakening and Legacy are both satisfying codas to their respective games, Trespasser is Inquisition. It’s such an integral part of the game experience that locking it behind an expansion actually feels like kind of a cheap shot. But it’s one I’m happy to live with.
While I found the framing device of Sassy Bann Arl Teegan a little boring compared to the meat of the content, it served its purpose. The mystery was very cool. Traversing the fade was cool. Learning about elven history was cool. Slowly putting the pieces together about the fade and the veil was splendid. My one gripe is that this would have had an extra layer of discovery and wonder if they’d held off on dropping the Fen’Harel bombshell, letting you piece it together yourself (if you can). But minor quibbles aside, this was fantastic content. Especially the part before the last leg where my Inquisitor got to absolutely flip her lid and drop one of the most satisfying f-bombs in gaming history.
The anchor powering up but also also becoming a ticking time bomb was an excellent addition. While you have ultimate control over it, it makes things feel like they’re spiraling out of your control, which adds a palpable pressure that Inquisition had largely lacked. Plus it leads to exactly the sort of deliberate encounter design I’ve been asking for.
And at the end of it all, just one conversation between the Inquisitor and the Dread Wolf. Or in this case, between Lady Lavellan and her lover.
Holy shit you guys. This is what I’d been missing. I’m not certain, but I think this stands out as the most emotionally poignant moment I’ve had with the franchise. This is when Dragon Age not only met, but actually surpassed the emotional heights it set 11 years ago.
Granted, I know it plays out differently in other circumstances. And my PC already being in emotional shambles and literal seconds from death probably made it feel a bit more raw. But the feels were so real. And I’d missed them. (In the context of Dragon Age. I can feel just fine IRL, thanks for checking though!) And the voice actors so wonderfully elevated the scene, carrying the weight of irreconcilable regret and sorrow and tenderness. It was earned, and it was deeply moving.
The catharsis of this ending went a long way towards picking up the slack of the main game’s conclusion. I can’t say that it made me reflect positively on the grind I’d gone through to get there, but it made me glad to have done it. And it even gave me a little glimmer of hope for DA4, so… we’ll see how that plays out—again.

Afterward

So that’s it. 6000 words later, I’ve run out of things to say about Inquisition and can finally watch this.
Without the DLC, Inquisition would have averaged out to an infuriatingly mediocre disappointment. With them, it just manages to stick the landing, while still leaving me severely conflicted. As you can probably tell from my using the word “but” 66 times up to this point.
I can’t imagine returning for another playthrough of Inquisition, with its emphasis on busywork and routine over the significance and heart that defined classic BioWare games. But do you know what? That’s all right. I’ve made peace with it. And I'm excited to see where the franchise goes from here.
Thank you for reading my second, even longer word vomit that probably made the other half of you hate my guts. Next time I’ll piss off everyone I’ve already angered even more, but maybe redeem myself a little in the eyes of some, with my thoughts on Dragon Age: Origins and the identity of the Dragon Age franchise as a whole.
Dareth shiral, vhenan.
submitted by rogue_LOVE to dragonage [link] [comments]

I Ride for Cerber: Pt 12 (A Date with Destiny) 2/2

"I'm going to the mall and you're coming with me!"
"Uh... What?" I said, looking up at Destiny as I laid on the floor after the Captain had just finished dragging me through the hell that was his training routine.
"I'm going... to the mall... and you're... coming with me." She repeated slowly.
"And when did I decide this? Also how, in theory, are we getting there? Because I think I puked up a toenail when you did... whatever that was." I questioned.
"No... We're taking my car stupid."
"Fine... Let me go take a shower and change I guess." I surrendered.
"Where are you going?" Harley asked as I walked out of the bathroom.
"Oh I uh, um... I... was just..."
"It's fine. You don't HAVE to tell me if you don't want to. It's not like we ever actually defined what we are... or anything, so..." She trailed off.
"It's not that. You just caught me by surprise." I tried to explain as I turned away to put on a fresh shirt. "Hey speaking of, where the hell have you been late-and she's already gone..."
"What?" Destiny asked me when she saw me walking down the steps.
"Uh? Oh, just... Harley stuff." I answered. "It's nothing."
"Well in that case, let's get going!" She cheered, opening the door to the garage.
"Of course you drive a pink hearse..." I sighed, shaking my head as I walked over to the passenger side. As she turned the key the radio blared on at max volume making me flinch.
"Woops, my bad." She apologized.
"Pink hearse and K-pop... What a start." I mumbled.
On the way there I was informed that we were, in fact, not actually looking for anything in particular. As you can imagine, me being of the belief that a person's mall time needs to be drastically reduced after they turn 18, I was not thrilled about this. Going in, getting what we're there for, then leaving I could handle. Mindlessly wandering around for hours... ehhhhhh.
"Finally! Food court time!" I yelled, causing several other shoppers to give me weird looks. "I'm getting Chinese!"
"Haha. Ok, that sound good." Destiny agreed, following me to the China Wok.
"Here, I got this for you." She said once we sat down, handing me a small bag.
"You got me something? When?" I asked, taking the bag.
"When you were trying not to think of me in the lingerie at the Victoria's Secret store." She said with a smirk.
"You... can read minds?"
"No. Didn't need to." She said, her smirk widening.
"... So what is this anyway?" I asked, trying to change the subject. I opened the bag to find a small box. Then I opened the box to reveal a new watch.
"I remember you said something about how you broke your watch and needed a new one." She told me.
"Yeah... Yeah you're right I did. I needed one for a while now, but I keep putting it off. I'm kinda weird about spending money, you know?"
"No, what do you mean?" She asked.
"Well, I guess I've been dirt poor for so long, first as a kid and then trying do pay my own way through college as a messenger, that now even though I'm making good money, it still don't feel right about spending it on myself." I explained. "The only reason I had that expensive bike is because I found the frame in a scrap yard and fixed it up myself."
"Oh... I see. I was wondering why you didn't just buy a new one. But now you don't have to worry about it anymore!" She chirped.
"I guess not." I replied, taking it out and looking at it. "Whoa wait... This is a really nice watch."
"Yep! They lady said the whole thing's titanium!" She bragged, her eyes practically shining.
"That... sounds expensive..." I said.
"Dude, have you seen where I live? Don't worry about it. Just take the stupid thing." She insisted, pushing it in my hands closer to me.
"I guess I picked a good one?" Destiny asked as we pulled into the garage. "You've been looking at it the whole way back." She laughed.
"Oh, yeah. I do really like it. But it's also that..." I stopped.
"What? Also what?" She pressed.
"Well I can't remember the last time someone gave me a gift. Unless you count some company stickers and shirts from my boss..."
"Oh? So that's your first gift in a while huh? Well... how long since... your last..." She trailed off, leaning closer... and closer... and closer to my...
"Oi! Count's been looking for-Oh ho. I whan'n interrupting nothing was I?" Jekyll said as he burst through the garage door. "Jose! What you and the bird getting up to in here? And without the consideration to include old Dr. Jekyll none the less. Shame on ya both!" He laughed.
"WHOA WHOA! We weren't-I mean I wasn't..."
"What do you want Jekyll?!" Destiny shouted over me.
"Count's been tearing the place apart huntin' for you since he notice your car missing." He answered. "The man's graying everyone's hair about it."
"Oh god... I TOLD him I was going to the mall this morning." She groaned, opening her door and heading inside. "How about a rain check?" She asked, poking her head through the window and kissing me on the cheek.
"Um..."
"Awesome." She said before jogging through the door, Dr. Jekyll close behind. "DAD! You put him down right now!" I heard her yell from inside.
You guys remember when this story was about me riding around bringing food to monsters? Pepperridge Farm remembers... Simpler times, am I right? So I wait in the garage for a few more minutes until I hear Destiny's dad, you know... Dracula, finally walk off and out of sight before I emerge and scurry back upstairs to the safety of my... "HARLEY! Hey... You're in the room again. For the first time in several days..."
"Yeah, and?" She asked, looking at me suspiciously. "Did you get into some kind of trouble again or something? You look... guilty."
"NO JUST very SLEEpY!" I said, not quite able to control the volume of my voice like a regular sane person should. "gOing TO bed NOW!" I added, diving under the blanket.
"I want you to be my boyfriend!" I woke to the words being shouted a few inches from my face. I opened my eyes to see Destiny's big, shimmering eyes blinking at me. "She's not here." She added, noticing me roll over to see if Harley was still in bed.
"Um... boyfriend you say?" I asked. "That seems... sudden. And volatile."
"Don't worry about my dad. He'll behave. And I can handle Harley in my sleep." She added, seeing me about to mention her and her temper.
I'm not saying what I said next was right, morally or tactically, but I panicked. Give me a break. I'm awkward in these situations.
"Yeah, sure I guess. It's not like you're asking me to marry you or anything."
I know... I KNOW. But like I said, I panicked. And she's reeeeeally hot. And she got me a watch. Nobody gets things for Jose. Jose likes being given things ok. Jose likes things. Jose has also been drinking. Jose meeds a ninute ebfore he wrights mre.
Ok I'm back and sober. Let's do this.
"So... Dad. I have something to tell you." Destiny said, holding me by the hand and marching me to my doom later that evening just as the sun started to go down.
"Yes my swee-" And then he turned and saw her holding my hand, and people... I shit you not, the look he gave me lowered the resale value on that house.
"Oh fuck this!" I turned to run but she tightened her grip to hold me in place.
"Dad... Me and Jose-"
"Have glued your hands together! How terrible! I shall summon the Doctor immediately. I am certain he will be able to help!" He interrupted her.
"What? N-no... Dad, me and Jose are a couple now." She said as she kissed me on the cheek.
"You... are... a... WHAT?!"
"NO. Now dad, we talked about this! I'm almost 300 years old and I've had three boyfriends." She said as she tried to reason with him.
"Wait really? How's that-Why only 3?" I asked her. And she responded by just gesturing at one of the most notorious monsters of all time on the verge of a total conniption. "Oh... yeah that makes a lot of sense actually."
"You said you'd try to be nice to the next one. You promised!" She continued.
"I... I... I am going out for a while!" He bellowed, evaporating into black mist, leaving us standing in the dining hall, still holding hands.
"Lot less bloodshed than I expected, not gonna lie..." I joked.
"He'll get over it." She assured me. "So... about that rain check."
"I uh... Huh?" I asked, distracted by something.
"What are you doing now?" She asked as I snuck closer to the window where I could have swore I just saw two small red lights flash past it.
"I know I saw something this time." I insisted, creeping closer and closer.
Then she stepped between me and the window. "Do you want to come to my room with me or not?"
Whatever mix of shock and excitement I was about to experience was interrupted by a few knocks on the front door. We both looked at each other in confusion for a second before walking over and opening it. At first I thought that there was something wrong with my eyes, but then I started to realize what I was looking at. The solid black silhouette of a man standing right in front of me. And then it spoke.
"I apologize for not coming in person, but I just couldn't justify the risk, Jose. Been a while, crocodile."
The voice and that phrase sent a deathly chill through my veins. As I stood there trying to think of what I was supposed to say or do or think... Destiny spoke up beside me. "Jose, do you know this... shadow man?"
"Ah, yes. The new intel mentioned you. One of the daughters I believe. Not as powerful as Dracula but still formidable." The figure said in response. "You'll have to be dealt with early on." He added.
"Deal with her?!" I finally got out.
"Yes, of course. And you too I'm afraid. It's become apparent that you aren't going to be as useful as originally estimated. And now, unfortunately, you present a loose end. A loose end that must be tied up."
"Oh yeah?! You and what army pal?!" I barked back at him, the protection of the vampire girlfriend beside me starting to give me a little extra courage. And at that moment I heard glass being shattered all over the place from upstairs followed by screams and a series of loud bangs. "What the hell is that?!" I shouted.
"That would be what army." The shadowy figure answered, looking up that direction. "Once I heard you were moving your plans forward I had to move mine up as well." He explained as what I realized were gunshots and more screams emanated from the top floor. "Your little friend killing my pet was very unexpected. And moments when Dracula is gone and everyone else is here are few and far between, so... here were are."
"Wait... When you said knew intel... Where did you-"
"Get it from?" Harley's voice interrupted as she walked out from behind the shadow. "Do you REALLY have to ask Jose?"
"Harley! What the actual fuck?! Is... is this because of me and-"
"No you stupid ass. I don't give a shit about what you do or who you do it with. I never have. That whole thing was just a way to get here. And god am I glad it's over." She said with a hateful tone in her voice.
"So you're saying that none of it, it was all just an act?" I asked, trying to convince myself that I wasn't upset about it.
"Do I have to draw you a picture? YES! I... WAS... USING... YOU! Which is one hell of a feat because you're practically useless. Not to mention the award I should get for not cringing or gagging every time you touched me. And now I FINALLY get to pull you apart limb from limb like I've been dreaming about for so long..." She hissed as she stepped into the house.
Suddenly a body came flying through one of the doors to the side, reducing it to splinters and slamming full force into Harley, knocking her back out the front door, as the Captain came stampeding through behind it. The body was dressed in all black military looking gear and was wearing some kind of goggles that shined red when the light hit the lenses just right. "BOY!! Destiny! Take him to your sisters and get him somewhere safe! Jose! Don't leave their side for anything!" He commanded with a roar which both me and Destiny obeyed without hesitation.
But before we could get anywhere more of the intruders came crashing through the ground floor windows and were closing in on us. "Can't you do the mist thing?!" I asked in a panick.
"NO! I told you I'm not as good at it! I need to focus! If I do it now I could hurt or kill us both!"
At that moment the Captain had managed to cut a path through to us. "That way!" He instructed, placing his hand on top of one of their heads and... compressing him in on himself like someone stepping on an empty can.
We both took off, the turmoil of battle raising all around us as the crew occupying the house began to fight back. By then Harely was back on her feet and closing in fast. We just managed to get some distance and duck behind a counter to collect ourselves as shouts and gunfire sounded all around the manor.
"You know..." I wheezed. "I must... be getting desensitized from all the monsters and junk because this isn't freaking me out as bad I would have thought." I told Destiny before a stray bullet plowed into the wall just above my head. "OH FUCK THAT WAS CLOSE! Never mind! I'm freaking out! You, me, sisters, now! GO GO GO!"
As we stood to run Harley caught sight of us. "Shit! Where are they?" I yelled.
"I don't know but I can't protect you and deal with her too!" She yelled back as we ran aimlessly trying to shake her, but it was no good cause she new the house as well as we did by that point. At some point we took a bad turn and found ourselves at the back of the dead end hallway under where my room was.
"NO! SHIT!" I cried, pounding against the wall as I heard Harley, now laughing softly to herself, getting closer and closer.
"Nowhere to go now Jose." She hummed, breaking a leg off of one of the wooden tables then snapping it in half to a sharp point. "Vampire scank first, then the useless bike messenger. I mean what's with that anyway? What adult still even rides a bicycle? GOD I just hate you so much you don't even know, you pathetic waste of spa-"
Then a fist erupted through one of the doors as she past by, crashing into her face and knocking her clear across the hall into the far wall. Then a set of fingers wiggled their way between the hole in the door and the engorged, veiny arm poking through it before tearing the rest of it open like a piece of paper.
"Now that wasn't a very nice thing to say to the poor boy." A deep voice spoke from just out of sight as its owner stepped into view.
"That you Jekyll?" Harley asked, picking herself up off the floor.
"That's Hyde love. Mr. Hyde. But don't worry, I'm bout to help you remember it for the rest of your life. All five minutes of it." He said with an award winning nastiness in his voice as he cracked the knuckles of his increasingly large hands. "By the way, you two might think about shovin' off while you got the opportunity." He called over to me and Destiny.
Taking his advise we both darted out of the hall and tried to make our way to the entrance to the castle as the sounds of Harley getting pummeled by Hyde faded into the background. But as we made our attempt to cross the chaos to get the the stairway Destiny stopped all of a sudden, not moving an inch, just gazing wide eyed down at the floor. Then I realized what it was. Her sister Fate's body was laying on her back, completely still, a broken piece of wood lodged in her chest.
"Destiny! We gotta keep looking for-" But I never got the rest out. Before I could a table exploded over her head, knocking her to the floor, out cold. The next second I was being thrown across the room and pinned against the wall as I felt a pair of hands tighten around my neck, choking the life out of me.
"Jose I will admit," The shadowy silhouette said as his hands squeezed harder and harder. "You have proven to be a much bigger nuisance than I thought you'd be, but it's about time that comes to an end my friend."
"I... I... need an adult." I whispered as my vision began to fade and I watched drove after drove of blacked out assailants pile on top of Hook as he fought them off in an attempt to reach me.
"Funny man... Joking until the very end." He said, anger in his voice for the first time since I heard it.
"Yeah... and I got one more too... It goes HMM!" I grunted as I jammed the knife the Captain gave me straight into his chest. "Get it?"
Almost like someone cut the strings to a puppet, he dropped me to the ground. "What... was... Nothing's supposed to be able to..." He mumbled as he slid the blade out. "No... YOU LITTLE BASTARD! HOW DID YOU GET THIS?!" He howled at me. "You... finish that up for me." He instructed one of his men before melting into nothingness
I didn't have the strength to fight back as the guy took a handful of my hair, pulled his pistol, and pressed it against the side of my head. And just as I squinted my eyes and got ready... the whole room when DEAD quiet except for one voice. Once very clear and recognizable voice.
"I just realized I forgot my handker... chief. What is happening in my home?" The Count asked as he looked around in bewilderment, until his eyes fell on the lifeless body of one of his daughters and the unconscious body of another.
Every eye in the room was on him, nobody seemed to even be willing to take a breath as he bent down and picked up Fate's hand, whispering something to her that I couldn't hear from where I was. Then after he was sure Destiny would be ok, he stood and began to speak.
"For centuries I have tried to live a kind and peaceful life. I keep to myself. I harm no one. I help those in need." He spoke, he voice deepening with every word. "But you come into MY home... And you take the only thing in this world I love. You take MY DAUGHTER FROM ME!" At this point the floor and the walls had started to tremble and I had to cover my ears just save my hearing. And then, without warning, his voice returned to normal as he turned my direction and spoke to me.
"Jose, my child, I am sorry I lost my temper with you earlier. I understand that must have been quite alarming. Please, do not think lesser of me for what you are about to see." And with that, instead of vanishing into mist like before, it spread in all directions. I could see outlines of faces and... bodies of people. Countless people screaming and writhing in agony as it swept through the manor engulfing everyone in it, sucking the intruders up and leaving nothing but shredded and bloody rags of clothing behind. The black mist twisted and swirled, grabbing up victim after victim as it ripped them into nothing and spat their clothes out behind it. Some had the chance to scream, others even got the chance to run a few steps. Most didn't...
"That um... That wasn't the plan was it?" I asked as I sat next to the Captain and a now regular Dr. Jekyll on the remains of a couch in the lounge.
"No Jose, it was not." The Captain answered in a defeated tone.
"What happened with Harley?" I asked Dr. Jekyll.
"Cagey little bird slipped out and took off once I started to get the better of her." He said. "I hate a quitter."
A few minutes later Destiny came up from the castle stairway. "Dad's not taking it well. Prophecy isn't either." She told us, trying to hide where her tears had messed up her makeup. I stood up and gave her a hug before leading her over to the ruined couch to sit.
"I am truly sorry to have dragged you into this boy." Hook said as I sat back down. "And I'm sorry I couldn't get to you in time. And I'm sorry it all seemed to be for nothing. We'll never come back from this I'm afraid. All that planning and sacrifice of nothing... We can't even assume we have Pan's real location anymore..."
"Nah don't worry about it Captain. I'm sure we'll figure something out. Look how far I've come from a pawn for corporate... espionage." I started to say, losing myself in thought.
"What is it Jose?" Destiny asked.
"CORPORATE FUCKING ESPIONAGE IS WHAT IT IS!" I shouted, frightening everyone in the room as I shot up off the couch and fumbled violently in my pocket for my phone.
"Who are you calling?" She asked as I put it up to my ear.
"An old messenger buddy! He went to law school and knows all about this shit! He's answering! Shhshh! Hey man! No time to explain! Corporate espionage! Tell me legal things!"
"Ok, I think that's all I needed to know." I told the audience on the couch in front of me as I hung up and started making my next call.
"Who are you calling now?" They asked collectively.
"Hey... Adeline, you got a minute? I have a lot I need to tell you..."
Three days later we were all sitting in front of a television watching Pan being escorted out of his home in handcuffs.
"And now you got a location." I said, turning to face Hook.
"You hear that Count? You're to get him once he's in the cell." He instructed the Count who nodded silently in response. "Our man at the station is going to call us once he's there, then it's all up to you." He added.
About an hour later the phone rang. "He's in there. The one we planed." The voice on the other side said. And as if he had been on a starting line waiting for the signal gun, the Count was gone in a instant and back just as fast, now standing on the deck of the ship where the rest of us had been waiting.
All eyes were on the Captain as he casually strolled up to him and rested his silver hand on his shoulder. "How many coins you have on there these days James?" Pan asked with a mocking grin.
"... Too many." Hook said before taking his hand off his shoulder and sinking the clawed fingers deep into his chest in one clean motion. "Far too many." He said one last time as he pulled the beating heart from his ribs. "Hm, I'll be damned. He had one after all." He said before unceremoniously tossing it overboard to make a sad splash in the water below. "Count if you would be so kind as to get rid of that." He added, pointing at the limp body which the Count was still holding just off the deck.
Then he walked off, away from everyone and slid his back down the mast. "So that was..."
"Anticlimactic." He finished for me. "Yes I admit I envisioned it differently myself all these years, but when the time came I just wanted it to be over." He rolled his head over to look at me as he toweled the blood off his hand. "But it is over now. Go home Jose. Go and... Oh wait. Nevermind, you're dating the Count's daughter. I was going to say return to normal but that's far out of the question for you at this point dear boy." He said with a laugh.
"Yeah, I'm kinda starting to like you bunch of weirdos anyway." I joked back.
After spending a little time with Destiny in the castle while the manor was under reconstruction, I kissed her good bye and finally started my ride back to my apartment. It felt weird but good to finally be heading back to my own place. Even though I wasn't too thrilled about having to go give Mr. Xi my late rent for that month. Or listening to Rissa tease me about how Dracula could potentially end up being my father in law...
"Mr. Xi! Sorry it's a little late but I had uh... thing. Mr. Xi?" I said, not being able to find him in the office. Normally if it was unlocked he was in there. "Where you at Mr. Xi? I got rent." I called out, waving the cash around in the air.
"Oh you can just give that to me." The worst possible voice spoke from around the corner.
"HARLEY?! JESUS WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! You come to finish me off?!" I yelled as she walked around the door frame.
"Oh don't be silly. I'm just here to collect your rent. I am your knew landlord after all. That's a $50 late fee by the way."
Oh right, almost forgot the epilogue. So yeah, thank you all for your kind words and support. I was a huge fan of Cerber before I started this, so it's been absolutely insane to be able actually contribute to the story in such a big way. And have it so well received by the fans of the original series none the less. I hope I did Mofucious proud. Hopefully I'll be back with a second season sometime in the future.
That said, now that this has wrapped up, I honestly have no idea about the future of Werewolves are Assholes. I don't talk to Creepen and I don't know what his plans are. I talked to Skott about picking up the series like many of you suggested, to get the whole universe on one page under one narrator, but that's still uncertain as he's likely going to be too busy with work.
So with all that, this might be the last thing you see from me for a while. I tried to make it extra long and give it as epic a finale as possible for everyone. I hope you enjoy it. Skott is my favorite narrator of all time and working with him on this has literally been a dream come true. And thank you all so much for making this story such an amazing experience for me.
submitted by joshuawaggoner90 to NaturesTemper [link] [comments]

[RF] Pale in Comparison

Winter had sucked all the color out of the world.
The prairie in the glory of midsummer had been a surge of green, summer winds sending pulses through the tall grass, causing it to wave like an underwater kelp forest in a strong current. Now, however, it had relinquished its blooming majesty, its former radiance dulled to straw the color of a deerhide. The flowerheads were stripped of their colorful identities, appearing like sepia photographs of themselves; the ghosts of summer past. The sweetclover, which had extended from one horizon to the other back in June, covering the prairie in a blanket of gold, was now skeletonized, its broken-off stems rolling like tumbleweeds in the winter gales.
Trevor was over it. Another South Dakota winter, another four months until the snows would cease and the ice would melt in the creek. In March and April, the spring blizzards would bury the world and on the subsequent sunny days, the combination of blue sky and white land would be startling, like finding oneself living in the center of a bicolored flag.
But for now, a capricious midwinter thaw had left snowdrifts only in the prairie draws, on the north-facing ridges, in the shadows of the ponderosas that speckled the hills. And around the trailer, mud. In a few nights, a deep freeze would turn the sides of the tire ruts into knife edges, testing the suspension of any vehicle that took the approach too fast. Still, that was better than the loamy mud, which could imprison even a 4x4 until freezing cold or drying winds finally freed it.
The view from the front porch could be gorgeous. Back in July, when the church group from Virginia had constructed a wheelchair ramp for the trailer, the evening sun had set the prairie on fire, its light reflected by a thunderstorm hanging in the sky as if by a puppeteer’s strings. “God almighty,” the youth pastor had exclaimed. But now, grays and browns mingled in a decidedly drab palette. Over at the little bird feeder, the goldfinches were no longer yellow-and-black exclamation points, but had acquiesced to dullness, dressed for a time of year when vibrant color seemed to be outlawed by some unseen authority.
Trevor stared at the expanse of mud that spooled out from in front of the trailer and unwound into a ribbon that led over the hill toward the old sundance ground and, eventually, the paved road. He wondered if he would get out today. Always a calculation this time of year. Driving on the muddy channel that was his approach was out of the question; he would set a course across the grass, which would provide enough barrier to keep his tires from sinking in again. Two-tracks radiating out onto the prairie showed how many times he and his family had taken this course of action since the last snow.
It felt ironic that their approach took them by far the long way around – heading north to go south; harder than it needed to be, like so much of life around here. But the way south was blocked by Roanhorse Creek. This wasn’t all bad; the creek provided nice wading in the summer and water for the horses for most of the year. It also gave rise to the only trees on the property, although the cottonwoods whose leaves whispered in the summer breezes now stood dumb and impassive, and resembled skeletal wraiths at nighttime.
A horse would make it, of course. He could saddle up the buckskin, ride cross-country and be in town in twenty minutes. But that would be silly…he snorted at the ludicrousness of this thought. First of all, he had to go way beyond town today. And even if he were just going to his old job at the tribal building, was he supposed to just hitch it up outside for the day? Tie its reins to one of the smokers’ benches by the entrance? What was this, 1895? No, better not to risk TȟatéZi getting stolen or having some gang sign spraypainted on it or some shit. Besides, he needed to pull into his job interview looking halfway decent, not spattered with mud and smelling like horse sweat.
Trevor regarded his truck, sitting smack in the middle of the sloppy mess. Fuck, he thought.
Still, he didn’t really have a choice today. No job interview, no job. No job, no funds. Another calculation, but this one was straightforward. He went back into the trailer and made his way to his bedroom in the back, passing his brothers in the living room. One was sleeping on the couch and the other was crashed out in the recliner, oblivious to the flickering hearth of the muted TV. Let ‘em sleep today, Trevor thought.
In the bedroom, he stepped across piles of clothes – some clean, some dirty – and over the miscellany of his life; a pile of old DVDs, a defunct gaming console, a canister of Bugler and squares of broadcloth for the tobacco ties he was supposed to make for ceremony, a scattering of empty Mountain Dew cans, a 24-pack of ramen, a basketball.
He hunted around in his closet for the dressy clothes that he knew were there. He had worn them once, on the day of his high school graduation, three years before. And there they were; a purple button-down shirt, a solid black tie, and black chinos. Further rummaging found him a pair of brown loafers and a tan braided belt. He would look sharp for this interview – couldn’t hurt.
Trevor took a quick shower. The hot water always took forever to come and once it did, didn’t last long. He got dressed hurriedly, glad the tie that had come as a set with the shirt was a clip-on, and ran a comb through his hair. It wasn’t long enough to do much with other than backcomb it a little with some hair gel, but he figured that looked better than not. He considered putting in big stud earrings to look extra fly, but decided again it; might not be the right look for the occasion.
Now fully dressed and ready, Trevor took stock of his appearance. His summer tan was long gone and his skin was as pale as the white kids he had met during his one semester of college. The same change of season that had desaturated the prairie and garbed the birds in dull colors had undone all those days spent out in the badlands sun – working with the horses, swimming at the dam, helping keep fire at sundance. Too many French fur traders in his lineage. He recalled the book that his eighth grade teacher had assigned them – Part-time Indian or something – and thought, Yup, that’s me. Indian in the summer and wašiču in the winter, like changing plumage.
Trevor envied his brothers their melanin. He had learned that word in one of his college classes and now thought of it nearly every day. Travis was a rich brown complexion even in the dark days of midwinter. Trenton was in between the two but had jet-black Lakota hair and definitely looked “ethnic,” enough to be followed around stores in the border towns. Trevor knew it was his privilege to be exempt from such treatment, but it bugged him nonetheless. He hadn’t asked to be light-skinned. His brothers called him žiží – a reference to his tawny hair. They had gotten into scraps over this, and Trevor even bloodied Travis’ nose in one such altercation. Once one of them had even called Trevor a “half-breed” but Trevor retorted with “Fuck you, boy, you got the same blood as me. Fuckin’ dumbass.” This seemed to put the issue to rest.
Trevor’s brief stint at college had been at an out-of-state school, which now struck him as an ill-advised decision. At least South Dakotans had some experience with Natives. Even the East River kids had at least crossed paths with one at some point, and didn’t think of Indians as something from the pages of a dime novel. Trevor was the first Native in many years – maybe ever – to attend the small-town liberal arts college in a neighboring state. He thought the fact that the college was reasonably selective would mean that the students were smart enough not to ask dumb questions. He was wrong.
The queries were predictable enough, clichéd even; Are you really Indian? (Yes) Do you speak your language? (No) Did you get in because you’re Indian? (Who knows? I’m pretty smart and got good grades.) Does the college have admissions quotas for Indians? (If it did, you’d think more would go here.) What’s it like on the reservation? (I don’t know; different.) Do you prefer “Native American”? (I find the question annoying, to be honest.) Do you like Leslie Marmon Silko? (Who?) Have you seen Dances with Wolves? (Some of it.) Do you know a guy from Pine Ridge named Verdell? He used to work with my dad. (Maybe) His last name was something Horse. Running Horse? (No)
Fielding these questions was exhausting and added another layer of weariness and alienation to his college experience.
He found himself having to answer such inquiries from his roommate, classmates, professors, his R.A…Sometimes they were cloaked in well-meaning concern (I bet you get tired of all these questions, huh?) but they were always there. Most evenings, Trevor would retreat to his room and call his mom. His roommate, Skyler, a cross-country runner who was handsome in an unspectacular way and who monitored his water intake religiously, was hardly ever around. He seemed to have no trouble making friends in college and reveled in the social opportunities around him.
In his phone calls back home, Trevor found himself experiencing a homesickness that inhabited the pit of his stomach like a hunger pang. He had never been gone from home for that long. Really, his only trip away had been the summer before his senior year, to a weeklong STEM camp for Native kids that one of the state colleges had put on. But that had been with a half dozen other students from his high school. Here he was alone.
The subjects of their conversations would leave Trevor feeling a gravitational pull toward home: Trenton got into a fight at school and got suspended. Travis is drinking again. We had sweat for your auntie because they have to amputate her leg after all. Those dogs were back again. Everett hit $200 at the casino on Tuesday night but of course he put it all back in. They’re having a basketball tournament for that boy who got paralyzed in that wreck. Our hot water heater went out but uncle came and fixed it. They still haven’t found that Two Arrows girl that went missing. Travis wants to go up on the hill this spring – maybe that will get him to quit drinking.
Good news, bad news, mundane news…The latter tugged at him the most. Like many who grew up on Pine Ridge, he had a love-hate relationship with the reservation. It was the home of his people after all, and could be so beautiful (“God’s country,” as it was called by even those who had no time for the white man’s God). But the hardships, the tragedies, the death…it all wore away at your spirit, hardened you. Still, the news of day-to-day life going on in his absence; a school powwow, a bingo tournament, tribal council drama, rumors of a Dairy Queen opening. It made him miss home in an ineffable way.
The last vestige of his indecision evaporated after a particular conversation in the lounge of his dorm. He had been sitting on a beanbag chair, discussing random topics with two friends (at least, he considered them friends, in some ill-defined adolescent way). They had all left a dull party that hadn’t livened up even after a couple of drinks, but still felt heady and obligated to prolong the night a little longer. So, they were shooting the shit, in a garishly-lit common space that smelled of burnt popcorn, and Trevor was feeling rather collegiate. An off-campus party, late-night conversation; weren’t these the trappings of university life that he had seen in teen movies, if a much more prosaic version?
Kayleigh, tipsy off Jäger bombs, started the chain of events that would unravel his college experience with a simple, but pointed question: “How Indian are you, anyway?”
Colton snorted at this comment. “Kay, you can’t just ask that!” But he was clearly more amused than disapproving.
“You mean like my blood quantum or what?” Trevor asked.
“Is that what you guys call it?” said Kay, now playing the innocent party. “I just mean, like, you say you’re Indian, I mean like I know you are, like, I know you are on paper…” The alcohol was causing her to trip over her words but she plowed on. “I mean like, okay, if I were to like, run into you on the street…” Kay was now gesturing expansively, as if the meaning of what she was saying wasn’t explicit from words alone. “Like, I wouldn’t be like, ‘Damn, look at that Indian,’ right? I’d just assume you were a white guy. I mean you know what I mean? Ugh, I’m not making sense.”
She was making perfect sense. Colton looked embarrassed, and for a second, Trevor thought he might shut Kay down. But instead, his inhibition similarly worn down by a few shots of German 70-proof, he followed suit. “I think what Kay’s drunk ass is trying to say is, like, your ancestors are Indians, right, like in the history books. Like Geronimo or whatever. But do you consider yourself one of them? Or are you, like, their descendant?”
Trevor could feel the ball of rage growing within him, a sea urchin radiating spikes in his gut. Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking.
Colton continued, heedlessly. “Okay, so like I’m Irish but I’m not like Irish Irish, like a leprechaun or some shit. Like my ancestors…”
Trevor stood up, his fists balled. He was now stone-cold sober but his anger was its own intoxicant. “It’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of your business what the fuck I am!” He was shouting; he couldn’t help it. He picked up a half-empty can of PBR and threw it at the wall, slamming the door to the lounge on his way out. The sudsy contents of the can leaked onto the ugly orange dorm carpet, as Kayleigh and Colton sat in stunned silence.
“Jesus,” said Colton finally. “Just trying to ask an honest question.”
After that, Trevor had holed up in his room for a few days, skipping classes and avoiding other students. When he told his mom he was dropping out, she hardly sounded surprised. He knew she would be glad to have him back home; the prodigal son returning. Trevor, the one who had his shit together, who had gone to a STEM camp and was almost salutatorian. He knew she thought that once he got back, he could do what she couldn’t; get Travis on a better path, bring another income to the household, fix what needed to be fixed around the trailer, shoot at the stray dogs when they came around. It would all fall to him. His failure was their blessing; they would lean on him as long as he could stand.
So here we fucking go, he now thought, patting his gel-stiffened hair and giving himself one last hazel-eyed glance in the mirror. Gotta get that bread. His brief stint at the tribal building hadn’t panned out. He was a good worker but wet weather made his road too sloppy to get out easily. Too many latenesses had translated into a pink slip. “Shit man we all got bad roads. Gotta leave earlier,” his boss had said.
So, lesson learned, he was giving himself extra time getting ready for this interview. Really, the lady had just told him to come by “around mid-morning,” so he’d probably be okay. The job was off-rez, down at the county livestock auction and sale barn in one of the closest border towns, “white towns,” as Ridgers called it. It was mostly going to be paperwork – inventory and itemizing and that kind of shit – but it was decent pay and Trevor hoped that he could transition over to working with the animals before long. On most days, he preferred their company to dumbass people.
Grabbing his bag, Trevor stuck the loafers inside with his other miscellany. He would need to wear his cowboy boots across the muddy expanse between the bottom step of the porch and the door to his Blazer so he jammed his feet into them. Outside, he walked gingerly so as not to stain his black slacks with muck. Once in the driver’s seat, he figured he would leave the boots on for the drive, since they were already smearing mud on the floor liner, and in case he got stuck and needed to get out. Trevor knew that the people who worked at the sale barn were as countrified as he was and wouldn’t judge muddy boots under most circumstances, but he also knew that being from Pine Ridge meant he had to put his best foot forward, literally in this case.
Trevor fired up the Blazer, put it in four low, and gunned it. His tires found grip and he jerked along, slimy divots of earth spattering his windows and roof like hail. His windshield wipers left a pasty smear that obscured much of his view, but he practically knew the way by feel. As soon as he could, he bumped up onto the grass, gopher holes and clumps of prairie bluestem jolting his ride, testing what was left of his suspension. When he finally hit the pavement, the smoothness was startling as it always was, like a TV being suddenly muted, like silence after a door slamming.
He cruised through town, passing the gas station, the other gas station, the commod building, the quonset hut, the old BIA headquarters…and turned south into Nebraska. He tried to ignore the persistent squeal under the hood that had gotten worse lately. The overcast sky reflected the dullness of the land – as below, so above – and Trevor alternated between zoning out and counting hawks on telephone poles. A handful of miles south of the border, the vehicle gave a jolt and Trevor felt a temporary loss of control. He hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder, but the Blazer was suddenly steering like an army tank. Fuck, he whispered.
Once he wrestled Blazer off the road, Trevor got out and popped the hood. He already knew what he would find under the rising steam. “Fucking serpentine belt,” he hissed to the universe. Trevor was good with cars but he didn’t have the tools for this fix. Luckily, he thought, out here in the country, somebody who did would be by soon. Lots of Natives on this road, maybe even a cousin would happen by who could at least give him a ride to town. Trevor thought of calling his dad’s brother Everett on his cell, but figured he’d give it a bit. He hated the thought of owing Uncle Ev anything.
Sure enough, in a few minutes, a gunmetal gray truck passed by slowly, hit a u-turn, and pulled up behind him. Trevor felt a twinge of envy over this late-model Dodge Ram MegaCab with duallies. It had county plates on it, so the cowboy-hatted driver was a local guy, and as he got out, his Carhartt overalls and mud-caked boots identified him as a rancher.
“Trouble?” MegaCab asked, giving Trevor an easy smile.
“Serpentine belt busted,” said Trevor, unconsciously smoothing out his rez accent in favor of a more neutral affectation. Code-switching – another term he had learned at college (by the professor who asked him if he prefers “Native American”).
“No shit, huh?” MegaCab considered this information. “I got nothing for that but I could give you a ride somewhere. You call anyone? Someone coming after you?”
“No,” said Trevor. “I’m trying to get down to the sale barn for a job interview.”
MegaCab looked at Trevor as if for the first time. “Oh ok so that’s why you’re all fancied up. Well, hop in if you don’t mind leaving it here.”
Trevor considered this. He was off the rez so there was less of a chance that the Blazer would end up with busted windows or slashed tires. And he was eager to get his interview over and done with.
Before he could answer, MegaCab added “I have to stop in Whiteclay first but then I’ll take you down.”
This was only a few miles out of the way so Trevor assented and climbed into the rancher’s idling behemoth. It still retained some new-truck smell, mixed with a tinge of manure and rich earth. Really, it was almost luxurious.
MegaCab flipped a u-ey again and headed back north toward Whiteclay. Formerly notorious for copious alcohol sales to people from the dry reservation whose border it sat on, Whiteclay’s package stores had been shuttered after the state had revoked their liquor licenses following years of protests over their depredatory business model. Now, it was just a town of a couple small stores and fewer than a dozen permanent residents, its streets empty of vagrants, its ghosts banished.
“So, you from Hot Springs?”
Trevor momentarily wondered where this question had come from, and then remembered that he had 27-plates on the Blazer – Fall River County, a relic of when he bought the car from a white lady over there. He had kept the off-county registration because the plates were far less likely to get you pulled over off-rez than the infamous 65s of Oglala Lakota County.
MegaCab continued without waiting for an answer. “I used to go up to Hot Springs a lot when my dad was in the V.A. hospital up there. Nice town.”
“Yup, it’s pretty nice,” said Trevor, wondering if he would have to sustain this small talk the whole way.
Luckily, MegaCab took it from there, reminiscing about his high school football team dealing Hot Springs a particularly lopsided loss, and then they were at Whiteclay. Trevor played around on his phone while his driver of the moment went into the little grocery store. He looked up his old roommate Skyler on Facebook (why, he didn’t know; certainly not to friend him) and then Googled “Pine Ridge South Dakota Dairy Queen” just to see if there was any truth to that rumor.
MegaCab returned with some mail – Trevor had forgotten that there was a little post office in there – and they turned south toward Rushville.
Two miles and five hawks-on-telephone-poles into their trip, MegaCab got chatty again:
“I still can’t believe that the state revoked the liquor licenses. They had no legal right to do that of course, but just like everyone else these days, they bowed to the pressure from liberal special interest groups. Those store owners – my brother was one of them – followed the damn law to a T but still got their rights taken away. They’re the real victims in all of this.”
Trevor, whose father was found dead in Whiteclay when Trevor was ten years old, didn’t answer.
“You know it’s just going to push the problem down the road. These Indians are gonna get their liquor one way or another. You guys must see that all the time up in Hot Springs.”
These Indians. You guys. Trevor suddenly recognized MegaCab’s presumption, and wondered when if he should correct it.
“If they wanted to buy millions of cans of beer in Whiteclay every year and drink themselves to death, shit, I say let ‘em. It’s a free country, right? Those AIM types are always going on about Native rights and shit, y’know? Well shit, you have the right to drink and die if you want. Not saying that I want that for those people or anything, but the nanny state can’t be protecting everyone from problems of their own making.”
Trevor, whose brother had first gotten jailed for drunk and disorderly at age 14, two years after their father died, said nothing.
MegaCab continued to rhapsodize about “the Indians” and their problems, adopting the tone of an expert, one who knew all about them. Trevor felt the blood rise to his face. Some coloration at least, he thought darkly. In the pit of his stomach, the sea urchin had returned to stab at his insides. What must it be like, he wondered, to live a life in which people aren’t constantly telling you who you are, naming your characteristics like symptoms, trying to trap you like a spirit in a photograph?
The Blazer came in sight on the shoulder ahead. “Can you let me out at my ride?” Trevor asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ear, like hearing himself talk underwater.
“Sure, you need to grab something out of it?” said MegaCab, reluctantly pausing his diatribe.
“No it’s okay,” replied Trevor, “I’m gonna call someone to come help me fix this after all.” He fiddled with his phone as if to underscore this intention.
“Well, if you’re sure,” said MegaCab. “And hey,” he added as Trevor stepped down onto the running board. “You be careful around here. One of these rezzers might see you here all by yourself and try to mess you or your car up. And watch out for drunk drivers. You just never know with these Indians.” MegaCab gave a serious nod to accentuate this show of concern. Then he wished Trevor luck and drove off.
Trevor watched the truck recede into the distance until it was merely a gray speck between the monochrome earth and the steely sky. He sat down in the cold front seat of the Blazer and looked into the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him under a pale forehead. Fuck it, he thought; people are dumbasses. Let ‘em believe what they want; that he was from Hot Springs, that could be was related to that Apache, Geronimo, that he was only Indian on paper. Trevor saw what they didn’t; the hidden depths beneath the surface, and in their faces, in the spaces between their words, their ignorance displayed like a tattoo.
In another minute or two, he would call Uncle Ev for a ride. In another hour or two, he would be offered a job at the sale barn that would bring another income into his household (and buy him a new serpentine belt). In another day or two, he would finally finish the tobacco ties for ceremony, at which he would pray for Travis’ sobriety and his auntie’s diabetes. In another month or two, the lengthening of the days would be unmistakable.
Spring would come as it always had, first heralded by a single meadowlark piercing the predawn silence with his song. This would be followed by a green sprig on the prairie, pushing up, perhaps, through snow. Then a cluster of pasqueflowers appearing suddenly on a hillside, a skein of geese overhead, sheet lightning on the horizon. Small miracles, one after another. Finally, color would surge back into the world like paint scintillating on a canvas, causing goldfinches to glow like stars and evening thunderheads to stand like towering fires.
The brilliant Dakota sunlight would stoke the melanin in Trevor’s skin, and nobody would mistake who he was. He would go up on the hill for two days and nights with Travis that spring, and Trenton would keep fire for them. He would pray for the coming year, for the survival of his people, for enough blessings to outweigh the hardships. And there, among a sea of undulating green, facing the crimson blaze of sunrise, he would again know himself and find the strength to carry on, in the face of all the peculiar indignities of this world.
submitted by PrairieChild to shortstories [link] [comments]

Producers push reckless resumption of North American film production in face of pandemic - By Lee Parsons - 11 August 2020

With the daily number of COVID-19 infections and deaths still climbing in some of the leading centres of film production in North America—including California, New York and Georgia—organizations governing workers on both sides of the camera have come out in lock step in their drive to resume film and television production.
Most of the two million-plus workers who directly or indirectly are employed in the North American film industry have been idled during the pandemic and now face uncertain futures. Producers and distributors seeking to fill a growing shortage of content are presently ushering these employees back to work, with governments of every political stripe giving a green light to the resumption of film and video production.
This drive coincides with the termination of emergency benefits and funding that have temporarily kept millions from hunger and homelessness. Workers are being forced to return virtually unprotected to the workplace—in this case, film studios and sets—or face financial ruin. In Canada, come September, the millions of people on the Canada Emergency Response Benefit (CERB) will be transitioned onto the “enhanced” federal EI program, which generally means less money for the few who qualify at all.
Increasingly, jobs in the film industry are short-term engagements without any security and most have schedules, even for series productions, spanning no more than a few months each year. Particularly in regions with harsher climates such as New York and Toronto, the work season can be further limited, with workers obliged to supplement their income with other jobs or by subsisting on unemployment benefits. The pandemic has made matters worse by depriving them of work in the peak summer months, so that the ending of emergency benefits will have a particularly devastating impact on this sector, leaving most without adequate income for the year.
Jurisdictions that instituted social distancing and other protective measures in the early days of the pandemic have recklessly lifted restrictions, despite the cost in lives of workers. Powerful media and film giants are among the most aggressive in the back-to-work drive.
Statements such as those by New York Mayor Bill de Blasio underscore the hypocrisy of corralling workers into production studios without any protection guarantees. “We want to bring people back to work… But safety and health first, always,” de Blasio pledged. The reality is that, with governments standing aside, dozens of films and digital programming projects are plowing headlong into production under a patchwork of unenforceable and confusing guidelines.
The legal restrictions put in place early on in the pandemic have generally given way to voluntary protocols such as those spelled out in “The Safe Way Forward,” a report issued collectively by the Directors Guild of America (DGA), SAG-AFTRA (Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists), representing actors, IATSE (International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees), representing film crews, and the Teamsters.
For the film industry, this translates into a multi-tiered system of inadequate protections, including voluntary safeguards for workers and technicians alongside greater protections for performers and producers who can’t be treated as dispensable. The class divide that has always been clearly delineated in the film world is now defined by actual walls separating zones of protection, as the above document seeks to justify, stating, “It’s important to remember that performers are the most vulnerable people on the set.”
An equivalent document in Canada referred to as “Section 21,” from the Ontario Ministry of Labour, explicitly excludes both legal and medical advice, offering benign “guidance” to employers who are intent on resuming production during the pandemic. Face shields, a limit of ten-hour days, isolating “pods” and “depopulating the set” are some of the changes being promoted as protections for film crews.
The studios are claiming the ten-hour day is a health measure, but in fact it is a self-serving strategy to save two hours of overtime pay. With no provisions for oversight let alone enforcement, these measures amount to little more than lip service from production companies and professional organizations seeking to present a responsible public face.
Writers have been instructed to reduce or eliminate sets and locations such as bars and concerts that require crowds of background performers. Actors from out of the country are being required to rehearse their roles in isolation and are kept behind barriers away from camera crews and support staff. Although those involved in digital work, such as set designers, graphic artists and visual effects artists, can work remotely, the vast majority must work on site.
A grim indication of the danger of a return to work, and one of the biggest obstacles production companies are facing, is the fact that currently no insurance company will provide coverage to a film production without a COVID-19 exclusion clause. This has itself halted a number of productions and jeopardized new investment. In Canada, the government of Quebec has recently filled that gap with the announcement of $51 million in financial assistance for film producers to fill in where insurance companies won’t, while the Canadian Media Producers Association (CMPA) has appealed to the federal government to provide a $100 million insurance backstop to the industry.
The second largest centre of film production on the continent, New York City, has just entered “phase four” of the state’s reopening drive, coming just over a month after California allowed production to resume. In British Columbia, the provincial government and film commissions are framing the province as a safe haven for film production due the currently low rates of infection, even though there continue to be reported outbreaks at hospitals and care homes.
Big budget productions such as “Mission Impossible 7,” starring Tom Cruise, have notably been given special exemptions from quarantine restrictions in the UK and elsewhere to limit investor losses. Numerous other reports have emerged of non-union productions and commercials circumventing quarantines or other restrictions, with actors, directors and various others with influence flying under the radar with the tacit approval of officials.
The contraction in revenues for the film industry has been sharp and global, with the Chinese market down by $2 billion by March of this year. North American box office receipts are at their lowest level since 1998, and it is estimated that global box office revenues could drop by over $5 billion due to the pandemic.
In addition to the halt in new production, dozens of films have had their theatrical release cancelled, suspended or postponed, and in many cases are instead getting early home media releases or going directly to video on demand (VOD). Obscene profits are at stake, exemplified by the fact that there were 10 films released last year that each generated $1.6 billion in revenues.
Various awards ceremonies and film festivals have also been reduced, postponed or cancelled as a result of the pandemic. Among the largest annual events in the industry, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) is going ahead as scheduled in September, but with only 50 films—a fraction of the 250-plus screenings of previous years. Each of these will have a physically distanced premiere, with the rest being made available on electronic media, or in some cases at drive-in venues.
In an indication of studios’ disregard for the health and safety of workers, now showing up in film production contracts are waivers such as the following:
“I am aware that participating in production activities involves… risks and dangers related to contracting COVID-19 or related virus… and agree that such risks and danger are unpredictable.”
The irresponsible way film production is being resumed lays bare underlying class antagonisms and the overriding concerns of producers and distributors for profits over human life.
The World Socialist Web Site spoke to two film workers about the impact of the coronavirus on the industry.
Nadine is a graphic artist working in the industry for the last five years. She said: “My work has been quite volatile since I started. Some of it I attribute to just being new in the industry and I was told from the veteran people that once you find new crews, you get more regular work.
“March 15, I think, is when the productions shut down. I had been on an August to March contract, so I was looking forward to taking some time off, but I did have prospects for other work. I’m a transient worker in and out of different areas and I have been doing some part-time work because I think you can make up to $1,000 on the emergency benefit, and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last month or so.
“It’s really unclear what’s happening with the film industry now. There’s not a lot of information that’s been given. I accepted a production, but I’ve been given no information on what safety protocols look like. I think IATSE sent something out, but the production itself hasn’t sent out any sort of plan. So, I have no clue, and it’s meant to start in the next month or so.
“I know they’re making special exceptions for American actors to travel, so I am wondering if that’s going to be the same policy adopted by Hollywood. If we’re meant to be going into prep mode and the shooting schedule’s established, where would there be time to go into quarantine unless they’re doing it now without anyone’s knowledge. If there is another outbreak, I don’t know if it’s something where they will declare another Force Majeure or if they would continue production and make adjustments.
“It’s easier for me. I don’t have a lot of living expenses like my colleagues on the coast. I don’t have family, but my colleagues who do have all that are very much stressed out. Some of them are considering a total career change. I can’t blame them there.
“The initial response of the union was very disorganized and secretive. They haven’t really addressed it in a direct way until last week, when they sent out an email containing some workplace protocols. Outside of that, there’s not a lot of communication and they’re not willing to be forthright with the changes in the industry and having any honest approach with what that looks like for workers.
“They just pretend like the industry is going to be back in full speed and it’s going to be a very promising future. They’re not willing to discuss if there are even cases, being accusatory even. I made a call myself and they were highly cynical. They were like, who are you, where do you work? Like I was a reporter looking for dirt, ­and I’m a member. They just suggested that people call the number that was set up, which you could never get a hold of anyone on.”
Maria has worked in the film industry for the past 25 years and has a compromised immune system due to a battle with cancer and subsequent complications. She has recently returned to work as a buyer on a successful television series but expresses great concern and mixed feelings over the prospects.
“The guidelines are pretty general,” she said. “For instance, they say disinfect everything that comes in like props or furniture. But there’s no official word on how to do that without damaging those items. By official, I mean medical or scientific information.
“We have a coded rep and medical information officers who come in and talk to everybody, but it’s just general information that you get: hand sanitize, wear masks, two meters distance, clean your surfaces. But when you’re dealing with antiques, for instance, we don’t know what the protocols are.
“They say they’re cleaning them, but then they’re getting handled and there just isn’t enough information out there about this sort of stuff. Right now, all we can do is get things ahead of time so that they sit.
“We are not allowed to go anywhere near where the cast blocks or anything like that. We’re not allowed to go in the studio space when they’re shooting. There’s a lot of physical limitations on where you can go. And you have to sort of jump through hoops or walk in circles to get from A to B because of that.
“It’s all guesswork right now. We are all dealing with these disinfectants and you don’t really know how much of that works against COVID.
“But how does it work in terms of your health being exposed to all these cleaners? That’s something that hasn’t been talked about in the media at all. We may be depleting our immune system just by disinfecting so much. Out of the frying pan into the fire.”
(Leftwinger)
submitted by finnagains to Moviereviewed [link] [comments]

Nelk fan fic

Jesse sits plumply at a brand new Norden Ikea desk. He stares at the computer monitor - probably the widest monitor he has ever seen, the fruits of his labor - as the upload bar slowly creeps from 70 to 80 percent. His desk is not painted any color. It looks unfinished; it reminds him of woodworking, and he likes that. There are twenty-three empty Rona bottles littering the right side of his desk. A twenty-fourth half full (or half empty?) bottle sits securely in his hands. The flat bottom of the bottle sits on his left palm, and his right hand tightly grips the neck. He slowly, deliberately raises the Rona from his lap up to his lips, which protrude and pucker to catch the golden-yellow beer as it descends from the base of the bottle. As he lowers the bottle to rest it back on his pelvis, he feels a droplet migrating down from the left corner of his mouth, negotiating the contours of his chin, and wetting the stubble on his neck. He giggles as he feels it tickle his face. He holds up his right hand it lets the drop land on the tip of his index finger. He holds the drop up to his eye and sees the whole room reflected through the drop. The twelve-foot tall ceilings, the empty walls, the double bed with white linens and eggshell comforter, the dull hardwood linoleum. He moves houses so often he never bothers to personalize his room. He scowls and then notices his face in the reflection. The fish-eye effect on the bulbous surface of the droplet makes him look fatter, and he shakes his hand, letting the Corona sprinkle on the floor. He wonders if his bleached hair makes him look too boyish.
87%. He sets his bottle down on the desk, just slightly to the right of the mouse, and as he does, the bottle clinks into the other bottles crowding the desk space. He’s annoyed he hasn’t cleaned them up yet. All he has to do is get a garbage bag from the kitchen, throw the bottles in the bag, then walk the bag into the garage. Yet instead of using his ample free time to tidy up, he drinks another Rona, adding to the mess. 92%. Kyle did say they were planning on hiring a cleaning lady, but Jesse doubts whether it is happening anytime soon. Jesse looks again at the bottles. The clutter of overlapping, curved glass warps the light as it passes through. The maze of glassware is difficult to look at, to parse, to understand, and it makes his hangover flare up. He quickly turns back to the screen, brightness at its lowest level. “I’ll wait for the cleaning lady,” Jesse whispers. “Dirty, tricky woman!”
He notices that Danny Mullen uploaded a new video “Yelling ‘Rape!’ in Target.” The sight of the thumbnail immediately enrages Jesse. “That homo Danny Mullen just uploaded a new video,” he shouts out loud. “Goddammit, we can’t let him steal our share of the prank market!” He stands up and begins pacing, raving to himself, “That fucking faggot thinks he’s so funny. He’s so sure of himself that his pranks are the toughest. He’s a skinny white boy, trying to act cool. He doesn’t have triceps like I do.” Jesse flexes his right triceps to himself and feels how hard they are with his left hand. He then reaches under his pillow and pulls out a baggy containing a gram of coke. He takes a few hits off of the pads of his fingers. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a triceps press machine the way I do. I’d put his head in between the weights and let them - 140 lbs – drop onto his head with each rep. Rape in a Target, huh? Yeah, maybe I’ll rape him in a Target. How about that Danny-boy? That sound like a prank to ya? Yeah me and the boys will grease up our 9-inchers with some Rona and take turns full sending our loads down his rectum. Mmmm.” By this point, Jesse has stopped pacing and closed his eyes. He flicks his eyes open, sheepishly shrugs while shaking his head. He gives a short, stilted laugh, and whispers to himself “Obviously kidding. Whatever. Fuck that fag.”
He sits down at his desk and sees the new Nelk video is finished uploading. He shouts, “‘Ordering Pizza to our Quarantine’ is up!” He thinks to himself, “But we really need to bring our A game if we want to compete with Danny Mullen next week.” Jesse feels anger boil to the right side of his face, making the surface of his cheek tremble with heat, and he feels pinpricks down his right triceps. This heat pulls his face to the right, and his eyes gravitate towards the empty Rona bottles, those glass soldiers constantly staring at him, mocking him. He suddenly screams and chops his right arm at the glasses, powerfully sailing them all across the room. They break against the plain wall, and the bottle Jesse was in the middle of drinking breaks too, leaving a large yellow splatter on the white wall. Jesse makes no movements. He just watches the Corona trail down the wall pooling at the bottom of the white trim. Jesse peacefully watches the Corona dry on the wall. Finally, his room has some personality.
“Hey,” Jesse hears from behind him. How long was he staring at the wall? He quickly swivels his chair to find standing in his bland doorway a shirtless Cousin Jay, colorful and magnetic. “Did you see that new Mullen vid? Yelling ‘rape’ in Target, huh? There’s no way we’ll be able to top that.”
Suddenly, a thought emerges in Jesse’s mind and a gay smile flashes across his face. “Actually, maybe there is a way you can top that.”
A Toyota minivan sits in a Target parking lot. Kyle is in the driver’s seat and Pat is in the passenger’s seat. Jesse and Ausgod are in the middle row. Steve, Salim, and Cousin Jay are in the back row. Kyle turns to Cousin Jay, whose shirtless body is glossy with sweat. “Damn Cousin Jay, you’re sweating a lot. Are you sure you want to do this? It’s okay if this is going too far for you.”
“Nah,” says Cousin Jay. “I already let you guys film me having sex with a hooker before. This isn’t that much crazier.”
“Oh shit, there she is,” Kyle says, catching something out of the corner of his eye. In the parking lot, a voluptuous woman is walking towards the mini-van. She has long, black hair, prominent eyeliner extending to a point, eyebrows defined with mascara, neon green acrylics, and a red shirt with a sequined American flag on the front. She knocks on the passenger window, and Kyle lowers it. “$500 upfront,” she says. Cousin Jay watches Kyle’s fingers as they delicately turn through the bills in his wallet. He watches his lips as they silently count to five, his eyes wide with his usual innocent wonder, belying his devilish and filthy interior. His right hand, holding the money moves towards Pat’s hand. Pat’s hands are much bigger than Kyle’s. Kyle’s hands are still young and unblemished. They move with the confidence and alacrity of a nimble adventurer, unfazed by oncoming danger. The skin’s tan tone exudes life. Pat’s hands are clearly that of an older man’s. They are weathered and hairy, and the skin sits looser. His hands move slower, but with experience and wisdom. Despite the outward appearance, they are firmer and stronger than any other hands in the car. Pats hands enclose around the money, and a slight, imperceptible gasp instinctively escapes Cousin Jay’s lungs as the tip of Pat’s index finger accidentally brushes over Kyle’s knuckles. Pat turns his head to the woman, furrows his brows, and stares intently at her face as he puts the money in her garish hands.
“Alright, Cassie,” Kyle begins, “let me explain the scenario to you. We are filming a prank video for our YouTube channel. We have this Target employee outfit here that a fan gave us. You will put it on and pretend to be working there. That’s when Cousin Jay will have sex with you, but you will pretend that you are being raped, so everyone in the Target thinks an employee is being openly raped, but really it is just you two.”
Cassie smiles. “Sounds funny. I can’t wait.”
“Action,” Ausgod says, surreptitiously pointing a camera at Cassie from behind the kitchenware aisle. Each individual of the Nelk crew is walking through different aisles of the store with a shopping cart, trying to blend in, but keeping their ears open to make sure they don’t miss the big scene about to transpire.
A father with two daughters, looking to be about seven and nine, stops by Cassie. “Excuse me ma’am,” the father says. “Do you by any chance sell Legos here?”
Suddenly, a shirtless Cousin Jay rushes up to Cassie from behind and pushes her shoulders so hard, that she tips forward and lands on all fours. Cousin Jay wraps his fingers around the waistband of her leggings and pulls them down to her knees. He then unsnaps his jeans, and lets them fall to his ankles. Neither of them are wearing underwear.
“Oh my God!” the father screams as he picks up his two children and runs away. Steve, watching this masterpiece of a prank unfold, begins uncontrollably cracking up.
“Stop!” Cassie yells as Cousin Jay makes his first thrust forward with his hip, but something doesn’t feel right. Cousin Jay looks down and realizes his dick is completely soft! “Oh fuck,” he thinks. “Not now.” He starts masturbating his cock while staring at Cassie’s shaven pussy. He uses his left hand to spread her labia with his thumb as he masturbates with his right hand. “Help me!” Cassie shouts as Cousin Jay continues to awkwardly bump against her with his hips.
A crowd begins forming around the scene. A real Target employee notices and calls security. The Nelk boys all slip into the crowd as well, except for Ausgod who is filming, and Steve who is on the floor laughing and can’t get up. A man from the crowd screams “Somebody do something!” Kyle crosses his arms and furrows his brows, staring at Cousin Jay. Next to him, a woman in tears turns and says “Please, sir, can you help her?” But Kyle doesn’t even hear her. He is thinking “What the hell is Cousin Jay doing? He’s not even fucking her. I need this to be a rape!”
By now, Cousin Jay has worked up to a half chub, and he effetely stuffs it into her pussy. “This won’t do,” he thinks, feeling his cock wiggle as his hips undulate. Cousin Jay, frightened, looks up for help, and locks eyes with Kyle. He can tell Kyle is not happy with him, but staring at Kyle, he realizes that the idea of fucking Cassie’s asshole excites him more. He pulls out, and his dick grows to a more serviceable but still incomplete erection. He sticks enters Cassie’s anus and begins fucking it. Kyle smiles. “Please, please, help!” Cassie screams.
The crowd begins getting more rowdy and panicked. People in the crowd, looking for help from the strongest people they see, keep pleading with members of Nelk to save the poor Target employee, but they all ignore the people vying for their attention. The Nelk boys are intently watching Cousin Jay fuck Cassie, concentrating on Cassie’s tight asshole and Cousin Jay’s dick plowing it, in and out, in and out, Cousin Jay’s glistening, dark hands, gripping Cassie’s bare ass, the sound of Cousin Jay moaning “ohhhhh, ohhhhhhh,” his head cocked up, his heavy breathing, his eyes rolling back but at the same time concentrating on one point in the room, never breaking their focus, never changing their sight… looking right into Jesse’s eyes.
Suddenly Jesse sprints towards Cassie from the side, and pushes her with all his strength. The force of his push rolls her into a rack of basketballs. The crowd gasps. Jesse pulls down his khakis, and gets on all fours in front of Cousin Jay. Cousin Jay immediately thrusts his cock into Jesse’s asshole. “Oww,” he yelps. Jesse grimaces, but feels a wave of ecstasy rush from his stomach to his face. He can tell Cousin Jay is still not fully erect. As Cousin Jay continues to thrust, he feels Cousin Jay’s penis growing in size, until after a few seconds it is now fully rock solid. It hurts Jesse even more. “No pain, no gain,” he says. He’s even more excited now. But suddenly, he feels a jolt from the side. He falls off Cousin Jay’s cock and looks up to see Kyle has pushed him off. “My turn! My turn!” Kyle yells as he takes off his pants. Cousin Jay begins fucking Kyle. Before Jesse has time to process what happened and be upset about it, Pat steps behind Jesse and begins fucking him. Salim starts fucking Steve. Ausgod films it all.
Jesse wakes up in his bed. What happened last night? Was that Target prank a fever dream? The details are all hazy to Jesse now. Lying in bed, he turns his head to inspect a wall. There is no Corona stain or broken glass. Did that really not happen? Or has somebody cleaned it up? Jesse can’t remember.
He walks out of his room and follows the smell of bacon, leading him to the kitchen. Kyle is sitting in front of the stove, watching strips of meat sizzle on a pan. “Hey, uh-“ Jesse says, scratching the back of his head, cutting himself off, not knowing what to say. Kyle walks up to Jesse, expressionless and stands right in front of him. He leans in and gives Jesse a tender kiss on the lips. “Rona season, baby,” he says.
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The Burned Photo [Part 3]

Part 1, Part 2
*****
Felicia Cox, 10/21/2017
My name is Felicia. I live with my son in a twice-mortgaged, three-bedroom house at the foot of the Verdugo Hills in Glendale, California. The floors are treated hardwood, the furnishings are vintage, and lush rose bushes flourish in the backyard, but since the day I walked through the door and tripped over the blocks, the place never again felt like home.
My son’s name is Benjamin. He’s two years old, soft and adorably pudgy, with dumpling cheeks and a square jaw. His skin is several shades darker than mine, colored like his Nigerian grandmother. But his large, deep-set eyes are grey and expressive in a manner reminiscent of my own mother’s.
These days, monster stories define my life. Stories of women with snakes for hair, women with mouths in the backs of their heads, women that turn into bats and horses and sea creatures. Men who turn into wolves and coyotes, dogs with the faces of men. Demons that must be summoned, lost spirits confined for eternity to bridges and graveyards and forgotten old manors.
Monsters play by rules. Vampires must be invited inside. The Sphinx can’t hurt you if you answer her riddle. Werewolves are restricted by the full moon. Never feed a Gremlin after midnight. If you play fair, if you mind the boundaries between what is human and what is other, coexistence is possible. But if you cross the barrier, intentionally or otherwise… well, it’s best you keep on hand a rosary and a loaded revolver.
You must remember me.
A creature has been following me my whole life. No matter how far I run, no matter how many times I try and start over, it always finds me. It can start fires. It makes things appear and disappear. It always takes the form of a child. Its true image is only visible when it is captured on film. It tormented my late mother to near insanity, it drove my father to suicide, and it’s destroyed any hope I’ve ever had of a normal life.
It killed my brother. Now, it wants my little boy.
*****
Six months ago, I buried my husband.
I could try and blame The Thing for Isaiah’s death, but that’s a hard sell. It does tend to bring misfortune whenever it comes around. Even so, the lion’s share of culpability for my untimely widowhood can be squarely pinned to the asshole who plowed over my husband like a speed bump and left him to bleed out in a Lynwood gutter. They still haven’t caught the guy.
The cops tell me they’re looking, but I shouldn’t hold my breath - there were no witnesses, and it’s not like they’re going to find fingerprints. The driver was probably drunk. He had to be going at least twenty miles over the speed limit, judging by how far Isaiah was thrown. Isaiah had only stopped to get a sandwich at Ralphs on the way home from a marketing convention. It bothers me, the randomness. All it took was a fraction of a second to erase him from my life, forever. To take him away from our son.
Five days after Isaiah’s funeral, it left me the blocks.
The in-laws had departed that afternoon. Leaning over the barrier at Bob Hope Airport, they assured me one last time Benjamin and I were welcome to stay with them in Oakland, if our big house were to seem too lonely.
Maybe.
I woke around 3 am, drenched in sweat from a nightmare I didn’t remember. Something with dancing flames and a cacophony of screams. I was struck by just how silent the house was, now that the robust stream of houseguests, relatives and friends and assorted well-wishers bearing condolences and food, had dried up.
I plodded down the hallway to Benjamin’s room. My son was peacefully asleep, moonlight streaming through the blinds casting pale lines of light over his small body. God, he was a beautiful child.
For the first time since I’d gotten the call from the Long Beach PD, I saw beyond my shock and grief and focused on everything I had to worry about. Isaiah and I bought the house anticipating two incomes and a big family. Now, neither would be a possibility.
The house had been a little out of our price range. But it was so pretty, the charming French farmhouse at the end of the manicured, magnolia-lined block on a hill, purple mountains rising in the distance, and in the end we crossed our fingers and went for it. I was making good money as a senior accountant with PwC, and Isaiah insisted he and his partners would sell the company he co-owned, Royal Bash Marketing, within the year, netting him a seven-figure windfall.
Then the prospective buyout fell through, then fell through again. I quit my sixty-hour-a-week job when Benjamin was born and took a position at a mid-sized business management firm in Beverly Hills, handling tax preparation for their biggest clients. They let me work from home, but the cut in pay was substantial. Isaiah’s 401k - when it was released to me - would be enough to peel the bank off my ass temporarily, but once that was gone, my salary wouldn’t cover the mortgage. Default was a possibility. Foreclosure was a possibility.
I decided not to think about it. I closed the nursery door and stumbled groggily downstairs to the kitchen, visualizing a glass of the Pinot Noir left over from the funeral, and there they were. Sitting on the kitchen island. Five of them.
ALONE.
I think I screamed. I lunged for the “A” block (apples, aardvark, antelope, angel), praying it wasn’t real. I ran my fingers over the hand-carved surface, considered lifting the little cube to my lips to taste the wood. Convinced it was solid, I dropped the block. It clattered to a rest under the kitchen table.
I took the stairs two at a time, grabbed Benjamin and my keys, snapped my son into his car seat before he was aware enough to start crying, and took off driving… somewhere. Anywhere.
We drove for hours along the empty freeway, past the 405, through the twisted, treacherous mountain road of Las Virgenes until it backed into PCH, then north. I kept my foot on the gas until I saw the Pacific Ocean. 70, 80, 85, not fast enough. I was two miles outside Carpenteria when the first streak of blue cut through the black sky and, as the darkness receded, so did the fog in my head.
Benjamin had knocked out; his little head drooped on a shoulder and his pudgy lips curled into a dreamland smile. I pulled off the highway, turned around, and began the much-less-graceful trek back home. On the 101, somewhere around the Vineland exit, caught in a third snare of gridlocked traffic, I started thinking reasonably.
If The Thing was going to hurt us, it would have done so already.
This wasn’t the first time it had inserted itself into my adult life. Two years earlier, before my son was born, I’d come home to find the same blocks - blocks that had belonged to my dead brother, Shane, before burning with his childhood home - on the floor of my living room, spelling out BEnJAMIN. Moments later, the storage unit where I’d kept my late mother’s belongings caught on fire. The Thing stayed had quiet since then, biding it’s time.
My mother had been convinced it needed to be verbally invited inside to do any damage. She was wrong - I’d been very careful about who was and wasn’t invited into my home, Isaiah swore no strangers had crossed our doorway, and I doubt the guys at Rent-a-Box Storage handed over the keys to my unit to some unknown child. Yet The Thing had no problem hanging around, starting fires and leaving me messages in blocks.
But if The Thing meant harm to me or my son, I asked myself, why hadn’t it set my house ablaze? If it could access my kitchen, why not snatch up my toddler in the dead of night? I was left with two possible answers.
1.) The Thing, for some reason, couldn’t actually hurt us, or
2.) The Thing, for some reason, didn’t want to hurt us.
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into my driveway. My house was empty and untouched. The blocks were gone.
I never took my in-laws up on their offer to accommodate us in Oakland. The Thing found me three times, it could manage a fourth. I did, however, cultivate a more strategic mindset. I didn’t intend on spending the rest of my life - and Benjamin’s - constantly looking over my shoulder. The Thing was playing a game with us. Games have rules.
There had to be a set of rules. And, if I knew exactly what I was up against, maybe I could do what my mother couldn’t. Fight back.
*****
A week later, I received some minor good news. I went into Isaiah’s office to sign the paperwork for his 401k, and came out with a side hustle. Apparently a new outfit was interested in buying Royal Bash Marketing - the entity I now owned a third of - but they were insisting on an audit. Isaiah’s surviving partners needed someone they trusted to sort through five years’ worth of disorganized invoices and receipts.
It was staff accountant work. But I couldn’t argue with a paycheck.
I also registered for an online class through Santa Monica College. Anthropology 112: Magic, Witchcraft, and Legends. According to the syllabus, I would be learning about storytelling traditions of cultures around the world, mythology as explanation for natural phenomena, and rituals as protection against the unknown. If I was serious about finding a strategy to deter The Thing, this seemed a better place to start than Conspiracies-R-Us on Youtube. I coughed up $200 for a hardback book as thick as a red brick called Our Stories, Ourselves.
At first, nothing was helpful. We spent a couple weeks dissecting macro mythology - how the world was created, comparisons of cross-cultural pantheons of deities. Despite the fantastical subject matter, our text was extremely dry. From gods and goddesses, we progressed to Judeo-Christian demonology. I briefly considered that my family was possessed. It seemed unlikely - the possessed are traditionally animalistic, violent, and vulgar, the direct opposite of whatever was attached to me. I did drive by a Catholic church and pick up a bottle of holy water, which I sprinkled around my house. Just to make sure.
When our discussion topic switched to modern folklore - which quickly turned to internet legends - I started getting somewhere.
If you’re reading this, I’m guessing you read my last account as well - the one where I shared my mom’s story. And if you read that, you probably read the comments. If you didn’t, here’s the summary: eight versions of “THIS IS FAKE;” three “I heard about the little boy who got killed in New Jersey in the 80’s, I thought the mom did it for sure;” four ads promising a “larger penis in seven days,” one that proclaimed “the curse of Paddington House strikes again” (huh?), and three individuals pegging the crime on Slenderman.
Yeah. Pretty useless.
This time, I presented the tale to my classmates with a degree of mystique.
“Someone told me about this spirit that poses as kids,” I typed on the discussion board. “It shows up on the doorsteps of other children. If the child allows it in, it kills the kid. It can create fire, and make solid objects appear temporarily. Its true form is only visible if you can get a photograph of it. Anyone know what legend this is, and/or has heard the same one?”
I got responses an hour later.
“Yeah, that’s the Black-Eyed Kids, or BEK,” wrote Jim Yee.
I Google’d “Black-Eyed Kids.” There were some similarities - the pale skin, their ability to disappear on a second glance. But that couldn’t be it. Black-Eyed Kids only come out at night and appear in pairs. And I definitely would have remembered if The Thing’s avatars, Katie and Zoe, had presented with pitch-black eyes.
I opened Excel and absentmindedly entered data from a zip file of K-1’s, checking the comments on my class discussion board every few minutes.
“I read a creepy story like that when I was a kid,” Kimberly Escobedo wrote. “Some lady took in a homeless black cat. Like, two weeks later the black cat disappeared, and took her pet cat with it. She developed this photograph she’d taken of the two cats, and the black cat didn’t show up in the picture. I didn’t sleep for days.”
“Lol, vampires don’t show up in pictures, either,” Jessie Fuentes added. “Because they have no souls. So that cat didn’t have a soul.”
“What do we call an element of culture that is passed from person to person until it becomes universally recognizable?” Professor Wells asked the class.
“A meme,” Kimberly Escobedo replied.
One of the guys, Alex Frinnell, posted a link. It was to a horror movie-disturbing, photo-shopped picture of a girl with an elongated face, evil eyes, and overlarge teeth. There was text below, in which the “narrator” claimed to be sharing a photo he’d taken of his neighbor’s daughter.
“That’s really creepy,” Jessie commented. “Also, it’s weird that you can’t see ghosts, but they show up in photographs. And you can see vampires, but they don’t show up in photographs.”
“That’s because ghosts have souls, but no body,” Mike Nguyen explained. “Vampires have bodies, but no souls.”
A thought occurred to me.
“So, if the soul is what the camera captures,” I typed, “then if something truly evil were to take over a body, it would show up twisted and ugly in a photo.”
I looked up from my laptop, pleased with my deductive reasoning. Then I saw them, four of them, lined up on the tile floor.
Four blocks. I170.
I froze. I’d been sitting in the same spot for several hours, and those blocks definitely hadn’t been there when I sat down. So if I was here, and they were there, that meant…
I heard something over the baby monitor, which sat on the table beside me. A crackling sound, static-like.
I didn’t think. I ran through the kitchen, grabbed the first knife I saw, and threw myself up the stairs. I screamed something - I couldn’t tell you what - as I ran. I barged into Benjamin’s room just in time to hear his first groggy wail.
His bookshelf was on fire. An oversized plush Dalmatian - a gift from Isaiah’s sister - resting atop it burned like a red and golden torch.
I grabbed Benjamin and fled. I ran with him to the neighbor’s house; pounded on their door until the wife opened it. I managed to communicate to her that my house was on fire, and she must’ve called 911, because several minutes later a brigade of red trucks converged outside, sirens howling and lights flashing like multicolored strobes.
But there was no fire to fight. My house stood as it always had, not so much as a hint of smoky stench in the air.
The firefighters milled in groups of twos and threes on my lawn. Some looked this way and that, confused and awaiting orders. One paramedic whispered something to another, and his buddy laughed. The man in charge listened as I told him exactly what had happened - I’d gone to my baby’s room and found his bookshelf on fire - and agreed to come upstairs with me to look around.
Once we were through the door, I returned to where I’d been sitting. My laptop was on the sofa, still open. The blocks were - as I’d expected - long gone.
What I hadn’t expected was the sight that awaited us in Benjamin’s room.
Benjamin’s crib was untouched. His toy box and closet and chests of drawers were exactly how I’d left them. Neither his mobile nor the rocking chair stirred. But his bookcase - the one only just engulfed in flames - was gone. The wall it rested against was charred brown. The bookcase had seemingly been reduced to a small pile of ashes, from which feeble wisps of smoke were emanating.
A firefighter knelt and put his hand against the wall.
“It’s still warm,” he said.
Benjamin and I slept in a hotel that night. By the next morning, both the char marks and the pile of ashes had completely disappeared.
The firefighters had checked the rest of the house, found nothing else amiss, and left. I think they thought I was looking for attention. I don’t blame them. Fire isn’t controlled like that; it doesn’t destroy children’s books and a stuffed dog then put itself out.
That day, I learned the Thing wasn’t scared of holy water. And that it could either create blocks and start fires from a distance, or be in my home, without a body, without me realizing it.
And the blocks. I170. Interstate 170? The freeway? I was mystified. The Thing was many things, but cryptic had never been one of them. I was left more confused than before, the same perplexing thoughts still connecting and disconnecting in my head, entangled with the unknown meaning of I170.
Did it want me to drive somewhere along the I-170 freeway? What, in the end, did it want? We didn’t talk much about motivation in my anthropology class. Spirits are destructive, life is hard, the end.
I moved Benjamin’s crib into my room. I knew The Thing was watching us.
It had been watching as Isaiah and I cuddled on the couch, boxes still unpacked, flipping through pages of a baby name book. It might have stood over my shoulder at Isaiah’s funeral, or lay quietly beside me all those nights I cried myself to sleep. Maybe it loitered in the shadows of that Lynwood street corner. Maybe it whispered in the ear of the drunk driver, or grabbed ahold of the wheel and swerved, icily robbing my son of a father. As it had robbed me.
I didn’t know the extent of The Thing’s powers. And I theorized it was holding back.
*****
Six weeks after the fire incident, Isaiah’s sister Chantal came to town with her husband and five-year-old. She immediately offered to watch Benjamin for an afternoon. It would be her pleasure, she assured me - they were planning a second child themselves, and wanted to give their daughter some practice being around a toddler.
“Take a Mom’s Day Off,” Chantal told me. “Go to the spa. How long’s it been since you did anything for yourself?”
She was right. I’d been on my son like a tick on a dog, and I did have some errands to run and a cardboard box full of purchase receipts from 2015 to dig through. Chantal was a responsible mom; I trusted she wouldn’t allow suspicious strangers around the kids. So I dropped Benjamin off with a change of clothes and his favorite stuffed dog, then drove home to tackle the mountain of dirty clothes inundating my laundry room floor.
Except there was something new on my kitchen table.
It wasn’t blocks. It was one of Benjamin’s toys - a puzzle that, when pieced together, depicted the the state of California, with pictures of landmarks drawn in the appropriate places. Disneyland, Hollywood, Redwood National Forest, etc. It sat there, fully assembled, though I hadn’t so much as pulled the plastic wrap off the box. Benjamin was way too young for the toy; it had been a baby shower present from a work acquaintance. I’d forgotten where I’d put it.
Just then, I remembered. I’d left it on the shelf in Benjamin’s room. The bookshelf that had been reduced to a pile of ashes.
I felt my pulse in my ears. My hands hung like weights at my side. I don’t know how I fought the urge to run, but I fought it, and I stepped closer.
Near the bottom of the puzzle-map were two slashes, forming an X. That wasn’t supposed to be there. The violent markings cut all the way through; the thick cardboard ribboned, betraying that the knife (claws?) had been dragged from left to right.
X marks the spot. This X was positioned over one of the cartoon-y illustrations. Through the chipped paint, I read the label.
Vasquez Rocks. The Thing wanted me to go to Vasquez Rocks.
Was this the meaning of ‘I170?’ I was supposed to drive to an over-filmed tourist trap to… meet The Thing? The thought dropped like a trap door in the pit of my stomach. But I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life running. Benjamin wasn't going to spend the rest of his life scared.
I called Chantal, and was assured my son had fallen asleep in her daughter’s lap as the family watched Finding Nemo together. Then I scooped up my car keys and headed for the highway.
I veered left when the 134 Freeway split, away from the 170 turnoff. I noticed that the 170 wasn’t even an interstate freeway.
Eventually, I approached jutting rock formations silhouetted against deep blue twilight. By the time I parked alongside the weeded entrance to Vasquez Rocks, it was nearly night. I’d been hiking there, once, with some college girlfriends. Even during the day the place was eerie. If you looked past the burnt-gold weeds and occasional critter, Vasquez Rocks could be the surface of Mars.
I stood at the entrance for what felt like hours. Waiting for the Thing? Waiting for directions?
Then, the clouds shifted and, by the icy-pale moonlight, I saw the blocks.
The first one, E (eagle, eggplant, elephant, eggs), rested against a small tuft of grass about ten yards in front of me. I scrambled to pick it up. Once I did, I noticed the second block - one of the blank ones - a short distance from the first.
I double-checked to make sure my pocket knife, pepper spray, and rock salt were in my purse, then continued along The Thing’s breadcrumb trail.
It took awhile. I hiked across dusty flat land, up and down small hills, around shallow caves. In my head, I kept count: seventeen blocks, eighteen, nineteen. Several times I was sure I’d lost my way, only to see the next block half-buried in a shallow crater or positioned at the top of a rock formation. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…
I found the fortieth block - J (jaguar, jellyfish, juniper, jackrabbit) - bathed in moonlight, at the top of a gently-sloped, flat-topped hill. On the hill was a house.
It was a large house, and a beautiful one. Moss-drenched red brick walls, grand Palladian architecture with an angular roof, shaded porches, and white Grecian columns. It reminded me of a set piece from Gone with the Wind. Nobody in California lived in a house like this. I didn’t think anyone, anywhere owned a house like this anymore. The front door was wide open.
In retrospect, I ignored a whole lot of weird. I should have wondered what a large mansion was doing in the middle of a national park. I should have found it strange I hadn’t seen its outline as I approached - that it had appeared out of nowhere.
But I didn’t. I was drowning in a sea of weird, and working off the logic that only works in dreams - there’s a house there, the door is open, so I must go inside.
I found myself in a magnificent parlor room. The Neoclassical theme matched that of the exterior; doorways were buttressed by wood-carved columns, ornate flowers and swirls framed the windows and large stone fireplace, and the walls were painted a rich blue that complemented the dark-stained hardwood floors and spiral staircase. China figures sat on display in a buffed cabinet, and a large brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, lit candles sweating wax.
I didn’t know what to make of it. This house looked like an exhibit in a museum. Except - lived in. The velvet sofa covers were wrinkled, as if recently occupied. A painted tea pot sat on the coffee table, flanked by two teacups. I stepped closer, and saw that one of the cups still had tea inside. There was a plate of half-eaten finger sandwiches.
From there, I proceeded through a doorframe, which led into a curved alcove and then a palatial dining room with a long table. The scene was lit by a series of gas lanterns hanging from the walls. I assume there was food, though I couldn’t have told you what they were all eating.
Because I only saw the bodies.
I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. Before that moment, I didn't truly understand what it meant to be “frozen in fear.”
There were thirty of them, at least. All dressed in period clothes - the women wearing frilly gowns with hoop skirts, the men in button-down shirts and tailored jackets, the servants with lacy caps and black frocks. They hung off chairs, hunched over their plates, sprawled across the floor.
A young girl’s lily-white hand reached out for me. A small rivulet of blood pooled around the extended extremity, staining the lace cuffs of her dress and oxidizing her gold rings.
I guessed the head that lolled to my left - swollen tongue hanging out, delicate young features distorted, ice-blonde ringlets tangled around a dislodged spinal column - was hers. As was the decapitated body leaning back in its chair like a sleeping student, mangled arm at its side, ripped muscle tissue drooping like flaccid streamers, exposed at the stump of a right wrist.
There were chests torn open, spilling bowels and ribs and hearts dangling from severed vessels. Heads hanging upside down off folded skin and muscles, naked vertebrae popping out of stubbed necks like grotesque puppets. Arms, legs, hands, feet, and heads tossed about like broken extremities of discarded dolls.
I felt hot liquid bubbling in my throat. I turned away and lurched, puking, my vomit mixing with the puddle of blood draining from the girl’s disembodied, beckoning hand. I turned and ran, back the way I came, back through the quaint, historic, empty parlor.
Except it wasn’t empty anymore.
There were bodies - children, no older than five - in a pile on the sofa. A woman lay, face-down, midway up the stairs. There were several steps between her legs and her torso. I swallowed a second wave of vomit and looked only towards the open door.
A body lay in my way. It was a middle-aged man, face up. Even in death, his wide blue eyes betrayed unimaginable horror. His nose was large and bent, there was a pink birthmark under his right eye, and his mouth twisted in one final scream. He bore no injuries to his front, but if I had to guess, I’d say the slimy, gossamer sacs on his chest were his removed lungs.
He’d died running, I thought. He’d been attacked from behind. He was killed last. I jumped over him, clenched my eyes shut, and stumbled out the door.
I opened my eyes. I wasn’t back on the plateau.
My surroundings were dim and brown, lit by a single gas lamp.
I stood in a small dwelling, on a dirt floor. In stark contrast to the mansion I’d previously encountered, this home bore the countenance of abject poverty. The only furniture visible were a rotting wooden table and a single pallet bed with a leaking straw mattress.
Despite their vast differences, the hovel and the mansion had one thing in common.
Three bodies were piled on the bed. Three black women, all naked. The one nearest to me was a girl no older than sixteen. Rivers of blood ran down her legs; her face so badly bruised I could barely distinguish features. The second girl, maybe eighteen, was similarly disfigured, with the addition of a deep laceration from her ribcage to her pelvis, spilling bowels onto the bare legs of the third woman. This one was older, in her late thirties, sporting a nearly-decapitating gash across her throat.
I choked and stumbled backwards, into a crude wooden cradle. No, I couldn’t bear… but I looked anyways.
A naked child, a boy, no more than two, stared up into oblivion, his throat slashed. He looked so much like Benjamin I felt my eyes water and my heart gulp.
Two more bodies lingered at the table, one folded on the ground and another lying supine on top. I couldn’t see much of the body on the floor, and I had no desire to. Even at the odd angle, I was sure it was a child, and that the ground around him was moist with his spilled blood.
I stepped closer to view the body on the table. It was a little black boy, naked except for a pair of dirty shorts. I immediately determined how he had met his untimely end - dark blood leaked from the cut across his neck, trailing down his chest like a breastplate. But, unlike the others, who’d died where they’d fallen, this corpse looked specifically placed.
Blood had been smoothed across his closed eyelids. Lines and circles were painted on his cheeks, and his chest was covered in what I’d guess were words, but not words in any written language I had ever seen.
Finally, my eyes rested on a seventh corpse. This one was a grown man, dressed in a stained work shirt and torn slacks, sitting upright in a chair in the shadows, at the far wall of the dwelling. I guessed he was the father of the murdered children. He was dead as well, but dead in a completely different manner. I saw the bloody hole in his temple, and then the pistol on the dirt floor, fallen from his limp hand.
I turned away from him, back to the little boy on the table. Strange, he looked almost peaceful. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said he was smiling. He’d been a cute kid, too, with a square jaw and a head full of dark frizz.
Then his eyes snapped open.
I cried out. The kid was alive. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the table, hole in his neck gaping like a screwed-up cartoon. He stared at me, big eyes wide and mirthful, grinning.
“Hi, Felicia!” he chirped joyfully. “Do you like my work?”
And, with that, he hopped off the table and sauntered out the door.
Then the house collapsed.
The walls melted into ash like butter in a pan. I was lost in a sea of grey, eyes burning, throat tight, air around me hot and oppressive. I couldn’t breathe. I coughed as I ran, eyes closed, arms flailing wildly, until I fell to my knees and curled into myself, shaking and crying and praying for help.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that. It was until I realized that the air had cooled and I’d cried the dust out of my eyes. I sat upright, and found myself atop an empty hill, surrounded by white ash that rested on the dirt and low shrubs like melting snow. As I stared at the golden city lights in the distance, I saw the whiteness receding, dissipating into nothingness, leaving the terrain as though untouched.
Utterly confused as to what I had just experienced, I pulled myself to my feet. My toe connected with something small and hard. I looked down.
It was a human skull. Child-sized.
Under any other circumstances I would have been terrified, but after what I’d just experienced, the presence of the tiny skull was almost anti-climactic. I knelt beside the bizarre object and examined it. It looked as though it had been exposed to the elements for years.
I don’t know how I made it back to my car that night. My trail of blocks had vanished, and I’d been led deep into the park. But finally, thighs aching, drenched in sweat, I pried open my driver’s-side door and sank into the seat, unsure of what to do next. Call Child Services? Report a five-year-old running around Vasquez Rocks, blood smeared across his face like warpaint, throat cut from ear to ear? Call the cops and report a vanishing house, serving as a ghostly tomb for thirty-aught dismembered bodies?
No. The Thing brought me here for a reason. I’d seen what it wanted me to see. And history - both mine and my mother’s - dictated The Thing could run rings around authority figures.
Panicking, I called Chantal’s number. She didn’t answer. I closed the door and stuck my keys in the ignition, inadvertently glancing in the rear-view mirror.
There was a sickly-white figure sitting in the back seat.
I screamed and groped for the door handle. In the process, I got a better view of my new traveling companion, and I almost felt stupid. It was just Benjamin’s oversized stuffed Dalmatian.
Benjamin’s oversized stuffed Dalmatian, which I’d last seen on top of that bookcase, functioning as a candle.
And then, it hit me in the face so hard I started laughing. Why had I not figured this out before?
The Thing could start fires. It could also re-create things that had been burned.
The blocks. The puzzle. The stuffed dog. The photograph of Shane I’d come across when I was fourteen. The horrifying, half-charred picture I’d discovered in my mother’s destroyed storage unit. All had been incinerated, then re-formed from ash. But these burned objects couldn’t retain their form forever - after a certain amount of time, they’d revert back to their true properties and disintegrate into dust.
Which meant that the mansion, and the one-roomed cabin, and the dozens of bodies…
Do you like my work?
The Thing always took the form of a child. I knew the little black boy with the cut throat was my childhood nightmare, wearing a new costume.
And I knew what it was capable of.
My odometer hit eighty on the freeway, long before I realized I’d forgotten to turn my lights on. I called Chantal eight times. Each time I heard her cheery message recording, I breathed faster and gripped the wheel harder. Why had I left Benjamin alone? How could I take my eyes off my child for a second, knowing what kind of monster stalked him?
I peeled into the driveway of Chantal’s mother-in-law’s house, where her family was staying, ten minutes to one. I pounded on the door like a madwoman; when fists weren’t loud enough, I took to kicking and yelling at the top of my lungs. No one answered. Fresh sweat running down my face, anguished warmth spreading from my chest to my extremities, I fought to keep the possibilities from my…
The door clicked open, and suddenly I was face-to-face with Chantal’s husband, Brian, bed-headed and bleary-eyed. I was immediately embarrassed, a feeling augmented when I saw he was holding a baseball bat in his right hand.
“Fuck, Felicia,” he mumbled. “You scared the shit out of Chantal.”
“I’m sorry,” I said meekly. “I… is Benjamin asleep?”
He nodded and shuffled back down the hall, revealing a disconcerted-looking Chantal, hair in rollers, a squirming Benjamin in her arms.
They were surprisingly nice about being woken up in the middle of the night; Chantal’s phone had been on silent, which was why she wasn’t answering. I don’t know why I hadn't assumed this was the case. I made up a story about falling asleep on my couch, sheepishly collected my son, apologized once more to Chantal, and got out of there as quickly as possible.
It was nearly two in the morning when I pulled into my driveway. My house was dark, and my chest tightened at the thought of entering. This would forever be my life, I realized. I was prey. Benjamin was prey. Prey of an omnipotent creature that could transcend the boundaries of space and time, capable of violent mass murder and fiery destruction - but enjoyed playing with its food, torturing and terrifying us until…
As I pulled Benjamin out of the car, I tripped the sensor. The outside lights came on.
There was a white girl sitting on the porch, looking at me expectantly.
Not a girl, a young woman. Maybe five years younger than me. She had pale skin and long, wavy red hair. She wore black jeans and a red t-shirt. I thought her eyes were blue. She may have had freckles. She stood up and smiled at me - she had a very big, very pretty smile.
“Um, Felicia? I’m Kira. Can, um, I come in so we can talk?”
She extended her hand, still smiling that Disney princess smile.
I felt the blood drain from my face. My brain screamed “run,” but my legs were numb. It had preyed on my fears all night, and now The Thing was making its move. I backed up slowly, Benjamin clutched tight in my arms.
The red-haired girl was two meters away when instinct kicked in. I whirled, half-tossed Benjamin in the back seat, slammed the door shut. Not thinking, not looking, I reached in my purse and pawed for something hard.
“Please?” the girl continued. She was leaning on the driver’s-side window now; her smile, close up, seemed menacing. “Can I talk to you? I know something I really think you should know.”
I found my pepper spray. In one movement, I dropped my purse, flicked back the cap, and pressed the trigger.
The girl hollered violently and dropped to the ground. I nudged her out of the way and pulled open the car door, smacking her in the face.
“Fuck! Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Stay away from my kid!” I screamed at her, climbing into the car. I tried to pull the door shut, but she clutched the frame. I reared back my foot to kick her. She reeled.
“Don’t!”
I hesitated.
Blinking manically, she rubbed her swollen eyes.
“The monster that’s after you,” she stammered. “It’s after me, too.”
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plow pan define video

Oliver 1800 and Deere 3 pan plow - YouTube Beginners Guide To Ploughing Part 1 Plough Set Up And Tips ... Sleeve Hitch Brinly Moldboard Plow PP-51BH - YouTube How To Plow a Garden - Two Bottom Plow - YouTube Plow Pan Management - YouTube How To Plow With A Subcompact/Kubota BX Tractor - YouTube Farmall 140 - Moldboard Plow Setup - YouTube Phase 3- How To Plow A Garden - Organic Garden - Plowing ... Using a Turning Plow **Building Terraces** - YouTube 5 POWERFUL Snow Plow Trains Videos - YouTube

Some characteristics of an A horizon may include the accumulation of organic matter and/or the presence of a plow pan. A plow plan (or plow layer) is a common characteristic of soils that have undergone conventional tillage at some point in recent time. The darkness of the A horizon can sometimes be attributed to the movement of organic matter from the overlying O horizon. Soils under intense Plough definition is - chiefly British spelling of plow soil surface and formation of a plow-pan in subsurface layers (Lal, 1985). Conservation tillage systems are systems of managing crop residues on the soil surface with minimum or no tillage. The systems are frequently referred to as stubble mulching, ecofallow, limited tillage, reduced tillage, minimum tillage, no-tillage and direct drill. 2. Purpose of review: The agricultural literature for A plow pan is a subsurface horizon or soil layer having a high bulk density and a lower total porosity than the soil directly above or below it as a result of pressure applied by normal tillage operations, such as plows, discs, and other tillage implements. Plow pans may also be called pressure pans, tillage pans, or traffic pans. 1. A farm implement consisting of a strong blade at the end of a beam, usually hitched to a draft team or motor vehicle and used for breaking up soil and cutting furrows in preparation for sowing. 2. An implement or machine designed to move earth, snow, or other material by means of a strong blade. 3. plow S. der Pflug. plow S. ein Gegenstand, der eine, dem Pflug ähnliche, Arbeitsweise hat. plow S. der Hobel. — English words, define in French — plow n. (États-Unis) Variante orthographique de plough. plow v. (États-Unis) Variante orthographique de to plough. — English words, define in Italian — plow s. (US) aratro. plow s. (US) arare. Find out information about Plough pan. condition of the soil or subsoil in which the soil grains become cemented together by such bonding agents as iron oxide and calcium carbonate, forming a... Explanation of Plough pan Plowing at the same depth will often lead to the formation of a compacted layer (the plow pan) on the bottom of the furrow, which disrupts a normal water regime in the soil and impedes the development of the plant root system. For this reason, it is expedient periodically to plow somewhat deeper than usual in each field of the rotation. Deep plowing is one of the most important conditions for obtaining high and stable yields. On soils with a plow layer of less than 20 cm, which limits the A plow is a useful and traditional piece of farm and garden equipment that serves a number of purposes for soil preparation. Plowing breaks open and pulverizes the soil, improving its water retention and allowing roots to extend deeply. Plows also help incorporate manure or other organic additives into the soil. Both bottom plows and turning plows consist of a plowshare that cuts into the ground, and a mold board that turns the soil. Unlike a bottom plow, a turning plow is made for use on Define Plowpan. Plowpan synonyms, Plowpan pronunciation, Plowpan translation, English dictionary definition of Plowpan. n. 1. A layer of hard subsoil or clay. Also called caliche . 2. Hard, unbroken ground. 3. A foundation; bedrock. American Heritage® Dictionary of the...

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Oliver 1800 and Deere 3 pan plow - YouTube

This video describes how to plow a garden using a three-bottom plow and Ford 3000 tractor. Garden size is about a half acre.I begin plowing by starting at th... Snow can be a boon or bane but it definitely creates a huge challenge for the railway companies which are operating in countries which receive a massive amou... This video is about plow pans and how to manage them in crop production systems. We finally got dried out enough to get back in the field with our Land Shark Compact Tractor Plow, only this time we hooked it up to our compact BX series Ku... Setting up the International Harvester #215 moldboard plow on the 140 Farmall. Danny is using a turning plow to build a terrace to prevent water from eroding the land, -~-~~-~~~-~~-~-Please watch: "SPRING Into Action" https://www.youtub... Oliver 1800 tractor with John Deere 3 pan plow turning the garden in Harvest Alabama About Press Copyright Contact us Creators Advertise Developers Terms Privacy Policy & Safety How YouTube works Test new features Press Copyright Contact us Creators ... Owner's Manual: https://bit.ly/2NOPYE5Visit our website: https://brinly.com/Purchase here: https://amzn.to/2JC9QoKRotary tillers are great for breaking up sm... The Latest in our "How to Series", Ted explains the method, adjustments, and coulter options for the 12" Two Bottom Plow. Visit Everything Attachments to Ord...

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