سكولار Scolaire.tn: منصّة تونسية ترافق تلميذ السادسة والتاسعة من أوّل درس إلى يوم المناظرة مقدّمة

لا يختلف اثنان في تونس على أنّ السنتين السادسة ابتدائي والتاسعة أساسي مفصليّتان في المسار الدراسي. ففي كلّ منهما يجد التلميذ نفسه أمام مناظرة وطنية تحدّد مستقبله الدراسي القريب. تتحوّل البيوت إلى ورشات مراجعة، ويبحث الأولياء عن مصادر موثوقة تجمع الدروس والتمارين والمواضيع السابقة في مكان واحد، بعيدًا عن تشتّت الملفّات والصور المتناثرة على مواقع التواصل. من هذه الحاجة جاءت منصّة سكولار Scolaire.tn، وهي منصّة تونسية تستهدف تلاميذ السنة السادسة ابتدائي والسنة التاسعة أساسي، وتعتمد البرنامج الرسمي أساسًا لكلّ ما تقدّمه.

في هذا المقال نتعرّف إلى المنصّة وما تحتويه ومن تخدم، وكيف يمكن للتلميذ والوليّ والمربّي أن يستفيدوا منها.

ما هي منصّة سكولار؟

سكولار منصّة تعليمية رقمية تونسية الهويّة واللغة والمحتوى. تقدّم دروسًا مرتّبة حسب البرنامج الرسمي، وتمارين تفاعلية تُصحَّح فورًا، وملخّصات ومسارد للمراجعة السريعة، وامتحانات الثلاثي، والمواضيع الرسمية السابقة للمناظرات، ومناظرات تجريبية بعدد على 20. وإلى جانب التلميذ، تخصّص المنصّة فضاءً للوليّ يخطّط ويتابع، وفضاءً للمربّي ينظّم به أقسامه.

وتوضّح المنصّة في أكثر من موضع أنّها منصّة خاصّة غير تابعة لوزارة التربية، وأنّ المواضيع الرسمية ملك للوزارة وتُنشر للاطّلاع فقط. وهذا وضوح يُحسب لها لأنّه يضع الأمور في نصابها ويجنّب أيّ لبس.

أمّا شعارها فيلخّصه عنوانها الرئيسي: حضّر السادسة والتاسعة بثقة، من أوّل درس إلى يوم المناظرة. أي أنّها لا تكتفي بالاستعداد في الأسابيع الأخيرة، بل ترافق التلميذ طيلة السنة الدراسية.

أرقام تعكس حجم المحتوى

أوّل ما يلفت الزائر ضخامة المحتوى المتاح. تضمّ المنصّة:

437 درسًا 2792 تمرينًا مصحّحًا 402 ملخّصًا 1416 مصطلحًا في المسارد

ويتوزّع هذا المحتوى على المستويين كما يلي. تضمّ السنة السادسة 214 درسًا و1356 تمرينًا. أمّا السنة التاسعة فتضمّ 223 درسًا و1436 تمرينًا. وهو توزيع متقارب يعكس عناية متساوية بالمرحلتين.

مستويان ومناظرتان وطنيّتان

تفتح المنصّة اليوم بابها لسنتين دراسيتين، وكلّ منهما سنة مناظرة.

السنة السادسة ابتدائي وموادّها الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي والعربية والفرنسية والأنقليزية، وتقود إلى مناظرة الدخول إلى المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية.

السنة التاسعة أساسي وموادّها الرياضيات وعلوم الحياة والأرض والعلوم الفيزيائية والعربية والفرنسية والأنقليزية، وتقود إلى امتحان ختم التعليم الأساسي (النوفيام) والتوجيه إلى المعاهد النموذجية.

وتعد المنصّة بفتح سنوات دراسية أخرى قريبًا. ويمكن للزائر أن يترك بريده الإلكتروني ليُعلَم عند توفّر مستوى جديد، من دون أيّ إشهار حسب ما تؤكّده المنصّة.

الدروس: شرح بسيط على وفق البرنامج الرسمي

تُعرض الدروس مرتّبة حسب البرنامج الرسمي لكلّ مادّة. وفي الرياضيات للسنة السادسة، على سبيل المثال، تنقسم الدروس إلى خمس فترات دراسية، فيجد التلميذ ما يدرسه في مدرسته بالترتيب نفسه تقريبًا. وهذا مهمّ لأنّ المنصّة بذلك تكمّل عمل القسم ولا تتعارض معه.

ويقوم كلّ درس على بنية واضحة:

شرح بالأمثلة والرسوم، ليفهم التلميذ الفكرة قبل أن يحفظها. أمثلة محلولة تُظهر طريقة التفكير والحلّ خطوة بخطوة. أخطاء شائعة ينبَّه إليها التلميذ حتى لا يقع فيها يوم الامتحان. اختبار قصير يقيس ما استوعبه فعلًا.

وخانة «الأخطاء الشائعة» جديرة بالتنويه، لأنّ كثيرًا من العلامات الضائعة ليس سببها غياب المعرفة، وإنّما أخطاء متكرّرة يمكن تفاديها متى عُرفت.

التمارين: تصحيح فوري وشرح لموضع الخطأ

هنا تتجلّى قوّة المنصّة. فلكلّ درس سلسلة تمارين تفاعلية في عدّة مستويات من الصعوبة، تُصحَّح فورًا مع الشرح، وتتوفّر منها نسخة PDF للطباعة لمن يفضّل الورق والقلم.

وتصف المنصّة طريقة عملها في ثلاث خطوات:

يحلّ التلميذ التمرين، فيكتب جواب كلّ سؤال كما يفعل في ورقة الامتحان. يُصحَّح فورًا، فإن أخطأ رأى أين أخطأ بالضبط وكيف يصحّح طريقته. يتابع الوليّ التقدّم، فيعرف الدروس المتقنة والدروس التي تحتاج مراجعة ونتائج الامتحانات.

ومن الأمثلة التي تعرضها الصفحة الرئيسية تمرين حسابي بسيط: خيّاطة اشترت قطعة قماش طولها 32 مترًا، واستعملت 3/8 منها للستائر و1/4 للمفارش. فإذا أخطأ التلميذ في حساب الطول الباقي، لا يكتفي النظام بإعلامه أنّ إجابته خاطئة، بل ينبّهه إلى أنّه حسب ما استُعمل بينما السؤال عن الباقي. وهذا هو الفرق بين تصحيح يُعلم بالنتيجة وتصحيح يُعلّم.

الملخّصات والمسارد والقاموس

المراجعة الذكية لا تعني إعادة قراءة الدرس كاملًا في كلّ مرّة. لذلك وفّرت المنصّة 402 ملخّصًا، ملخّصًا لكلّ درس، إضافة إلى مسرد لكلّ مادّة يضمّ المصطلحات الأساسية، ومجموعها 1416 مصطلحًا. وهي أدوات تفيد التلميذ في الأيام التي تسبق الامتحان، حين يحتاج إلى مرور سريع على الأفكار الكبرى.

وتخصّص المنصّة كذلك قاموسًا لكلّ من السنتين السادسة والتاسعة، يساعد التلميذ على فهم المفردات التي قد تعيق فهمه للدروس أو الامتحانات.

امتحانات الثلاثي: اختبار للمكتسبات على امتداد السنة

لا تنتظر المنصّة نهاية السنة لتختبر التلميذ. فهي تضع امتحانات الثلاثي مع الإصلاح بين يديه، وتغطّي في السنة السادسة الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي واللغات الثلاث، وفي السنة التاسعة الرياضيات والعلوم والفيزياء واللغات الثلاث.

وتفيد هذه الامتحانات في أمرين: تعوّد التلميذ على أجواء الامتحان وصيغ الأسئلة، وتكشف له مبكّرًا مواطن ضعفه ليعالجها قبل فوات الأوان.

المناظرات التجريبية: التدرّب بالتوقيت وبعدد على 20

من أبرز ما تقدّمه سكولار المناظرات التجريبية. يحلّ فيها التلميذ موضوعًا كاملًا في وقت محدّد، ثمّ يحصل على إصلاح وعدد على 20. وتُظهر الصفحة الرئيسية مثالًا لمناظرة تجريبية حصل فيها التلميذ على 16,5 من 20.

فالمناظرة تُختبر فيها المعارف والقدرة على إدارة الوقت والتحكّم في التوتّر. ولا يتحقّق ذلك إلا بالتدرّب في ظروف قريبة من الظروف الحقيقية، وهذا ما تتيحه المنصّة.

مناظرة السادسة: سباق نحو المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية

تخصّص المنصّة قسمًا كاملًا لمناظرة الدخول إلى المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية، ويحتوي على:

المواضيع الرسمية السابقة 20 موضوعًا نموذجيًا مصحّحًا مناظرات تجريبية بالتوقيت خطّة مراجعة تمتدّ من سبتمبر إلى جوان نصائح للاستعداد

وتعرض المنصّة أرقامًا تبيّن حجم التنافس، استنادًا إلى ندوة صحفية لوزارة التربية بتاريخ 1 جوان 2026: 62 450 مترشّحًا في 2026 لـ3 850 مقعدًا، أي ما يقارب مقعدًا واحدًا لكلّ 16 مترشّحًا. أرقام تفسّر لماذا يحتاج التلميذ إلى استعداد مبكّر ومنظّم لا يُترك للصدفة.

مناظرة التاسعة: النوفيام والمعاهد النموذجية

وفي السنة التاسعة، تغطّي المنصّة امتحان ختم التعليم الأساسي (النوفيام) والتوجيه إلى المعاهد النموذجية. ويضمّ هذا القسم دروس الموادّ الأربع: الرياضيات وعلوم الحياة والأرض والعلوم الفيزيائية والعربية، إضافة إلى المواضيع الرسمية السابقة مع عناصر الإجابة، ومواضيع نموذجية، ومناظرات تفاعلية بالتوقيت.

ومن أرقام دورة 2026 التي تنقلها المنصّة عن وزارة التربية: 25 301 مترشّحًا حاضرًا، ونسبة نجاح بلغت 63,96%، ووُجّه 6 063 تلاميذ إلى المعاهد النموذجية. وهي أرقام تبيّن أنّ النجاح ممكن، لكنّه يتطلّب عملًا منتظمًا.

فضاء الأولياء: خطّة ومتابعة أسبوعًا بأسبوع

يعرف كلّ وليّ أنّ مرافقة الأبناء في الدراسة ليست سهلة، فلا الوقت دائمًا متاح، ولا من السهل معرفة أين يقف الطفل فعلًا. وقد خصّصت سكولار فضاءً للأولياء يقدّم:

خطّة عمل أسبوعية تقترحها المنصّة حسب نتائج الطفل. ويمكن للوليّ إعدادها بنفسه، كما يمكن لتلميذ التاسعة إعدادها بنفسه. تنبيهات عند التراجع أو التأخّر في إنجاز المهامّ. تقريرًا أسبوعيًا بالبريد الإلكتروني. لوحة متابعة لكلّ مادّة، تُظهر نسب التقدّم في الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي والعربية وغيرها.

وتعرض الصفحة الرئيسية مثالًا توضيحيًا بيانه للتوضيح فقط، لتلميذ في السنة السادسة يتقدّم جيّدًا بنسبة 82% في الرياضيات و70% في الإيقاظ العلمي و45% في العربية. ويدلّ هذا المثال على الفكرة: أن يعرف الوليّ بنظرة واحدة أين يحتاج طفله إلى دعم إضافي، فيتجنّب الدروس العشوائية ويركّز جهده حيث يلزم.

وللتلميذ بوّابة دخول خاصّة به، وللوليّ والمربّي بوّابة أخرى، بحيث يجد كلّ طرف ما يناسبه. كما تنشر المنصّة قسمًا بعنوان «نصائح للأولياء» يساعدهم على مرافقة أبنائهم.

فضاء المربّي: أدوات للمعلّم والأستاذ

لا تغفل سكولار المربّين. فقد أتاحت لهم فضاءً مجانيًا يمكّنهم من:

إنشاء أقسامهم داخل المنصّة، تكوين سلاسل تمارين وفروض من بنك تمارين سكولار، متابعة نتائج تلاميذهم.

وهذا يوفّر على المعلّم وقتًا كبيرًا في إعداد التمارين وتصحيحها، ويفتح له نافذة على مستوى تلاميذه الفعلي.

الاستعمال دون إنترنت وعلى كلّ الأجهزة

من الإشكالات الواقعية ضعف الاتصال بالإنترنت أو انقطاعه في بعض الأحيان. ولذلك خصّصت المنصّة صفحة لـالاستعمال دون إنترنت. وهي تعمل على الهاتف والحاسوب معًا، ما يجعلها في متناول أغلب الأسر، إذ يكفي هاتف ذكي ليبدأ التلميذ.

مجانية خلال فترة الإطلاق

تعلن المنصّة أنّها مجانية خلال فترة الإطلاق، وتشمل المجانية الدروس والتمارين والامتحانات والمواضيع النموذجية، مع حفظ تقدّم الطفل في حساب مجاني، ومن دون بطاقة بنكية. ويمكن للتلميذ أن يبدأ التعلّم من دون تسجيل، ثمّ ينشئ حسابًا لحفظ نتائجه. وللاطّلاع على التفاصيل المحدّثة، تحيل المنصّة إلى صفحة الاشتراكات.

كيف تستفيد من المنصّة؟ نصائح عملية ابدأ مبكّرًا. خطّة المراجعة تمتدّ من سبتمبر إلى جوان، فلا تنتظر الثلاثي الأخير. اتّبع تسلسل الدروس. يبدأ التلميذ من الدرس ثمّ يتدرّب على تمارينه قبل الانتقال إلى الذي يليه. تعلّم من أخطائك. اقرأ شرح التصحيح بعناية، فهو أهمّ من العدد نفسه. تدرّب بالتوقيت. خصّص حصّة أسبوعية لمناظرة تجريبية في ظروف الامتحان. استعن بالملخّصات في الأيام الأخيرة. هي للمراجعة السريعة لا للتعلّم من الصفر. أشرك الوليّ. يستعمل الوليّ لوحة المتابعة لتوجيه الجهد نحو المواد الأضعف. نظرة إلى المستقبل

تؤكّد سكولار أنّ مستويات أخرى ستُضاف قريبًا، وهو ما يعني أنّ المنصّة تنوي النموّ لتغطّي مراحل أوسع من التعليم الابتدائي والإعدادي. وإلى حين ذلك، يمكن لأولياء التلاميذ في بقيّة المستويات تسجيل بريدهم ليكونوا أوّل من يعلم.

خاتمة

تجمع سكولار Scolaire.tn بين ما يحتاجه التلميذ من دروس وتمارين وامتحانات، وما يحتاجه الوليّ من خطّة ومتابعة، وما يحتاجه المربّي من أدوات تنظيم. وهي تفعل ذلك بالعربية، وعلى وفق البرنامج الرسمي التونسي، وبروح عملية تضع المناظرتين الوطنيّتين نصب عينيها.

وليس في أيّ منصّة رقمية بديلٌ عن جهد التلميذ ودعم أسرته ومعلّميه، لكنّ الأداة الجيّدة تختصر الطريق وتوضّح الرؤية. فمن كان له طفل في السادسة أو التاسعة، فإنّ زيارة المنصّة وتجربة تمرين أو مناظرة تجريبية على https://scolaire.tn/ لا تكلّف شيئًا خلال فترة الإطلاق، وقد تغيّر طريقة استعدادهم للمناظرة.

Publicat la 11 noiembrie 2017

Pentru mine era o zi oarecare. Așteptam un coleg în apropierea recepției unui hotel, a cărui intrare dădea într-o stradă în pantă (dar câte străzi orizontale sunt în Lausanne?). Era o oră la care cei mai mulți își începuseră deja ziua, așa că atmosfera era de-a dreptul liniștită. Poate prea liniștită!

Mobilierul și amenajarea spațiului de la intrare mă duceau cu gândul la decorurile filmelor din anii ’70. Îmi amintesc că acțiunea din Love and Bullets se desfășoară în Elveția.

Numai că filmele acelea aveau parte de multă acțiune. Așadar, la recepția hotelului aveam câteva elemente care păreau gata să intre în coliziune. Era nevoie doar de un declanșator, iar acesta nu a întârziat să apară.

Ziua aceea de toamnă părea desprinsă din L’été indien, cântecul lui Joe Dassin.

Le Jardin Botanique, aflat în apropiere, părea să-și reverse culorile pastelate prin ferestrele hotelului.




Colegul întârzia să apară. Ceva părea să-l rețină, dar, cum problema pe care o aveam de rezolvat împreună putea suferi o amânare, nu l-am deranjat nici măcar cu un telefon.

Deodată, ușa de la intrare se deschise brusc. Un cuplu încărcat de bagaje își făcu apariția, spulberând liniștea de până atunci. Intrarea lor lăsa impresia că afară era viscol și că abia așteptaseră să găsească un loc călduros în care să se adăpostească.

— Guten Tag! au salutat ei, închizând ușa în urma lor.

— Bonjour! le-a răspuns amabil recepționerul.

Și-au așezat ordonat bagajele într-un colț, după care s-au adresat din nou recepționerului, de data aceasta parcă mai liniștiți. Felul în care vorbeau și puținele cuvinte germane pe care le știam m-au făcut să înțeleg că doreau o cameră dublă.

Recepționerul, amabil și zâmbitor, le-a răspuns în franceză că nu vorbește germana. Cei doi au încremenit pentru o clipă. Privirile lor păreau să întrebe: „Cum adică, în Elveția și nu vorbești germana?”


Combinația de monologuri, incapabile să se transforme într-un dialog din pricina barierei lingvistice, m-a făcut să presupun că turiștii erau nedumeriți: se aflau în propria țară și nu se puteau caza pentru că un concetățean de-al lor nu le vorbea limba. O limbă națională, de altfel. Recepționerul, la rândul său, părea nedumerit de indignarea lor, întrucât vorbea una dintre limbile naționale ale aceleiași țări, într-un canton ai cărui locuitori vorbesc în majoritate, asemenea lui, franceza.

Probabil că tânărul recepționer nu-și pusese niciodată problema învățării unei limbi atât de greu de învățat precum germana. Cu siguranță știa engleza și, poate, italiana.

Dar turiștii continuau să i se adreseze indignați în germană. Problema nu mai era cazarea, ci dreptul de a folosi, într-un canton francofon, una dintre limbile naționale ale Elveției: germana, cea mai răspândită dintre ele.

Nu ridicau glasul, dar se simțea cum atmosfera din jurul recepției se întuneca, de parcă afară s-ar fi înnourat cu repeziciune. Norii negri din interior așteptau parcă o descărcare electrică.

Afară era plăcut. Soarele lumina cald strada și clădirile de vizavi. Mașinile circulau lent și prudent, de parcă toate ar fi ajuns deja la destinație, iar curtea în care urmau să intre era vecină cu hotelul…



Cum s-o fi terminat întâmplarea nu știu, pentru că între timp a apărut colegul și am plecat spre Ouchy.


Un lucru mi-a rămas însă clar: recepționerul, în ciuda amabilității și disponibilității pe care le presupunea postul său, nu avea nici cea mai mică dorință de a încerca măcar să se înțeleagă cu cei doi turiști vorbitori de germană.

În general, când o astfel de barieră coboară, există soluții cinetice: datul din mâini. Dar probabil că această soluție era nedemnă de sobrietatea și rigoarea germană.

Nu știu… sângele meu are altă compoziție.

FICTIONAL WHAT IF: Part II- What if Chuck McGill believed in his brother and supported him?

A Counterfactual History of the McGill Brothers, 2001–2012

In this alternate timeline, one decision changes the course of two brothers' lives, a prestigious Albuquerque law firm, and eventually the largest methamphetamine operation in the American Southwest. The divergence is simple: when Jimmy McGill passes the New Mexico bar examination, Chuck McGill decides that his brother deserves a chance.

Part I: The Younger McGill (2001–2002)

When Jimmy McGill walked into his older brother's office with the news that he had passed the bar examination, Charles McGill was astonished. The younger brother he had spent much of his life rescuing from his own mistakes had accomplished something Chuck had never seriously believed possible. Jimmy had earned his law degree through correspondence courses, studying at night while working in the mailroom at Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill. His education lacked the prestige of Chuck's Georgetown credentials, and his academic record was hardly remarkable, but he had nevertheless passed the same licensing examination as every other attorney in New Mexico. In another life, Chuck would have viewed Jimmy's accomplishment as an affront to the profession he revered. In this one, he saw something else: evidence that the brother he had nearly given up on was genuinely trying to become a better man. Chuck congratulated Jimmy. He shook his hand, then embraced him. More importantly, when Jimmy asked whether there might be a place for him at HHM, Chuck said yes. The decision was not without controversy. Howard Hamlin was enthusiastic, having known Jimmy for years and developed a genuine affection for him, but several senior attorneys questioned whether the firm ought to hire someone whose legal education came from the University of American Samoa. Chuck answered their objections himself. Jimmy would start as a junior associate, receive the same supervision as any other inexperienced attorney, and advance on merit. Chuck would personally oversee his early development. For Jimmy, the significance was almost impossible to exaggerate. He had spent years believing that the legal profession might offer him a way to escape the identity of Slippin' Jimmy, the small-time con artist from Cicero. Chuck's acceptance was the first convincing evidence that his transformation might actually be recognized.

The first two years were difficult. Jimmy lacked the technical sophistication of his colleagues, and his casual approach to professional etiquette occasionally horrified Chuck. He improvised in depositions, made jokes during meetings, and occasionally attempted to negotiate matters that other attorneys considered settled. Yet he also demonstrated an extraordinary ability to connect with clients, particularly those who found the legal system intimidating. Chuck discovered that while Jimmy would probably never become the sort of attorney he himself was, that did not mean Jimmy could not become an excellent one. Their disagreements were frequent, sometimes furious, but they developed a new pattern. Chuck criticized Jimmy's methods rather than his character. Jimmy, for his part, began to distinguish between being corrected and being rejected. It was a small distinction with enormous consequences.

Part II: The Brothers McGill (2003–2005)

By 2003, Jimmy had developed a modest but promising practice representing elderly clients, small businesses, and victims of consumer fraud. He was particularly effective in cases where sympathetic plaintiffs faced large, impersonal institutions. His colleagues occasionally complained that Jimmy seemed to treat litigation as a theatrical performance, but the results were difficult to dispute. Chuck remained concerned about Jimmy's appetite for shortcuts. On one occasion, Jimmy arranged an unusually aggressive publicity campaign for a group of elderly plaintiffs without obtaining the necessary internal approvals. Chuck reprimanded him sharply, insisting that good intentions did not justify ignoring professional obligations. Jimmy responded with his characteristic mixture of indignation and elaborate rationalization. Their argument lasted nearly an hour. Nevertheless, when the matter reached Howard, Chuck defended Jimmy's underlying judgment while acknowledging his procedural mistakes. Jimmy received a formal warning rather than a dismissal. More importantly, he was allowed to continue working on the case. The episode became an important turning point. Jimmy was beginning to understand that he could make mistakes without losing the respect of the people whose opinions mattered most to him.

His relationship with Kim Wexler developed alongside his professional career. The two had known each other since their mailroom days, but now they were colleagues pursuing increasingly complementary specialties. Kim possessed the discipline, precision, and technical knowledge that Jimmy sometimes lacked. Jimmy brought intuition, creativity, and an ability to persuade people who would never be moved by a carefully constructed legal memorandum. Their relationship became romantic in 2003. Unlike the volatile partnership that might otherwise have developed between them, this relationship was built around shared ambitions rather than shared grievances. They still occasionally enjoyed exploiting the pretensions of arrogant businessmen, and Kim was not entirely immune to the thrill of Jimmy's elaborate schemes. But their professional lives did not require them to maintain a private world of dishonesty against an otherwise hostile establishment. In 2004, Jimmy encountered a potentially significant case involving systematic overbilling at Sandpiper Crossing, a retirement-home operator. His initial investigation suggested that hundreds of elderly residents might have been charged for services and supplies they had never received. Rather than conceal evidence or take extraordinary measures to secure the case, Jimmy brought his findings to Chuck. Chuck was impressed. The brothers spent several evenings examining financial records, reconstructing billing practices, and developing a theory of liability. It was the first major legal project on which they worked as genuine collaborators.

When HHM filed suit, Jimmy was given a prominent role alongside more experienced litigators. Howard recognized that Jimmy's relationship with the residents would prove invaluable, while Chuck supplied the technical expertise necessary to transform a collection of billing complaints into a potentially enormous class action. The lawsuit strengthened HHM's reputation and provided Jimmy with the financial security he had spent his adult life chasing. It also began to transform his standing within the firm. He was no longer merely Chuck McGill's younger brother. He was an attorney with a growing practice and a distinctive professional identity. Chuck, despite occasional flashes of jealousy, found that he was proud of him.

Part III: The Decline of Charles McGill (2005–2007)

Chuck's electromagnetic hypersensitivity did not disappear in this timeline. His deteriorating relationship with Rebecca, obsessive tendencies, and increasingly rigid need for control remained features of his life. By the middle of the decade, he was struggling to maintain his professional responsibilities, retreating periodically into his darkened home and avoiding electrical equipment. The difference was how those around him responded. Jimmy, who had become increasingly confident in his own professional abilities, no longer regarded Chuck's illness as another obstacle in a lifelong effort to win his brother's approval. He loved Chuck, and Chuck loved him. That much was no longer in dispute. When Chuck's condition worsened, Jimmy encouraged him to seek medical and psychological treatment. Chuck resisted, sometimes angrily, but he eventually agreed to consult specialists. His recovery was uneven, and he continued to experience periods of debilitating symptoms. Nevertheless, he gradually accepted that his illness could be managed without abandoning his professional or personal life. Howard was relieved. Without a bitter conflict between the brothers threatening to engulf HHM, Chuck's medical difficulties remained a private challenge rather than an existential crisis for the partnership.

During this period, Jimmy began considering a departure from HHM. He had developed an appetite for smaller cases and direct client representation that did not always align with the firm's priorities. Kim, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly frustrated by corporate clients and increasingly interested in representing people who could not afford conventional legal services. In 2007, the two announced their intention to establish their own practice. Chuck was disappointed, though he did not attempt to stop them. He helped Jimmy review the partnership agreement and offered advice about financing. Howard arranged for HHM to refer certain smaller cases to the new firm. Wexler & McGill opened later that year, specializing in elder law, consumer litigation, and selected criminal-defense work. At the opening reception, Chuck gave a brief speech about the importance of professional responsibility. Jimmy interrupted twice with jokes. Howard laughed. Kim rolled her eyes. It was a remarkably ordinary evening. And that, perhaps, was the greatest difference between the two timelines.

Part IV: The Criminal Underworld (2002–2008)

The effects of Jimmy's professional success extended well beyond Albuquerque's legal community. Because Jimmy had never been forced to establish a struggling solo practice, he never staged the elaborate scheme involving the Kettleman family that originally brought him into contact with Tuco Salamanca. He never met Nacho Varga, never became involved in Salamanca family business, and never acquired a reputation as an attorney willing to bend the law for dangerous clients. Mike Ehrmantraut's life followed a somewhat different path as well. Although his connection to Gus Fring developed independently of Jimmy, the two men never formed their unusual professional friendship. Mike retained his distrust of attorneys and preferred to handle his problems without involving outsiders. The most significant divergence concerned Lalo Salamanca. Without Jimmy to arrange his release and retrieve his enormous cash bail payment, Lalo faced much greater difficulty escaping the New Mexico criminal justice system. Gus consequently confronted a somewhat different and potentially more dangerous set of problems, but the long-term conflict between Fring and the Salamanca family remained. By 2008, Gus was positioned to consolidate his drug empire. Gale Boetticher was available to operate the superlab, and Gus had little reason to seek a more talented but unpredictable chemist. His eventual campaign against Don Eladio and the Salamancas proceeded without Walter White's interference. Gus's prospects for surviving and expanding his organization were consequently substantially better.

Part V: The Rise and Fall of Walter White (2008–2009)

In September 2008, Walter White received his terminal lung cancer diagnosis. His decision to manufacture methamphetamine was unaffected by the distant professional fortunes of the McGill family. He was still a frustrated high-school chemistry teacher, still resentful of his perceived failures, and still determined to leave money for his family. He contacted Jesse Pinkman, purchased an aging recreational vehicle, and began manufacturing unusually pure methamphetamine. Their early encounters with Emilio, Krazy-8, and Tuco unfolded much as they did in the original timeline. Walt killed two men, narrowly escaped another violent confrontation, and increasingly convinced himself that he possessed a natural aptitude for organized crime. For several months, his operation expanded. But Walt had neither the experience nor the infrastructure to sustain it. His distribution network depended on inexperienced street dealers, his relationships with Jesse and his associates were unstable, and his methods attracted the attention of the DEA. The critical moment came when Brandon Mayhew, better known as Badger, was arrested while selling methamphetamine to an undercover officer. In the original timeline, Badger's arrest introduced Walt and Jesse to Saul Goodman, a flamboyant criminal attorney who possessed precisely the combination of legal knowledge, flexible ethics, and criminal connections they needed. Saul devised an elaborate strategy to protect Badger's suppliers, arranged for a substitute suspect to accept responsibility for the Heisenberg operation, and subsequently introduced Walt to the network that made his criminal empire possible. In this timeline, Saul Goodman did not exist.

Badger was represented by an ordinary criminal-defense attorney, who advised him to cooperate with prosecutors in exchange for a reduced sentence. The resulting investigation identified Jesse as a significant figure in Albuquerque's emerging methamphetamine trade. Walter initially believed he could distance himself from Jesse. He underestimated both his former student's vulnerability and the DEA's growing interest in the unusual purity of the methamphetamine appearing on Albuquerque streets. By the spring of 2009, Jesse was facing serious federal charges. Confronted with the possibility of a lengthy prison sentence, he agreed to cooperate. His testimony, combined with financial records, telephone evidence, and forensic analysis of the manufacturing operation, established Walter's involvement. Walter White was arrested. The arrest devastated his family. Skyler, who had become increasingly suspicious of her husband's unexplained absences and erratic behavior, learned that he had been manufacturing methamphetamine for months. Hank Schrader was particularly shaken by the discovery that the elusive Heisenberg was his own brother-in-law. Walt attempted to justify his actions as an effort to provide for his family. But without the vast sums he would later earn through Gus Fring, the argument was considerably less persuasive. The relatively modest amount of money he had accumulated could not possibly compensate for the damage he had caused.

Faced with overwhelming evidence and declining health, Walt eventually accepted a plea agreement. He died of cancer in federal custody, with his reputation destroyed but without becoming one of the most consequential figures in the American narcotics trade. Jesse received a reduced sentence in exchange for his cooperation. His future remained uncertain, but he escaped the horrors that would otherwise have defined the remainder of his relationship with Walter White. Hank Schrader continued his career with the DEA. His marriage survived, and he never discovered how close his family had come to destruction. There was no massacre of federal agents in the desert, no neo-Nazi takeover of a methamphetamine empire, and no final confrontation at a remote compound. Walter White's criminal career ended not with a spectacular act of violence, but with the comparatively ordinary consequences of an inexperienced criminal attracting the attention of federal law enforcement.

Part VI: Wexler & McGill (2009–2011)

Back in Albuquerque, Jimmy McGill watched the Heisenberg case unfold with considerable interest. He recognized Walter White as precisely the sort of defendant who might once have attracted his attention: an intelligent, desperate man who had convinced himself that extraordinary circumstances justified increasingly outrageous behavior. Jimmy occasionally wondered whether he could have negotiated a better outcome for White, though Kim was quick to remind him that there were limits to what any attorney could accomplish. By this point, Wexler & McGill had become a successful small firm. Jimmy maintained a thriving practice representing elderly clients and pursuing consumer-fraud litigation, while Kim devoted an increasing portion of her time to indigent criminal defendants. Their finances were sometimes strained by Kim's commitment to low-paying cases, but Jimmy's lucrative civil practice generally compensated. They argued about money, scheduling, clients, and occasionally Jimmy's tendency to promise more than he could deliver. But their disagreements rarely threatened the relationship itself. Kim was particularly pleased that Jimmy had resisted the temptation to turn his professional persona into a commercial spectacle. He still enjoyed advertising and occasionally proposed absurd promotional campaigns, but he had developed a reputation strong enough to generate referrals without resorting to the kind of questionable tactics he once found irresistible.

Meanwhile, Howard Hamlin had assumed greater responsibility for HHM as Chuck gradually reduced his workload. The transition was occasionally difficult. Chuck did not surrender authority gracefully, and Howard found himself increasingly frustrated by the older man's insistence on reviewing decisions that properly belonged to the managing partners. Nevertheless, the firm remained prosperous. Its involvement in the Sandpiper litigation had generated substantial fees, and its established corporate practice continued to provide a stable financial foundation. Chuck eventually accepted a semi-retired position as senior counsel. He continued teaching occasional continuing-legal-education seminars and remained an influential figure in Albuquerque's legal community. His relationship with Jimmy became, for the first time in their lives, something approaching friendship. The brothers still disagreed constantly. Chuck found Jimmy's humor exhausting, while Jimmy considered Chuck's reverence for legal tradition unnecessarily solemn. But their disagreements no longer carried the accumulated weight of decades of humiliation and resentment. On Sundays, Jimmy and Kim sometimes visited Chuck for dinner. Chuck generally insisted on selecting the restaurant. Jimmy generally complained about it. Neither considered the arrangement particularly remarkable.

Part VII: The Life Not Lived (2012)

By 2012, Jimmy McGill was a successful attorney in his early fifties. He was neither wealthy enough to retire nor prominent enough to become a household name, but he enjoyed a comfortable life with Kim and had accumulated something he had once considered almost unattainable: professional respectability. He still occasionally missed the excitement of his earlier life. There were moments when he caught himself imagining elaborate ways to embarrass an arrogant opposing counsel or manipulate an inconvenient witness. He remained extraordinarily good at identifying weaknesses in people and institutions, and he had never entirely lost the thrill that came from exploiting them. But he had learned that possessing a talent did not require exercising it whenever an opportunity presented itself. Kim occasionally worried that Jimmy was suppressing a part of himself, but she also recognized that he was happier than he had been in the years when he had constantly struggled for recognition. Their relationship contained plenty of excitement without requiring the destruction of other people's lives.

Chuck remained an important presence in their lives. His health continued to fluctuate, and he had grown increasingly conscious of his limitations, but he was still intellectually formidable. Jimmy occasionally sought his advice on difficult cases, and Chuck delighted in providing it, even when Jimmy complained that a simple question had become a ninety-minute lecture. Howard remained the managing partner of HHM, and the firm continued to occupy an important place in Albuquerque's legal establishment. The professional relationships among the three men were occasionally complicated, but they were sustained by mutual affection and respect. One evening, after Jimmy successfully concluded a difficult consumer-fraud case, he invited Chuck to dinner. Kim had secured a substantial settlement for a wrongfully accused client earlier that week, and the couple wanted to celebrate. Chuck arrived with an expensive bottle of wine. During dinner, Jimmy recounted how he had persuaded an initially hostile opposing attorney to negotiate a settlement by discovering that the man's client had made contradictory statements in several earlier proceedings. Chuck listened carefully, occasionally interjecting questions about the evidentiary basis for Jimmy's claims. Eventually, Jimmy became exasperated. “Jesus, Chuck. You know, you could just say 'good job' once in a while.” Chuck considered this before replying, “Good job, Jimmy.” Jimmy grinned. “Was that so hard?” Chuck smiled and shook his head. “No. I suppose it wasn't.”

Later that evening, after Chuck had returned home, Jimmy received a telephone call from an unfamiliar number. The caller identified himself as a businessman in need of an attorney who could handle a delicate legal problem. He had been told that Jimmy possessed a reputation for finding creative solutions. Jimmy listened for several minutes. The man's story involved significant sums of money, questionable business dealings, and an obvious willingness to pay handsomely for discretion. There was a time when Jimmy would have considered the opportunity irresistible. Instead, he politely explained that his firm did not handle matters of that nature and recommended another attorney. When he hung up, Kim looked up from her book. “Who was that?” she asked. “Nobody important,” Jimmy answered. She raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Jimmy smiled. “Really.” And that was the end of it.

Epilogue: The Man Who Never Existed

In the original timeline, Jimmy McGill's transformation into Saul Goodman destroyed almost everything he valued. His marriage collapsed, his brother died by suicide, Howard Hamlin was murdered, and Jimmy eventually became an indispensable participant in Walter White's criminal enterprise. His extraordinary talent for persuasion and improvisation, which might have made him a remarkable attorney, instead helped sustain an organization responsible for tremendous suffering. In this alternate timeline, those talents found a legitimate outlet. Chuck never entirely overcame his pride, rigidity, or occasional resentment of Jimmy's natural charisma. Jimmy never entirely overcame his impulsiveness, his appetite for shortcuts, or his instinctive distrust of authority. Neither brother became a fundamentally different human being. What changed was their relationship. By believing in Jimmy's capacity for growth, Chuck gave him something he had spent his entire life seeking: an identity that was not defined by his worst mistakes. And by accepting Jimmy as a legitimate member of the legal profession, Chuck escaped the increasingly desperate campaign to expose his brother as an irredeemable fraud.

The consequences reached people neither brother ever met. Howard Hamlin lived. Kim Wexler continued practicing law without abandoning her career. Mike Ehrmantraut avoided becoming Walter White's adversary. Hank Schrader survived the Heisenberg investigation. Jesse Pinkman never became a prisoner of Jack Welker's gang. Walter White died without building a drug empire. The criminal underworld survived, of course. Gus Fring continued his operations, and the drug trade continued to ruin lives. Chuck's kindness did not save Albuquerque from organized crime. But the particular chain of destruction that connected a small-time Chicago con artist to one of the most violent criminal enterprises in the Southwest never materialized. The most important thing Chuck McGill ever did in this timeline was not win a case, establish a prestigious law firm, or defeat a formidable opponent. It was recognizing that his younger brother was capable of becoming someone better than the person he used to be. And somewhere in Albuquerque, an aging attorney named Jimmy McGill continued practicing law, occasionally bending a rule, frequently telling terrible jokes, and going home each night to the woman he loved.

Nobody ever called him Saul Goodman. And nobody ever needed to.

Chapter 1: The Fear of Hoping Again

The lamp above the kitchen table was the only light still on. A woman had opened a notebook to write down what she wanted to pray about, but her pen had stopped after four words: “Lord, I am hoping.” She sat with those words for a while, then shut the notebook. The last time she had prayed for something with her whole heart, life had gone in a very different direction. She still believed in Jesus. What frightened her was allowing herself to want something again.

There is a kind of fear that does not send us running. It makes us careful about what we expect. We learn to say that we are fine either way, even when we are not. We avoid naming what matters because naming it would mean admitting that we could be disappointed. I speak more broadly about courage in my video about fear and trusting Jesus Christ, but I want to stay close to this quieter struggle here: the fear of hoping when experience has taught us how much hope can cost.

If you recognize that feeling, finding faith when prayers seem unanswered may be a familiar part of your story. Perhaps you asked God to mend something that remained broken, or waited for news that never came. Someone may have tried to help by telling you to have more faith. Yet you were already praying as sincerely as you knew how. The hardest part was not finding the right words. It was facing another morning with the same question.

I think we need to be careful about the way we talk to people who are afraid to hope. We can make them feel as though their hesitation is a spiritual defect. But Jesus never needed people to present a spotless inner life before He would walk beside them. He met people who were confused, grieving, and unsure what to believe about the future.

In Luke 24, two disciples walked toward Emmaus after Jesus had been crucified. They spoke of what had happened, and when Jesus joined them, they did not recognize Him. One of them said, “We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel.” Those words have stayed with me because they sound like what a disappointed person says when the thing they believed in seems to have ended. They had hoped. Now they did not know what to do with that hope.

Jesus listened and walked with them before they understood who was beside them. He did not begin by making them pretend the past few days had been easy. I cannot promise that your prayer will receive the answer you want. But you do not have to hide the fact that you still want something good. You can open the notebook again and tell Jesus the truth, even if all you can manage tonight is an unfinished sentence.

Chapter 2: The Small Hope We Are Tempted to Refuse

The invitation was tucked under a magnet shaped like a lemon. A woman who once ran a small bakery had been asked to teach a Saturday cooking class at the community center. Her shop had closed two years earlier, and she still felt embarrassed when someone mentioned it. Teaching sounded pleasant until she pictured standing in front of people who might remember that she had failed. She left the invitation on the refrigerator because saying no felt easier than admitting she wanted to say yes.

I understand why we do this. After something important falls apart, we can begin to treat desire itself as dangerous. We tell ourselves that being realistic means expecting very little. If we never let ourselves look forward to anything, perhaps disappointment will not find us again. But that bargain has a cost. We may avoid one kind of pain by quietly refusing the ordinary gifts that are still within reach.

The woman was not being asked to reopen her bakery. She was being invited to spend two hours teaching people how to make bread. Her past deserved an honest look, including the decisions she wished she had made differently. It did not have to decide whether her hands could still do something useful.

I think of the way Jesus spoke to Martha after her brother Lazarus died. In John 11, Martha met Him with grief and a hard truth: if He had been there, she believed, her brother would not have died. Jesus did not demand that she pretend the loss was small. Their conversation made room for both sorrow and belief. Later in the same account, Jesus wept. His love did not require Him to stand at a distance from human pain.

That story includes a miracle that we cannot turn into a promise about every circumstance. We are not told that everything we lose will be restored to us in this life. What I take from the encounter is that Jesus does not ask us to stop caring in order to trust Him. He meets people whose love has made them vulnerable, and He remains present when they tell Him exactly where it hurts.

The woman took the invitation down and called the community center. She asked how many people would attend and whether she could prepare the dough ahead of time. Those were reasonable questions, not signs of weak faith. She did not have to convince herself that the class would change her life. She only had to decide whether this one invitation was worth accepting.

Perhaps your next hopeful act is equally modest. You may not be ready to make a great declaration about what God will do. You can still let yourself care about one good possibility without demanding certainty in return. There is room in a faithful life for cautious hands, a trembling voice, and a quiet yes.

Chapter 3: The Gentle Courage of Trusting Again

The school auditorium was already filling when a father found a seat near the back. He held the folded program in his hands and searched for his daughter's name. She had spent much of the past year struggling to find her confidence again. There had been difficult mornings, canceled plans, and conversations that ended with both of them feeling helpless. Tonight, she had decided to sing with the school choir. He was proud of her, but he was also frightened of getting too excited. He knew how quickly a good day could be followed by a difficult one.

Sometimes we become afraid of happiness because we have learned that happiness can be interrupted. We hesitate to enjoy a good moment because we are already thinking about how much it will hurt if things change. We tell ourselves we are being sensible, but we may actually be allowing yesterday's disappointment to take something away from today.

I think this is one of the quiet places where Jesus invites us to grow. He does not ask us to deny what we have experienced. He understands the difference between a heart that has become cautious and one that has stopped caring. What He offers is a relationship strong enough to hold our uncertainty without requiring us to know how everything will end.

In Matthew 26, Jesus prayed in the garden before His arrest. He knew suffering was coming, and He openly expressed His desire that the cup might pass from Him. Yet He also surrendered Himself to the Father's will. That prayer shows us something important about trust. We can want a particular outcome while recognizing that our relationship with God is not dependent on getting everything we ask for.

There is freedom in learning to pray that way. We can tell Jesus what we hope will happen without pretending we have received a guarantee. We can ask for healing, reconciliation, opportunity, and peace while remaining honest about the uncertainty in front of us. Surrender does not require us to stop wanting good things. It means allowing God to remain God, even when we cannot understand the direction our lives are taking.

When the choir began singing, the father found his daughter among the students. She looked nervous, but she was there. He did not know what the coming months would bring. He knew only that she had found enough courage to stand before an audience that evening. Rather than spending the performance worrying about whether her progress would last, he allowed himself to enjoy hearing her voice.

Perhaps that is something you can give yourself permission to do today. You can appreciate what is good without making promises about tomorrow. You can remain careful where caution is necessary without treating every hopeful moment as a danger. And when you pray, you can bring Jesus the desires you have been afraid to name.

Your heart does not need another guarantee before it is allowed to be grateful. You have already lived through things you never expected, and you may still carry questions that have no easy answers. But those experiences do not mean you must spend the rest of your life protecting yourself from every possibility of disappointment.

Jesus is worthy of your trust even when the future remains unclear. So when something good appears in your life, you do not have to turn away from it simply because you remember what happened before. Receive the moment with gratitude, hold it gently, and allow yourself to hope again.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Another satirical view on today’s social media culture – 🎃

BEFORE – 🎃

AFTER – 🎃

C’est que je n’ai plus de temps.

J’ai terminé de travailler à 22h30. Alors que je m’étais donné comme règle de m’arrêter à 21h quoi qu’il arrive.

Ce qui me rend triste, c’est de ne plus pouvoir lire. Je priorise le sport. Ma santé. Mais la lecture, c’est mon air frais. C’est ce qui m’ouvre à l’ailleurs, au beau, à ce qui m’inspire profondément.

On va dire que c’est passager. Mes livres m’attendent.

J’ai hâte de lire les correspondances de Camus.

Je lis quelque minutes ses carnets quand j’ai un moment le soir. Et j’adore cette idée de pensées fragmentées. C’est un peu ce que je fais là. Un carnet.

Construire ce carnet m’apporte une certaine joie.

Je me rends compte que je n’écris pas comme je parle. Est-ce un problème ? Je ne sais pas. Mais j’aime apporter un beau rythme, de beaux mots. Je ne suis pas sûr de réussir à le faire mais essayer, déjà, est une forme de réussite et de contentement.

Ghosts in Grey & Flying down the road

Dreams, those slippery nocturnal messengers, have long haunted my sleep with two persistent visitors. Are they revelations from the subconscious, harbingers of unresolved strife, or merely the brain’s fanciful recycling of old neural pathways? In my case, they pull me back to the soil of South Africa, its schools, its roads, its half-remembered heartaches, with a fidelity that startles me awake, heart pounding, fully immersed.

The Grey College Reckoning

The first dream begins with a bureaucratic absurdity: I’m summoned back to Grey College in Bloemfontein, not as the pimply adolescent I was, but as the silver-haired man I am now. There I stand in the quad, absurdly clad in those iconic grey pants and striped blazer, the uniform that once chafed my teenage rebellion. “Redo Standard 6,” the decree comes, “and every year after. Improve those marks.” Principals Heyns & Volsteedt, stern figures from memory, greet me without batting an eye, as if geriatric pupils are commonplace. Classes unfold: I still love algebra, history recycles its dates, Afrikaans conjugations tangle like barbed wire. I pour effort into it, but the report cards arrive unchanged. Good but not brilliant like Jan von Delft.

Heyns fires our Maths teacher Truana & Hansie from Smithfield becomes our Maths teacher. He teaches us all we know including instructing Jan.

Yet here’s the dream’s quiet mercy, its subconscious sleight of hand: I never skid off my Western Flyer bicycle into that gravelly oblivion, the crash that left me bloodied & humbled. No bone-crunching rugby tackle snaps my leg mid-scrum, that agony that sidelined me for months. Those traumas, etched in real-life scar tissue, are mercifully excised.

And the girls, ah, the fleeting sirens of youth, parade through like cameo players in a faded film. Elaine Stewart, with her knowing smile; Stephanie Morgan, elusive and electric; the drama queen from Eunice High, a voluptuous ringer for Sophia Loren whose name dances just beyond recall; and that sweet, homely meisie from Van Oranje, a Van Rooyen girl whose plain virtues shone brighter than any spotlight.

What do the dream-weavers say of this? Recurring school dreams, especially as an adult fumbling through failure, are among the most universal, echoes of anxiety, a nagging fear of inadequacy or unpreparedness in life’s endless “exams.” Psychologists link them to self-doubt, unresolved pressures from youth, or even current stresses masquerading as old report cards. The inability to improve marks? A poignant symbol that the past defies revision, no amount of adult wisdom can rewrite a boy’s transcript. But the avoidance of trauma? That’s wish fulfillment at work, the mind’s gentle therapy: re-entering the arena safely, healing old wounds by omission. These dreams remind me I’ve come far, yet some part of me still seeks an elusive gold star.

The Low-Flying Jet Odyssey

The second dream shifts to the skies, or barely above them. I’m aboard a colossal jetliner, vast as a 747, yet hugging the earth at treetop height, no more than a few meters clearance. We don’t soar; we *skim*, in exquisite slow motion, over roads I could navigate blindfolded. First, the New Hanover Road unspools north from Greytown, that sentinel tree standing eternal vigil at the bend. Then the N1 into Bloemfontein, the wind-bent gums bowing us welcome. The road to Stellenbosch unfurls its first gentle curve, Papegaaiberg’s hulking silhouette rising like a faithful hound. On to Durban’s coastal ribbon, salt air almost tangible. Every pothole, every wild fig tree tree, every sign rendered in photographic perfection, hyper-real, as if my mind’s archived high quality surveillance footage.

Notably absent: the road to Johannesburg. That concrete vein to the City of Gold never appears, as if my psyche draws an invisible no-fly zone.

Dream lore paints flying as liberation, freedom, ambition, transcending earthly tethers. But in a plane, low and road-bound? It’s control with a catch: life’s journey on familiar tracks, ambitions grounded in reality, teetering on the edge of peril yet masterfully steady. The slow-motion clarity screams nostalgia, a meditative revisit to memory’s highways, roads symbolizing personal trajectories, transitions navigated with precision. Avoiding Joburg? Perhaps my inner pilot shuns the chaos of that metropolis, the grind of big-city striving, favoring the intimate contours of heartland and haven.

Echoes & Enigmas

These twin reveries bookend some of my nights, the school dream a backward tug to youth’s judgments, the jet a forward glide over life’s mapped miles. Together, they whisper of a man at peace with imperfection, unable to ace the past, yet soaring low and sure over its remnants. Freud might call them repressed desires; Jung, archetypes of the shadow self. I prefer to see them as grace notes in my story: proof that even in sleep, I’m still pedaling those Bloem roads, still scanning horizons for the next bend. And if they recur? I’ll welcome them, old pilots of the psyche, for in their clarity lies the truest map of me.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Poetry by Roald Bartholomew

Far from the clamor of cities, in rural Natal, our connection to the wider world hinged on a simple metal rectangle: P.O. Box 2, New Hanover 3440. A postal box. Our farm lay 15 kilometers outside that one-donkey town, a speck on the map so modest it couldn’t even afford a horse. New Hanover was the kind of place where time moved at the pace of a lazy pofadder in the sun, & the post office stood as its unassuming magical wormhole to elsewhere.

The box itself was one among a hundred, slotted into a steel grid embedded in the wall on the stoep of the red-brick post office building. You’d find it just across the single-lane bridge over the Sterkspruit, right beside the New Hanover Hotel, where locals might gather for a pint or a yarn on slow afternoons, which were most of them. Stepping inside the post office was like entering a bygone era. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of brown paper parcels & coils of brown hessian string, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of old-fashioned sticky glue. On the worn wooden counter sat a reel of Scotch tape in a hefty metal dispenser, its weight a testament to things built to last.

Back then, correspondence was an art, not a haste. We’d sit at the dining room table on the farm, pulling out a blue or yellow Croxley writing pad, and take up a Parker or Schaeffer pen. For fancy pants letters, the ones carrying heartfelt news or formal invitations—we’d uncap a fountain pen, fill it from a bottle of ink, and let the words flow with deliberate strokes. There was no autocorrect, no instant send; each letter was crafted, pondered over, sealed with care. Licked by your tongue on the envelope. You couldn’t rush the post, it demanded patience, and in return, it wove threads of anticipation into our days. A reply might take weeks, but when it arrived in that humble box, it felt like a small miracle, bridging the isolation of our rural life with the voices of distant friends & family.

At Grey my mom would post me letters from the farm and include R10 notes which would be tuck money. A coke & a doughnut would be weeks in the planning and dependent on a letter coming through the post.

Oh, and Christmas! We would send Christmas cards and hang the ones we received on strings and pegs in our living room. It was a ritual. Poof! No more.

These poems by Roald Bartholew are crafted in that same manner as old fashioned mail. The joy of words, & I licked my computer screen!

🌊Waves of the Veld

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Clan of the Baboons

From a young age, my father would weave tales of evolution into our long road trips, whether we were rumbling along in the bakkie or the lorry, dust kicking up behind us as we headed out on distant journeys. He’d speak of it with such logical enthusiasm, his voice upbeat and steady, painting pictures of ancient creatures adapting over eons. “It all makes sense,” he’d say, his hands gripping the wheel firmly. But he wasn’t one to dismiss the other side entirely. He’d spend quiet hours poring over the Bible, trying to unravel what drew so many to its pages. “It’s Greek, you see,” he’d explain to me. “Their way of writing was poetic, metaphorical—not meant to be taken word for word.” I’d nod along, absorbing it all, feeling like I was part of some grand intellectual adventure.

That foundation set the stage for one particularly memorable afternoon at my grandparents’ house. We were gathered around the lunch table, the air thick with the smell of German sausage and fresh bread, when a Bible puncher joined us. I’m sure it was the infamous Erlo Stegen, a nephew of my grandmother. He was the type who could turn any conversation into a sermon, and that day was no exception. With a mocking chuckle, he declared that some fools out there actually believed in evolution, as if it were the punchline to a bad joke.

I couldn’t let that slide. At less than ten years old, fueled by my dad’s lessons and invoking my inner Mastelek self, I piped up. “Actually, it is true,” I said, my voice probably a bit too earnest for the room. I was ready for a real discussion, maybe even a debate like the ones my dad and I had on those long drives. But before I could elaborate, the pastor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with that smug certainty. “Do you believe your grandfather was a baboon?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he’d just checkmated me.

The table went quiet. I looked him straight in the eye and, without missing a beat, replied, “Yes. And me too. I’m a baboon.” His smirk vanished like smoke in the wind. For good measure, I added, “I scored 100% on my last Maths test. What were your marks?” It was my childish way of saying, “I’m right, you’re wrong—and here’s proof of my knowledge.” He stared at me, utterly lost for words, before mumbling something about praying for my soul. The conversation sputtered out after that, and many years later, well after my grandfather passed away my dad mentioned the awkward conversation with his dad about that baboon chirp. He sided with me on that one.

Looking back, that exchange captures how so many discussions on religion or politics unfold: charged, defensive, and rarely productive. Someone lobs a gotcha question, and it devolves from there. But vegetarianism? Oh, that’s a whole other beast—far worse than religion, in my experience. People get downright militant about meat, as if your plate choices are a personal affront. Those debates have left more dinners ruined than any talk of God or Darwin ever did.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Unmasking the Genesis of the Cult with its Dark Secrets

Nestled in the valleys outside Kranskop, kwaSizabantu (KSB) presents itself to the world as a beacon of Christian missionary work among the Zulus of the Valley of a Thousand Hills. With its sprawling greenhouse facilities, dairy operations, & even a water bottling plant under the aQuellé brand, it exudes an air of self-sustaining sophistication, a model of faith-fueled enterprise that funds its “evangelical” activities. But let’s strip away the veneer. KSB is no mainstream religious institution; it’s a pimping cult, finish & klaar. For decades, whispers of abuse simmered beneath the surface, known to locals but suppressed by the cult’s iron grip. It wasn’t until the pandemic year of 2020 that News24’s investigative series, Exodus, finally tore open the facade, exposing a web of sexual abuse, human rights violations, and financial improprieties that had festered for half a century. Light the fire, pour a stiff Scotch, we’re diving deep into the rot, drawing from the primary threads of my own family’s tangled history, not the sanitized propaganda or cherry-picked fake news peddled by the cult’s defenders. These insights lean heavy on recollections of my dad, Mastelek mkhulu. I am Mastelek ncane.

It all traces back to 1922, a time when the Natal Midlands was always shrouded in darkness after dusk. The Union of South Africa was young, just over a decade old, with Jan Smuts at the helm as prime minister. ESKOM had just flickered to life, promising coal-fired power to banish the darkness, though ironically today we’re back to rolling blackouts that echo those dusty, unlit roads. Cars were rarities, Henry Ford’s mass production was barely a decade old in America, and the rail network snaked through the wattle and sugar cane fields like veins of progress. On one such fateful night, my paternal grandmother and her sister Hulda were in a car owned by Herman Gielink, a prosperous farmer. It collided with a train, killing Herman (Hulda’s husband) and their two children. My grandmother and Hulda survived, battered with broken bones, but the scars ran far deeper. (Reference: The Pocket Watch)

I can only imagine Hulda’s anguish, the raw grief of losing her husband and children. I’ve tasted that bitterness myself: the hollow ache after my wife’s passing, amplified by the loss of my own child. Hulda, as godmother to my father (born nearly a dozen years later), forged a bond with him that endured. She inherited substantially from Herman, but in her vulnerability, she became easy prey. Gielink’s farm, where my grandparents lived and worked, my grandfather even serving as secretary of the local farmers’ association that owned a butchery, set the stage. Hulda squandered much of her fortune funding what would become the KSB cult’s genesis: Bible House, the shadowy precursor. To grasp the poison at KSB’s heart, you must first understand Bible House.

The roots burrow into the German missionary descendants around Dalton, who gathered at Lilienthal Church. Around World War II, Anton Engelbrecht served as the Lutheran pastor there, a rotten apple from the start. Post-war, this notorious scoundrel veered beyond Lutheran bounds, clashing with his congregation until the Synod excommunicated him. Undeterred, he teamed with another dubious figure: Erlo Stegen, my paternal grandmother’s nephew and another bad and rotten apple. Stegen lived on the farm adjoining the church, Paardekraal. Together, they birthed Bible House in Claridge, near Pietermaritzburg. My family had attended and were members of that Lilienthal Church; but my dad, fresh out of high school, resisted the emotional blackmail from relatives to join this emerging sect. He stuck with the Lutherans, a decision that spared him, but fractured bonds.

Engelbrecht’s cult hinged on “prayer sessions”, thinly veiled excuses for sexual deviance behind closed doors, all cloaked in religious piety. It thrived for about two decades before crumbling in disgrace. But Stegen, Engelbrecht’s protégé, carried the torch, founding KSB on the same twisted principles. Stegen’s own “prayer sessions” with women known as the “Mamas”, mirroring the perversion: deviant sexual acts under a holy guise, while rank-and-file members were herded into celibate exploitation, sex taboo except for those perceived as most holy. These cults, Engelbrecht’s and Stegen’s—shattered lives, including those of some of my family. My aunt Enid was a beauty, trailblazing as one of Natal’s first female accountants at Volkskas (now ABSA). Engaged to a man who adored her, her world shattered when Engelbrecht raped her. Instead of justice, the cult “prayed” and decreed suppression, blaming the victim as always. My father, tasked with returning the engagement ring to her fiancé “because that’s what the Lord wanted,” wept recounting it years later, his body trembling from Parkinson’s. The young man begged to marry her regardless, but the cult’s brick wall prevailed. Among Dalton’s older German community post-WWII, it was whispered that Engelbrecht’s assault on Enid resulted in a child. Abandoned by those preaching an allegedly kind God but not conforming to the mantra, she died a spinster, hooked on sleeping pills and Castle Stout. I discovered cases of Castle Stout under her bed when visiting her in Cathcart Street in Greytown. Enough to keep a shebeen rocking for a whole night! She would travel the province seeing different doctors to supply her sleeping pills, as invariable each doctor eventually called timeout on her addiction. When my sons were born and we visited, she called them her grandchildren, I stepped outside to cry for the life stolen from her, echoing my father’s tears over false divine decrees. Even after all these years, I become angry and agitated.

Stegen as the second in command at Bible House was informed and participated in the decision to suppress Enid’s rape. This is probably the reason that all those years ago, she wanted to go speak to him.

The mamas were classified by Stegen as his conduit to God in the same manner as that of Engelbrecht. They would answer his prayers to him after having sex. It was a perverse and pornographic interaction, a fabricated act that mirrored similar pagan rituals. He preferred it to be unknown, behind closed doors and would himself represent piety on the other side.

My dad often quipped that the cult treated prayer like a phone call to God, but you never knew if Satan picked up. In their case, he implied, it was the latter. How true was his insight. Bible House imploded when Lorentz Freese (who would become my dad’s farm manager) caught Engelbrecht in an extramarital affair with a woman—my uncle’s mother-in-law, no less—exposing the “prayer sessions” for what they were. My father’s family fled the wreckage, and reconciled with my dad, Mastelek. Yet echoes lingered: my brother-in-law married the daughter of Dr. Justin Mitchell, a Bible House devotee who penned the preface to God Among the Zulus, a nauseating hagiography of Stegen. That union, tainted by likely abuse in her past, crumbled. At my wedding, Mitchell praised my grandparents and their Christian values; gobsmacked, I realized their status stemmed from Hulda’s cash infusions. Without her grief-fueled generosity, Bible House, & thus KSB, might never have risen. If that car crash in 1922 had not happened, KSB would not have existed.

This is the foul genesis of Stegen’s KSB, spawned from Bible House’s ashes in the seventies. Stegen, second-in-command under Engelbrecht, knew every dark secret yet replicated the model: a self-sustaining empire masking exploitation. The 2020 exposures, allegations of rape cover-ups, beatings, and money laundering, confirmed what my family endured generations ago. The CRL Commission’s 2023 findings of rape and abuse only underscored the pattern. KSB’s defenders spin tales of revival and piety, but from my bloodline’s scars, I know the truth: it’s a cult that pimps souls under God’s name, destroying the vulnerable while enriching the predators. And the woman? Second class citizens.

The Mark of the Beast moving from Bible House to KwaSizabantu

The downfall of Bible House wasn’t just a collapse, it was a calculated coup, orchestrated by Erlo Stegen with the ruthlessness of a ninja assassin. Armed with damning knowledge of Engelbrecht’s rape of my aunt Enid and the so-called “prayer sessions” that were nothing more than sanctioned sexual orgies, Stegen wielded leverage like a blade. Shortly after my own birth in the sixties, he seized the moment, establishing KSB and assimilating Bible House’s assets and a section of the followers into his new domain. This wasn’t a clean break; it was a heist, facilitated by a key conspirator: my uncle, Hogart Joosten, Bible House’s treasurer. Hogart ensured the funds flowed seamlessly from one entity’s bank account to the other’s, a maneuver that cemented the Joosten family’s status as KSB royalty, the only part of our clan to fully defect and thrive in the new KSB regime. The Bible House property including the halls, church, buildings and farms had its title deed transferred to the control of KSB. The location is here. It exists, and knowledge about it and the deeds there cannot be deleted. Except, Stegen did, and his followers bought it hook, line and sinker.

To erase the stains of Bible House’s scandals, Stegen fabricated a pristine origin story: a divine revival in a humble cowshed, where God’s spirit supposedly descended amid Zulu congregants. But this tale was a plagiarized myth, regurgitated from an event chronicled by J.C. de Vries near Worcester, just before Christof Bartels arrived at Port Natal on the Kandaze, a slice of the broader Christian revival sweeping South Africa in the 19th century, with Andrew Murray at its helm. Stegen, fluent in Afrikaans, simply translated and twisted it into Zulu folklore, peddling it as his own Damascus road epiphany to whitewash the cult’s sordid roots. Meanwhile, Engelbrecht slunk into obscurity, marrying one of his affair partners, the mother of my dad’s brother Heinz’s wife, entangling our family further in this web of abnormal, incestuous relationships.

The stolen revival story was no fluke or co-incidence. The bookstore at Bible House (ironically managed by one of Engelbrecht’s side pieces) was full of revival literature and some of the most prominent ones were ironically the works of the Calvinist Andrew Murray of who I’m a descendant on my maternal side. He published nearly 200 books and papers and for the dozen years that Erlo Stegen was second in command at Bible House, he would have been very familiar with those books and would have lifted and plagiarized many stories from its pages, not only the revival.

The abuses didn’t end with the name change; they metastasized at KSB. Enid’s sister, Inge, and her husband Hogart formed the mission’s initial leadership spine, a role later inherited by their son Dietmar, who rose to prominence in sermons and governance. As Stegen’s dementia deepened in his later years, deposing him from daily control, power shifted to his daughters and Lidia Dube, the daughter of one of the infamous “Mamas” from the prayer session era. The Joostens’ other son, my cousin André, allegedly perpetrated his own horrors, rapes and assaults that echoed the founder’s sins, contributing to the mission’s litany of violations. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 that the dam finally burst: News24’s explosive Exodus series laid bare the cult’s underbelly, sexual crimes, physical beatings, financial sleight-of-hand, sparking criminal probes & the CRL Commission’s damning inquiry into human rights abuses.

The Joostens’ royal status stemmed directly from Hogart’s financial funneling, a blatant theft masked by Stegen’s invented cowshed narrative. Several of my cousins were ensnared in this machinery, living lives reminiscent of Mennonites: women in drab, colorless clothing, devoid of makeup or adornment, their existence a monotonous grind of piety and repression. They’d pen letters to us, begging forgiveness for trivial childhood pranks, like the time my brother and I, with a cousin holding the ladder, tried peeping through a frosted bathroom window where my sister and her friend bathed. We saw nothing, zilch, but years later, those letters arrived, portraying the innocent mischief as grave sin. The cult twisted harmless fun into eternal guilt, intimidating members into endless repentance while glossing over grotesque human rights violations.

At its core, the cults of Engelbrecht and Stegen sanctified sexual and physical violence through perverse doctrine: confess, repent, and the slate wipes clean, no consequences, no justice. This bred a toxic cycle, embedding abuse into the fabric of KSB, from its Kranskop outpost to the souls it ensnared. To outsiders, these monsters appeared calm, meek, humble, wolves in sheep’s clothing. But the cult was weird, oppressively so: no alcohol to dull the edges, no Christmas trees or festive decorations to spark joy, no television to connect with the world, no reading classics like Homer or James A. Michener that might broaden minds beyond the narrow gospel they preached. It was a prison of the spirit, built on stolen funds and shattered lives, & my family’s blood runs through its foundations.

The Enigma of Stegen’s Foothold Amongst the Zulus Through Iron & Faith

How did Erlo Stegen, a disgraced offshoot from Bible House’s scandals, manage to embed himself so deeply among the Zulus? It’s deceptively simple, rooted in the warrior ethos that defines their heritage. To unpack this, let me recount a tale from my own lineage, about my German missionary ancestor, Christof Bartels, a man whose path illuminates the Zulu spirit.

Before his ordination as a Lutheran pastor, Christof had served as a cavalry officer in the Hanoverian army of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. This military rigor proved invaluable when he ventured into Zulu lands to establish congregations. His first one sprang from an unlikely confrontation: ambushed by two Zulu men while riding horseback, he wielded not a lance from his cavalry days, but a sturdy stick. A highly trained soldier and expert horseman, he subdued them with a thorough thrashing, then admonished them sternly. “I’ll return in a month,” he declared, “and by then, you’d better have begun building a church.” True to his word, he came back to find the pair had rallied their families—the nucleus of his inaugural congregation. Christof had arrived at Port Natal aboard the Kandaze, part of the Hermannsburg Mission’s wave in the mid-19th century, intent on spreading the Gospel amid the rolling hills of Natal.

Why dredge up this old yarn? It peels back layers on the Zulus themselves, a people forged in abrasion, where respect isn’t won with soft words but through unyielding resolve. They’re a breed apart, historically drawn to leaders who impose harsh regimes of abuse and trials, much like King Shaka molded his impis into a fearsome force. Shaka’s warriors endured grueling training: barefoot marches over thorns, ironclad discipline where failure in battle spelled death, and a regimental system that turned clans into a centralized war machine. It wasn’t pampering that built the Zulu empire; it was brutality honed into strength. They craved that edge, that unforgiving structure, and Stegen delivered it, cloaked in Christian missionary garb.

In Stegen, the Zulus saw echoes of Shaka’s relentlessness: strict rules, severe discipline, a no-nonsense suppression that mirrored their ancestral warrior code. He baited them perfectly, promising spiritual revival through a regime of pious hardship at KSB, endless labour on the farms, enforced celibacy for the masses, & “confessions” that often masked deeper exploitations. But unlike Christof’s righteous zeal, grounded in genuine faith and military honour, Stegen’s intentions were perverted, a cult leader pimping vulnerability under God’s banner. He turned their cultural hunger for discipline into a tool for control, building an empire on the backs of the very people he claimed to save. My ancestor’s stick built churches; Stegen’s rod forged chains.

umThakathi

In reflecting on KSB, it’s impossible to overlook the intricate web of cultural assimilation that Erlo Stegen wove around the Zulus. While much has been said about the mission’s emphasis on revival and spiritual purity, the true undercurrent was a calculated blend of Zulu traditions with Stegen’s authoritarian Christianity, a fusion that preyed on deeply ingrained beliefs to ensure compliance and loyalty. Central to this was the role of the “mamas,” the elder women who became unwitting instruments and sex slaves in Stegen’s hands, facilitating the integration of thousands of Zulus into his isolated world. But to understand their impact, one must first grasp the Zulu foundations of discipline and superstition that made such manipulation possible.

The Zulus have long been renowned for their unwavering adherence to discipline, a trait rooted in their historical warrior ethos and communal structures. From the era of King Shaka’s regiments to modern-day family hierarchies, obedience and order are not just valued but embraced as essential to survival and harmony. This cultural predisposition made the Zulus particularly receptive to Stegen’s rigid regime at KSB as mentioned above, where rules governed every aspect of life, from daily chores to spiritual confessions. Yet, intertwined with this discipline is a profound layer of superstition, where the seen and unseen worlds collide in daily existence. At the heart of these beliefs lies umthakathi, the Zulu concept of witchcraft or sorcery, embodied by the umthakathi (witch or sorcerer). Far from a peripheral myth, umthakathi is core to Zulu cosmology, representing the ever-present threat of malevolent forces that can curse, poison, or spiritually harm individuals and communities.

In Zulu culture, umthakathi is not merely a fairy tale but a lived reality that shapes social interactions, health practices, and even justice systems. Beliefs hold that an umthakathi can cast spells driven by envy, over another’s success, possessions, or family—using potions, curses, or familiars like the tokoloshe (a mischievous evil spirit). This fear permeates everything: unexplained illnesses, crop failures, or misfortunes are often attributed to witchcraft, prompting consultations with sangomas (traditional diviners and healers) to detect and counteract it. Sangomas, revered for their ability to commune with ancestors and uncover hidden evils, serve as protectors against umthakathi. These superstitions result in lived experiences where spiritual vigilance is paramount, and communal rituals, like ancestor veneration or protective muti (medicine), reinforce group identity. It’s this deep-seated fear of the supernatural that Stegen astutely recognized and exploited, transforming it into a tool for control rather than liberation.

Stegen, a discredited white missionary from a Lutheran background, didn’t arrive among the Zulus as a blank slate. By the 1960s, after years of successful evangelizing under the tutelage of Engelbrecht, he pivoted to elevate his status to a notorious flock leader during the 1966 fabricated revival at Maphumulo, incorporating elements of Zulu spirituality into his message to make it resonate. He understood that to assimilate the Zulus, he couldn’t outright dismantle their beliefs; instead, he had to reframe them through a Christian lens, positioning himself as the ultimate authority against spiritual threats. This is where the mamas come into sharp focus. Often portrayed by kwaSizabantu defenders as the villains, autonomous perpetrators of abuse and control—the mamas were, in truth, Stegen’s manipulated proxies. These women, many of them Zulu elders or long-time converts, were elevated to positions of spiritual oversight, but their power was illusory, always tethered to Stegen’s approval. This elevation and status was from a position of polygamy.

In essence, the mamas became Stegen’s Christianized sangomas, toned down & rebranded as benevolent “mothers” to soften the optics for outsiders. Where a traditional sangoma might divine hidden sins or curses through bones or trances, the mamas facilitated intense confession sessions, probing for “unconfessed sins” that mirrored the Zulu dread of umthakathi-induced afflictions. If someone fell ill or faced hardship, it wasn’t witchcraft but unrepented sin, yet the fear response was the same: public humiliation, isolation, or even physical discipline to “cleanse” the soul. Stegen preyed on this by insinuating that only through absolute submission to the mission (and by extension, to him) could one be shielded from spiritual harm. The mamas, groomed under his influence, enforced this, conducting practices like virginity inspections (ukuhlolwa), a Zulu custom adopted by the mission until 2002 to enforce purity. What outsiders saw as cultural sensitivity was assimilation in disguise: Zulu superstitions repackaged as biblical mandates, binding the community tighter to Stegen’s vision.

I believe many refuse to acknowledge how easily they were deceived, not out of naivety, but because Stegen masterfully weaponized beliefs against them. The mamas weren’t the masterminds; they were victims too, indoctrinated to believe their roles were divine, while Stegen pulled the strings. Defenders point fingers at them to deflect from his orchestration, but the truth is, without exploiting umthakathi-like fears, the assimilation wouldn’t have taken root so deeply. Thousands flocked to kwaSizabantu seeking protection from life’s uncertainties, only to find themselves in a sect where Stegen was the unchallenged intermediary between them and God, questioning him equated to spiritual suicide.

In the early years, KSB was isolated, amplifying this dynamic. No outside newspapers penetrated the mission, no television or radio broadcasts disrupted the narrative, and no music echoed except for approved hymns. It was a world driven by discipline, morning assemblies, labour rotations, enforced separations between sexes, and superstition, where every deviation invited accusations of demonic influence. This echo chamber allowed Stegen’s hybrid theology to flourish, blending Zulu ancestral fears with fire-and-brimstone sermons. The impact was profound: families torn apart, with leavers labeled apostates; cultural identities eroded under the guise of salvation; and a generation of adherents molded into unquestioning sheep. Looking back, it’s clear that the mamas’ role wasn’t one of independent agency but of tragic complicity in a system that turned superstition into subjugation. True revival uplifts based on deeds like that of Albert Schweitzer; manipulation like that of Erlo Stegen, no matter how disguised and cloaked in piety, only enslaves.

Lobola

Erlo Stegen’s relationships with the “mamas”, the cult’s revered Zulu women who formed the backbone of the communities spiritual and daily life, were a point of profound cultural divergence. To understand this, one must first grasp the essence of Zulu culture, which is inherently polygamous. In Zulu tradition, a man may take multiple wives, and the concept of extramarital affairs as a moral transgression simply doesn’t exist in the same way it does in Western societies. Girlfriends, casual liaisons, and laissez-faire sexual encounters are accepted as part of the social fabric, provided they align with communal norms. The true marker of commitment, however, comes through the ancient practice of lobola, a bride price negotiation that seals a marriage alliance between families.

Lobola isn’t merely a transaction; it’s a ritual of respect and reciprocity. The groom’s family offers cattle, money, or other valuables to the bride’s family, symbolizing gratitude for raising her and compensating for the loss of her labour and presence in her natal home. It’s a process steeped in negotiation, often involving elders from both sides, and it cements the union in the eyes of the community. Once lobola is paid, the woman is considered a wife, with all the rights & responsibilities that entails, even if a Western-style wedding ceremony never occurs.

My father, known in Zulu circles as Mastelek, shared with me a revelation that cut through the rumors swirling around Stegen. As a fluent Zulu speaker, Dad occasionally served as a court interpreter at the New Hanover Magistrate’s Court, stepping in when the regular interpreter was unavailable. The magistrate, Arnold Freese, a classmate from his school days, trusted him implicitly for his linguistic prowess and cultural insight. It was during these court sessions that Dad conversed with the families of the mamas. They confided in him that Stegen had indeed paid lobola for each of them, formalizing their bonds in the Zulu tradition. In their eyes, these women were not mistresses or illicit partners but legitimate wives, bound by custom and community approval.

Dad made it crystal clear to me: in the Zulu context, Stegen’s intimate relationships with the mamas were unremarkable, even honorable. The Zulus, with their deep-rooted acceptance of polygamy, would not frown upon such arrangements; they were simply part of life. But the Europeans affiliated with the such as those from Bible House & others, the rigid, missionary-minded ones who predated KSB, were far less forgiving. Their puritanical lens viewed these dynamics as scandalous, leading to tensions that simmered beneath the surface, particularly in their dealings with figures like Engelbrecht, whose own entanglements drew their ire. It was a clash of worlds: one fluid and ancestral, the other bound by imported doctrines of monogamy and morality. In retrospect, this cultural rift exposed the hypocrisies at KSB’s core, where Stegen’s authority straddled two incompatible realms, leaving fractures that time could never fully mend.

The Excursion to kwaSizabantu

Those childhood holidays at my grandparents’ place in Greytown were a welcome escape from the dusty isolation of the farm. I’d pack my bicycle and pedal around town, reveling in the smooth tar roads that stretched out like invitations to adventure, far superior to the rutted dirt tracks back home. And the shops! They were a treasure trove of sweets and curios, a stark contrast to the sparse supplies we had on the farm. It was during one such holiday that my Aunt Enid, who was staying with my grandparents, became the catalyst for my one and only visit to KSB.

Enid was unusually agitated that day, pacing the veranda with a furrowed brow. She announced she needed to speak with Erlo Stegen, the founder of the mission, about something pressing. My grandparents, ever cautious and perhaps a bit skeptical of the place, flat-out refused to go. KSB had a reputation that divided opinions in our circles, a sprawling mission known for its revivals, but also whispered about in ways that made adults exchange knowing glances. Seeing Enid’s distress, I volunteered to accompany her. At thirteen or so, I fancied myself quite the intrepid companion.

I phoned my dad to ask permission, & after a brief pause, he agreed, but with a twist. “Go with her,” he said, “but keep your eyes open. Spy on the activities there and give me a full report when you get back.” His tone was half-joking, half-serious, as if he were entrusting me with some covert family mission. Thrilled by the intrigue, I hopped into the car with Enid, and off we drove to the mission, nestled in the rolling hills near Kranskop.

Upon arrival, Enid disappeared to meet with Erlo, leaving me in the care of one of the younger Stegens, who offered a tour. It was the school holidays, so the place felt eerily quiet, the classrooms empty, the kitchens dormant, with only a skeleton crew tending to daily chores. What struck me most was the sheer scale of their operations. Vast farmlands stretched out, dotted with crops and livestock that could rival any commercial farm. And then there was the airfield, a proper runway right on the property! An officer from the South African Air Force was there that day, busily installing landing lights, which added a strange air to the visit.

We sat down for lunch: me, the younger Stegen, and the Air Force chap. The meal was simple but hearty, fresh produce from their own fields, no doubt. As we were wrapping up, Enid entered the room, accompanied by Erlo Stegen himself. He was a towering figure, with a presence that commanded attention. His eyes locked onto me, and he turned to Enid. “Is this Ernfriend’s son?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken. Enid nodded confirmation. Erlo stared at me for a long moment, perhaps recalling that infamous baboon incident from years earlier, a family tale that still makes me chuckle, though it clearly hadn’t amused him back then. Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and strode out, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. The legend of Mastelek was my cloak.

The drive back to Greytown was tense. Enid was visibly upset, her agitation from earlier now deepened into a quiet sorrow. I prodded gently, asking what had transpired, but she brushed me off, saying it was nothing for me to worry about. The whole visit left me confused and uncomfortable, a mix of awe at the mission’s self-sufficiency and unease at the unspoken tensions simmering beneath the surface.

When my dad picked me up at the end of the holiday, I dutifully delivered my “report”, detailing the farms, the airfield, the sparse holiday crowd, and that peculiar encounter with Stegen. Dad listened intently, nodding along, but his only response was a wistful one: “I would have liked to see the place for myself.” Looking back, that trip to KSB was a fleeting glimpse into a world apart, one that blended faith, industry, and family secrets in ways I was too young to fully grasp. It remains my sole foray there, a curious footnote to my life.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The tribe of the Greybrakke

In the heart of the Free State, where the veld stretches wide and the spirit of camaraderie runs deep, stands Grey College, a legendary boys’ school in Bloemfontein, founded in 1855. This isn’t just a school; it’s a crucible for South African heroes, a sporting dynasty, and a brotherhood that binds its scholars for life. From the hallowed halls of Grey emerge the Greybrakke, men who carry the school’s fierce pride and unbreakable bond wherever they go. And at the heart of this lifelong connection lies a tradition as timeless as the school itself: the Noggins.

The Grey Reunie & the Noggin Tradition

Since 1884, the Grey Reunie, the school’s alumni association, has kept the flame of Grey’s brotherhood burning bright. The Noggins are its beating heart, informal, spirited gatherings held on the last Thursday of every month, kicking off around 17:15. These meetups happen not just in Bloemfontein but across South Africa and even in major cities worldwide, wherever Old Greys roam. Picture a local pub or venue, the clink of glasses, and a small pour of ale or whiskey—a noggin, in the old British sense of a quarter-pint measure. It’s a nod to tradition, a chance to share stories of school days, cheer for the current Grey teams, and revel in the unpretentious, gritty vibe that defines the Greybrak.

There’s no stuffy agenda here. Noggins are about laughter, nostalgia, and the kind of tales only Grey boys can tell, rugby triumphs, karreskud adventures, and maybe a cheeky recounting of a schoolboy prank or two. It’s the Grey spirit distilled: raw, real, and rooted in loyalty. Want to join? A quick email to oldboys@greycollege.com will get you the details, times, venues, and who’s hosting in your area. Whether you’re in Bloemfontein or halfway across the globe, there’s a Noggin waiting to welcome you home.

Grey vs. Roos | A Rivalry Steeped in Grit

No tale of Grey College is complete without a nod to its fiercest rival, Paul Roos. Their taunt—“Roos is a legend, Grey is a colour”, is a classic jab, but let’s set the record straight. Paul Roos may be named after a singular “legend” (or a flower, some might say, a bit of a pansy), but Grey? Grey is the colour of bullets, forged in the fire of true grit. Named after Sir George Grey, a hero of South Africa, the British Empire, and New Zealand, the school embodies a legacy of resilience and courage.

Grey College has produced heroes who’ve shaped nations: MT Steyn, Denys Reitz, Sir Laurens van der Post, and a legion of Springboks like Morné du Plessis. And then there’s Ronald Bartels, class of ’84, a legend in his own right, as his good mate Eion “Klaas” du Toit postulated. He may not yet have a statue like Roos, but give it time, Bartels’ story is still being written, and it’s one of grit that outshines any myth or fantasy. And he is just one of thousands of other Greybrakke, who have forged their own story and legacy. The above is an example of being windgat, which is par for the course for any Greybrak.

The Last Noggin with Klaas

The final time I saw Klaas was at a lively Noggin in Parkview, a night that still lingers vividly in my memory. He’d come up to Joburg from the Cape, where he’d made his home, for some business. We met at the Golf Course, and it was like no time had passed. Klaas, with his larger-than-life presence, filled the room with his booming voice and infectious energy. We dove into a marathon catch-up, trading stories and laughing over all the Grey skinder—those tales of old schoolmates and their antics that never failed to spark a chuckle. The man could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and I loved every second of it.

As the evening wound down, I drove him to his Bed and Breakfast, both of us still chuckling over some half-remembered prank from our school days. We said our goodbyes, casual and warm, with no hint of finality. That was the last anyone would see him alive. Klaas passed away in his sleep that night, taken by an apnea that stole him far too soon.

I made the trip down to Paarl for his funeral. The service was held in the kerk, a solemn affair that somehow felt too small to contain the spirit of such a big man. He was a big man. We stood outside the kerk, gauging who was the strongest and youngest to carry in the coffin, which would have been on the really heavy side. However, the undertaker had that covered as Klaas was pushed into the kerk on a set of wheels with no heavy lifting required. We all sighed in relief. Afterward, we gathered for an impromptu Noggin at the Slug and Lettuce, raising glasses to Klaas, sharing stories, and laughing through the ache. Dammit, I miss the big guy. His absence left a hole that no amount of skinder or Castle Lager can fill, but I’ll always carry that last evening in Parkview, his voice echoing through the memories.

There was also a memorable trip I took with him from Jozi to Bloem for the school birthday. It was 5 hours of talking the hind legs off of a donkey. Klaas owned a wine shop in Paarl named the Thirsty Cyclist. We discussed that when my ship comes in I’ll have a side hussle with him of a boutique sparking wine brand with catchy names. In the shops there was one named Gorgeous and I had to buy it. The only better name for it would have been Bodacious. Then there are names like Fat Bottomed, Blonde Bombshell, Black Irish, Cowgirl, Fourty One, Oakvilla, Babbling Brook, and Mastelek. It sounded like so much fun as long as we broke even

The Grey Vibe | Kuifs, Handshakes, & Heroes

What makes Grey special isn’t just its history or its heroes, it’s the vibe. It’s the secret handshake you learn as a boy and carry into manhood. It’s the passion for the school that pulses through every Old Grey, whether you rocked a kuif back in the day or not. It’s the way a Noggin feels like coming home, no matter how many years have passed or where life has taken you.

Grey College isn’t just a school; it’s a way of life. The Noggins are proof of that, a chance to raise a glass, share a laugh, and honor the brotherhood that started it all. So, if you’re an Old Grey, find your nearest Noggin. If you’re not, well, you can only wish you knew what it’s like to be part of this legendary crew. Here’s to Grey, to grit, and to the Noggins that keep the fire burning.

Noggins & Scrums | A Maties Memoir

Back in my student days at Maties, life was a blur of lectures, late nights, and the kind of reckless fun that only youth can justify. One memory that stands out is a Noggins at the Wine Route Hotel, a raucous gathering that’s still legendary in my mind. The guest list was a mix of us rowdy students and, to our surprise, none other than Morné du Plessis, the Springbok legend himself.

The evening started innocently enough, with drinks flowing and stories bouncing around the room. Somehow, the conversation turned to Morné’s infamous tackle on Naas Botha, a moment etched in rugby history. One of the lads, probably fueled by a few too many, suggested we reenact it. Before I knew it, we were clearing space in the hotel lounge for an impromptu scrum. I found myself in the front row, shoulders squared, ready for what I thought would be a bit of a laugh.

But as soon as we locked in, the joke turned deadly serious. It was as if the spirit of the game took over. The scrum surged forward, a chaotic tangle of grunts and shoving. I don’t know what happened behind me, probably a mess of flailing limbs and questionable technique, but the whole thing collapsed into a massive pile of bodies, laughter echoing through the hotel. We were a heap of sweaty, grinning idiots, and Morné, standing off to the side, just shook his head with a chuckle. That night, we learned that even a playful scrum could carry the weight of real passion.

Years later, up in Joburg, I had another brush with rugby royalty. I bumped into the famous Du Plessis brothers, Jannie and Bismarck, both Springbok heroes. It was a somber moment, as Jannie had just lost his son in a tragic accident. I offered my condolences, feeling the weight of his grief in the quiet way he nodded. Despite the heavy moment, they both called me “Oom,” a term of respect that hit me like a ton of bricks. Bliksem, I felt old.

We got to talking, and the conversation turned to Bismarck’s iconic tackle on Dan Carter. It was one of the biggest injustices in Rugby history where a perfectly legit tackle was ruled as “No hands and high”. Absolutely rubbish. The memory sparked a grin, but when someone half-joked about reenacting it, I waved them off. “No ways,” I said, “I’m too old and too much of an Oom for that nonsense now.” We laughed, but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of nostalgia for the days when I’d have been the first to dive into the chaos. Life moves on, but those Maties nights and chance encounters with legends? They’re the stories I’ll carry forever.

Noggins in the Big Smoke

Fresh out of the Navy, with salt still crusting my boots and the sound of the sea echoing in my ears, I landed in Johannesburg, the Big Smoke, they called it, a glittering beast of a city that swallowed wide-eyed country boys like me whole. The air was thick with possibility and exhaust, and I was itching to make a difference as a computer programmer.

My first Noggin was a baptism by fire, courtesy of Gordon. Ah, Gordon, that wiry friend who was always gunning for trouble, like a lit fuse in a powder keg. We were at some sports club in the suburbs, the kind with sticky floors and fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets. It started over nothing, as these things do: a spilled drink, a sideways glance, who the hell remembers? The other guy was a fancy pants builder. I later heard whispers about him, turns out he threw these wild client parties where the entertainment ran hot, strippers slinking in like forbidden fruit. Nudge, nudge; you know the drill, wink-wink. The sort of thing that made the wives clutch their pearls and the husbands clear their throats.

Anyway, the argument escalated in that predictable, testosterone-fueled way, voices rising like steam from a kettle. Fists flew, chairs scraped, and before I knew it, I was in the thick of it. I sighed, that deep, world-weary exhale of knowing what was coming, and went all in. Should’ve known my aim was wonky. I lined up what I thought was a guy’s jaw, wound up like a spring, and unleashed a haymaker with every ounce of sailor strength I’d built hauling ropes and dodging swells. But fate, that sly joker, had other plans. My fist veered just a hair, plowing straight into a goddamn brick wall like it had a personal grudge.

The pain hit like a depth charge, white-hot, blooming from my knuckles outward, exploding into my arm and dropping me to my knees. Blood welled up in fat, accusing rivulets, knuckles split open like overripe fruit. I collapsed in a heap, the world blurring at the edges, the roar of the fight fading to a distant hum. Don’t remember much after that... just fragments: mostly Gordon’s laugh cutting through the chaos.

But if my debut was a comedy of errors, the true legends of Noggin lore belonged to the old geezers from the ‘50s, the silver-haired warhorses who wore Safari suits but never lost their appetite for mayhem. They were the architects of the tradition, back when Noggins were less about settling scores and more about thumbing your nose at the crusty high society. And one of their crown jewels? The night they arranged for Glenda Kemp and her python to make an appearance.

Glenda Kemp, what a force she was, a platinum-haired hurricane in fishnets and defiance, born in ‘49 to a buttoned-up Afrikaans family in Bloemfontein that would’ve fainted at the sight of a bare ankle. By the ‘70s, she’d shattered every stained-glass window of apartheid-era propriety, stripping onstage with a three-meter Burmese python named Oupa coiled around her like a living tattoo. Oupa, ”Grandpa” in Afrikaans, slithered across her skin as she danced, a mesmerizing tangle of scales and seduction that had audiences gasping and the police vice squad frothing at the mouth. Picture it: dim lights, tribal drums thumping like a heartbeat, and this lithe rebel shedding layers while the snake’s unblinking eyes dared the crowd to look away. She wasn’t just dancing; she was rebelling, a white Afrikaner girl flipping the bird to the tannies, the politicians, and the whole unwieldy and restrictive environment that choked South Africa back then.

The cops raided her shows like clockwork, Joburg clubs, Cape Town dens, you name it—hauling her off for “public indecency” while fans cheered and dominees preached fire and brimstone. But Glenda? She just laughed it off, quipping once that the police didn’t know whether to arrest her or the snake. It made her a star, a scandal sheet staple, even landed her in a gritty ‘76 flick called Snake Dancer, where she played a version of herself, all sass and serpent. The old geezers, bless their leathery hides, must’ve pulled every string in their Rolodex to get her to a Noggin, imagine the backstage haggling, the winks over brannas: “Bring the python, skattie; it’ll liven up the manne.”

We weren’t around for it, of course, those of us from the national conscription intakes came later, chasing echoes of the glory days. But it’s etched into Noggin legend now, passed down like a sacred scar: the night the air hummed with whispers and wide-eyed awe, arguments forgotten as every eye locked on that slithering spectacle. We chuckle about it still, over warm Castle lagers, slapping knees and shaking heads. “Wish I’d been there,” we say, half-joking, half-envious, toasting to the geezers who lived it loud. In a city that chews up dreams and spits out dust, stories like Glenda’s, wild, unapologetic, wrapped in scales, reminding us what we keep together.

A Noggin with Grant in Dunkeld

Grant, my mate from Kroonstad, and I go way back, nearly half a century of friendship, starting from our school days. The kind of bond where you’ve seen each other through bad haircuts, worse decisions, and the occasional stroke of genius. Grant always seem to suffer bad haircuts! Grant was a Lebanese Catholic and I was a German Lutheran. One particular memory stands out, a night that’s become legend between us, sealed with a laugh that still echoes.

It was a lively evening at a noggin in Dunkeld, one of those spots where the vibe is just right, buzzing but not chaotic. We grabbed a table, and right next to us were two stunning women, all charm and confidence. Grant, never one to miss an opportunity, flashed his classic grin and ordered them drinks, smooth as you like. I could see him gearing up for one of his bold moves, the kind that usually ended with either a phone number or a story to tell.

Now, I’m not sure what it was, maybe the way they leaned into each other or the knowing glances they shared, but something about the scene felt off to me. Call it instinct. Grant, though, was in full charm mode, laying it on thick. Then, out of nowhere, one of the women leaned forward, all politeness, and dropped the bomb: “Thanks for the drinks, but we’re lesbians.”

The look on Grant’s face, priceless. Shock, a flicker of disbelief, then the slow dawn of realization. I couldn’t hold it in. I hit the floor, literally rolling with laughter, tears streaming as Grant tried to salvage his dignity. The women were good sports, chuckling along, but I was done for.

From that night, a running joke was born. I’d deadpan, “Lebanese are from a country, but lesbians are not from Lebanon” and we’d both lose it all over again. It’s the kind of story that defines a friendship, a moment of pure, unscripted hilarity. Here’s to you, Grant, and to many more noggins, and laughs, in the years to come.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

I have always disliked when people use the term hallucination to describe the confident mistakes LLMs print when they reach the limits of their knowledge. I think “confabulation” would be a much more accurate term.

Merriam-Webster, my preferred dictionary, doesn't define confabulation per se, so let's use Dictionary.com instead.

Dictionary.com defines hallucination as:

a sensory experience of something that does not exist outside the mind, caused by various physical and mental disorders, or by reaction to certain toxic substances, and usually manifested as visual or auditory images.

It defines confabulation as:

the replacement of a gap in a person's memory by a falsification that they believe to be true.

We don't know if LLMs experience anything, although I don't rule it out entirely, but they certainly do replace gaps in their memory with obvious falsehoods that they seem to believe.

The next time Claude or ChatGPT tells you about a business that doesn't exist, then, or describes a feature your phone doesn't have, consider that it might not be hallucinating, but rather confabulating.

#Tech

I'm hoping to follow two different college football games today: one from the Big 12 Conference and one from the Big 10 Conference.

First up from the Big 12 Conference we find the (6-1) Texas Tech Red Raiders hosting the (6-1) Arizona Wildcats in a game scheduled to start at 11:00 AM CT.

Next from the Big 10 Conference we'll have the (7-1) Indiana Hoosiers hosting the (5-2) Minnesota Golden Gophers in a game scheduled to start at 2:30 PM CT.

And the adventure continues.

The end of another month. Two months left in this year. I think that the pills I'm taking are effecting my desire to do this, or is changing it at least. At the same time I don't really care. No great loss. That attitude towards it is likely also coming from the pills. It has only been two weeks and one day. I feel something, but not much. I wouldn't say that I feel good, or even better. Maybe weird. Like my senses are slightly more tuned in. They say the full effects won't be felt for 4 to 6 weeks, possibly up to 8. Maybe it will get better. Maybe it will get worse. I feel like Frank in Hellraiser when he acquired the box. I don't care which way it goes. Maybe it will tear my soul apart.

It would be funny if someone robbed a pharmacy and accidentally stole a bunch of these pills to sell on the street. Hey man, do you wanna buy some pills? One a day will make you tired, dizzy, and nauseous for a few of days, then give you a headache and make you gassy and constipated for two weeks straight. Then you'll feel kind of weird for another few weeks. At 4 to 6 weeks, or maybe 8, things might get better. Alternatively, your life could turn into a horror story because of them. Only 2 cents a pill. Ah whatever, just have them for free. Good luck. Have fun.

I'm supposed to come up with something to focus on in my next therapy session. A reason to be there. The first visit was sort of a general outline of my life. What do I hope to get out of it? What would I like to focus on first? I knew the questions were coming. Hilariously, they stressed me out. I guess anxiety, I said. The therapist said it has to be something more focused, narrowed down. I agreed, and said, yes, I suppose anxiety is a pretty broad stroke. Then it was time for me to leave. I said I would think about it. And I have been thinking about it.

I'm a dog running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Leash dragging and bouncing along the ground beside me. Life keeps grabbing the leash and jerking me around by the neck. Wanting the main course. Getting table scraps. It is fucking irritating. Is that also too general?

If I start typing things about it I might resolve it, and then I won't need to go. Not really. I don't know what I want. I don't know what I hope to gain from therapy. I don't know anything at all. Maybe that is a good starting point. I'm fifty five and I haven't figured out what I want to do with my life. I've just been taking it as it comes, as is. What's that they say, if life gives you lemons? Make lemonade? lol, more like, what am I supposed to do with this fucking lemon? I'm as is. Like an old car crumbling in the weeds and tall grass beside the driveway, or in the back row on the lot of a crooked dealership. Uncertified. Broken. Needs some work. Leaky gaskets. Rusty around the edges. Rotting frame. Don't look under the hood. Vision going. Tinnitus. 2 prescriptions. Tired.

By Tooth and Claw

A few years back, I woke in a morgue with burns on my body and no memories of who I was or how I got there. No one has been able to tell me who I am or who I was before the fire. The name they apply to unknown victims stuck to me so I'm called John Doe.

I may be strange but, so far, it seems I'm only as strange as the world I've found myself in. I have ten toes and ten fingers in the usual configuration. This world has villages, towns, cities, suburbs, rivers, trees, and animals. That doesn't mean the world or I are normal. There are things in these woods you can't find in a text book. If the man in the morgue had managed to open my chest, he would have found pieces of me that were not inside any other human. I've seen some of those parts myself but, like the woods and brambles I wander through, I haven't seen them all.

Would you like me to read the story to you instead? I have a recording of me reading it on YouTube?

Like the proverbial magpie, I spend a lot of my time learning about whatever new mystery happens to catch my notice. Maybe some of those things are in books. Maybe they're not. It's hard to get good books here. Today, I'm following some mysterious moths. Mrs. Welkie, whose house is maybe a mile away, lent me a book about moths in the region. These look like Ornate Tiger Moths but have blue coloration instead of orange.

I sat on a log and watched a group of the moths slowly opening their wings. The book said the Ornate Tiger Moths had a 1.7in wingspan. These seemed closer to 2 inches but I wasn't bothered by the discrepancy.

A pair of people approached, bothering the birds, bugs, and who knew what else. It was unlikely they were here for the bugs or at least not the same bugs I was watching.

The two stumbled around the biggest tree closest behind me.

“John?” a woman's voice said.

“Yes.” I didn't turn from my study subject.

“Mrs. Welkie said we'd find you out here,” a man's voice said. Mrs. Welkie was an older woman who made friends easily as I well knew.

“Does she need something?”

“No. She said you'd know where we might find three-banded ladybugs. They have yellow around their black spots —”

“I know what they look like. Try up that way,” I raised my left index finger and pointed up ahead. Strange enough to have someone else out here looking for a specific bug. Three-banded ladybugs might be about as rare as whatever I was looking at. I hadn't seen the bugs myself on this outing but I had a sense about it.

“Thanks!” the man said. The two started to march further into the forest. Both were dressed in tee shirts, shorts, and worn tennis shoes. Each carried a thin bag on their back.

“If you don't want to scare them off, walk more softly,” I said.

“Sure thing, dude,” the woman said.

I wasn't surprised when they continued to clomp and bluster through the wood. At least they were moving away from me and only a few of the moths had moved on.

---

I finished the lunch I'd packed and cleaned up the mess an hour or so after the sun had reached its highest level in the sky. There was a lot of light left in the day but the sky had started to turn a little. I'd been so engrossed in the moths that I hadn't been paying close enough attention.

The people after the ladybugs surely didn't have the gear they needed to deal with the coming storm. I sighed and retraced their route through the trampled plants they'd left in their wake.

Following them on foot would become harder once the sky darkened completely but I wasn't ready to pull out my flashlight yet.

Someone screamed a pretty good distance away. I ran toward the sound. I found the bugs they had been looking for but not the woman or man.

Their bags were up against a tree.

I kept my eyes on the ground in front of my feet, moving slowly and only occasionally looking above. The plants between the trees had been pressed down. The ladybugs they'd been looking for might have a lost a few of their number to whatever had pressed down on the plants but there were still plenty of them on the trunks of the trees.

“Hello?” I called out. I waited to hear a response.

The only thing I heard was the chirp of bugs and the rustling of the wind in the branches of trees. A group of birds cleared up from their roosting spots and flew to new, nearby branches on the same trees.

They distracted me for a moment. I nearly fell into the hole.

The hole was roughly round and about four feet in diameter. The interior wall was built of dirt. Shocks of roots from grasses and trees stuck out of the tunnel. The hole didn't go straight down like a well. It curved down and into the dark. I moved around to the side facing furthest away from Mrs. Welkie's house since that was the direction the hole headed.

I turned around and checked I could still get out before I was any further into it than waist deep. Before I lost sight of the light, I shouted. “Hello?!”

I counted beats and listened. I only heard what might have been a scratching. I pulled a flashlight out of my pocket and pointed it at the looming dark ahead of me. Four foot of vertical space isn't much to work with. I had to crouch to move. I steadied myself on the sides of the tunnel and stopped every few steps to shine the light ahead.

“Hello?” I called into the dark. I weighed options. Whatever had made this hole was huge. So far, the things I had found in the dark were creatures that weren't able to deal a deadly blow to someone who could recover from burning to death. My memory was limited. The fire that sent me to the morgue hadn't killed me but I'd forgotten everything I'd known before then. I don't know what I am or what my limits are. I seemed to need to breathe, eat, and sleep. I might survive a fire — at great personal cost. I didn't know whether I could survive a fall, drowning, or some other thing.

Some stories I'd read suggested that strange entities like me might be killed by silver knives or salt. I'd never had a chance to test the silver theory but salted fried potatoes hadn't harmed me yet.

Assuming the woman and man were even in the tunnel, I might not be able to rescue them unassisted. I didn't have more on me than the clothes on my back, the flashlight in my hand, truck keys, wallet, notebook, pencil, and folding knife in my pockets. These weren't ideal tools for a rescue.

I shouted down the hole again. My voice echoed off the walls of the tunnel. I heard a drip and some rustling in the distance but no voices answered mine.

A few steps later, the tunnel under me crumbled and sent me down through another passage.

---

I woke in a pile of debris, looking up at faint light from a hole in the uneven roof of the place where I found myself. There were roots a few fingers thick leading up. I felt for my flashlight and found it by my right hand in the dirt and stones. I shined it up. The plastic lens in my flashlight had been cracked but it didn't do much to hurt the light. I'd still have to replace the lens sooner or later. Before I could deal with that, I would have to get out. Even with the light, I couldn't be sure I could climb back up that way. The roots might snap under my weight and, even if they didn't, there were too few of them to be certain about making my way out the same way I'd come in.

If the woman and man fell like I had, they would probably be injured. I always wore denim, long-sleeve shirt, and thick leather boots when I went in the woods. My outer layers were dirtied but the fall hadn't cut through them.

The casual clothes they had been wearing wouldn't cover much of their vulnerable skin let alone hold up to a fall like that.

I didn't know that was what had happened with them but the math was starting to go sideways. I got to my feet and dusted myself off.

“Hello?! Can you hear me?” I bellowed. My voice didn't echo as much here. I listened and shined my light around the makeshift room I found myself in. Water dripped from somewhere. Where I'd fallen was near the high spot of the space so I hadn't woken up in a puddle.

I pushed my way through a gap and into the next space. It was larger than the place I'd first found myself in but it still wasn't really a place in the way the tunnel had been. Something was using this empty area and had made changes to it but the space itself may have been there for decades or more.

I don't know whether it was rational or not but I felt a shiver of fear. This was not a place for shouting. I moved quietly and turned the light in a circle around the room.

Something big had flattened out some of the space in the room but I didn't see it anywhere. Things were moving, though.

I spotted a human arm and made my way to it. It was still attached to the person. The woman.

She was covered in a thick, gooey mucus. Otherwise, she looked very much like she had when she and her friend had asked me about the bugs. Maybe she'd had an easier trip here than I had.

I wiped my hand across her face, making sure her mouth and nose were clear.

She squirmed and moaned.

“Are you ok?” I whispered.

She whined and squeezed her eyes closed.

“Sorry,” I muttered and moved the light away from her face.

“Where is he?”

“Your boyfriend?”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

I didn't have an answer to my question and my hand was starting to numb from the stuff I'd cleared off of her. I pulled her to one of the low spots in the space and used the water from the puddle to clear the goo from her exposed skin.

This wasn't a good place to be in but I was never going to get her topside without her cooperation.

She shrieked.

“Hush!” I said.

“Where the hell are we?”

“Underground in a den or something. Probably made by whatever brought you here. Where is the man you were with?”

“Who?”

I moved her to one of the walls and sat her down.

“Stay here,” I said. “And stay quiet.”

She nodded at me. She looked sleepy.

“What's your name?”

“Steph.”

“And the name of the guy you were with?” I rinsed my hands in the puddle closest to her.

Some presence of mind shook loose.

“Nathan. His name is Nathan.” Steph crawled close to the puddle as I walked into the dark.

A loud thud came from the direction I was heading.

Steph startled behind me, splashing the water she was now rinsing her shorts in.

I crouched lower and pointed the light at the ground. I had to climb through a gap into the next space. I stood to full height again.

I heard voices. Or something that sounded very much like voices. Chanting. Not words, I don't think. The voices were around me, talking to each other. At least that's the way it seemed to me. Maybe like birds or bugs calling to each other.

Something whizzed by my head. I ducked and flashed the light around. I didn't see what had flown by me but I did spot Steph's friend. I scanned around the room as I stumbled through the uneven ground. Stones and roots threatened to make me stumble.

Nathan was completely out of it. His legs were splayed and his upper body was hunched over them. He looked a little rougher than Steph did. He had cuts on his arms and legs but nothing life threatening.

I shook his shoulders.

He wasn't as covered in whatever slime had gotten on Steph. Maybe that was the reason for the cuts but I didn't have evidence of that yet. Nathan thrashed, almost like he'd been stirred from a slumber.

“Where am I?” he muttered.

I pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, Nathan,” I said. “Let's get out of here.”

“Ok,” he mumbled. “I lost my shoes.”

“I'm not surprised,” I said. I led him by the hand.

He squirmed in my grasp but didn't pull his hand back.

---

“Nathan?” Steph said as we made it back to the same chamber I'd found her in.

Nathan pulled away. He rushed around me and hugged Steph.

“You've still got goo on you,” Steph complained. She squeezed out of his grip and shoved him into the puddle.

“Make it quick,” I said. “We need to get out of here.”

The voices returned. They surrounded us. I flashed the light around. I could only catch the edges of them. They might have been bats or very large insects. I wasn't ready to rule anything out yet.

Steph and Nathan splashed around in the puddle, making a quiet racket the voices and flutterings couldn't quite drown out.

The splashing stopped suddenly.

“We're ready,” Steph whispered. “Are we going out the same way you came in?” (15:23 issue) “No,” I shook my head, heedless of whether they would see me do it. “I doubt I could get myself up that way. Without a rope, the three of us definitely wouldn't make it.”

“Sorry,” Nathan said.

I didn't respond. I went left since behind and front of me were blocked off and the right is where I'd found Nathan. Someone grabbed the back of my shirt but the hand didn't pull on me.

The makeshift tunnel we went through was uneven. It winded up, down, left, and right at random intervals and had the ends of tree roots crossing through the paths. I'm not so good with time when I'm deprived of the sun, moon, and stars.} I've never seen the point of wearing a watch. It makes sense for others. Just not for me. I rarely have appointments and what little money I need I get from donations or trades.

I wished a little for a watch now, though. It would be good to know if I should bother looking for a trace of sunlight through the drizzle that was surely happening above by now.

We came to a wider spot with the path diverging in two directions.

“Which way do we go?” Nathan said.

“Stay here,” I said. “I'll check one and come back for you.”

Steph looked like she was going to panic.

Irritation rose in me. I didn't want to deal with this but I couldn't risk them screaming.

“I won't be gone long. Please stay calm. I'm sure you don't want to draw them here.” I didn't even know who 'them' might be in this case. I hoped they knew more about what had brought them here than I did. I wanted to ask them if they remembered anything now that their skin wasn't covered in the mucus. I might try again later. I just had to hope whatever memories they might have would be enough to motivate them.

Steph nodded, biting her lower lip like it would keep her from making any noise. One of those strange human things. It wasn't that the lips made the noise but rather some strange shared symbolism I didn't have access to.

Had I known that kind of thing before the fire that took my memory and my past? I considered it often.

I rounded the corner. The trail narrowed and went up before going down again. I followed it a little further.

Something startled me. Some ... being. A creature of some sort. I wasn't close enough to see it clearly. Its proportions were inhuman. It had short hind legs, long forelimbs and giant gold eyes. Its body was more like the size and shape of a large dog than a human. It didn't have skin or solid pieces of an exoskeleton like an insect. It could have been made of rags. Some of its patches were brown and others green, black, or cream colored. I wasn't close enough to see for sure whether the colored spots were really made of cloth.

I had never seen its like. At least not in the memories I still had. I waited there for a moment to see what it would do.

It stood still but not so steady that I could mistake it for a statue or a dead thing. Its chest expanded and then contracted like breath.

If I could have been sure it was safe to draw near, I still wouldn't. The creature didn't seem inclined to let me move past it.

I turned around and kept an ear out for movement behind me. If the thing did follow me, it was utterly silent and didn't change the pressure of the air that surrounded us.

Had something like the creature taken Steph and Nathan into the tunnels? Had beings like it made the tunnels near the surface? If so, the things might have no interest in whatever I was. That didn't mean I was in the clear from danger. Anything after the others was a threat to me and there were other things in these tunnels too. Not just creatures but probably holes and cliffs.

When I got back, Steph looked like she was ready to chase after me.

“Well?”

I shook my head and led them the other way.

The path started out narrower and went down deeper and faster than the other had.

Steph and Nathan whispered behind me.

I had a rule I'd developed since losing my memory. I didn't involve myself in others' conversations where I'm clearly not wanted even if the conversation is about me.

“Mister,” Nathan said.

“Yeah,” I said without looking back. The darkness still enveloped us on every side, tempered only in front of us by my flashlight. I didn't have spare batteries on me. I wouldn't lose my head if I didn't have the light but Steph and Nathan were barely holding on.

“We didn't get your name.”

“John Doe,” I said.

Nathan laughed.

“Really. What's your name?”

“It's a long story but that is my name,” I said. It wasn't really that long but I didn't feel like telling it.

“John?” Steph said.

“Yes?”

“What was on the other path?”

“Dead end,” I said. If they found this unconvincing, they didn't say anything about it.

The path widened into another space. This one didn't have offshoots to worry about so we moved through it and into the next tunnel. I flicked the flashlight off and felt my way through the winding passage.

Maybe I was listening closer since I couldn't see or maybe my companions were more scared because it was dark. They made so much noise behind me that I wasn't confident I could clearly hear the things ahead of us. I guessed asking them for quiet would have made them angry and noisier. I tried to live with it.

The path opened up after a long while. I turned the flashlight back on.

Steph shrieked and Nathan startled. Nathan fell back onto his butt. At least the dirt here was dry.

I spotted what they were concerned about. Four creatures. The same kind that had turned me back from the other tunnel.

The creatures jumped back when they heard the noise from the other two but they didn't move off the paths they had staked off.

“I don't think they're trying to hurt us,” I said. I moved toward the one path that wasn't blocked.

The creatures didn't move from their spots. Their eyes seemed to glow in the dim frame made by my flashlight. It was just a reflection of light in a slightly golden hue.

“Come on,” I said.

Steph and Nathan didn't hurry to join me. I had to walk back to them and push them by the shoulders.

“If they wanted to hurt us, they would have done it already.”

Steph let out a cry of relief once we were in the next tunnel.

I squeezed in front of both of them and led them down the new path.

“Were those like the things that brought you here?”

“What? No. I don't think so at least. I couldn't see.”

“It might be the goo talking but I thought the things that got us were snakes.”

“Big ones. Like nothing you've ever seen.”

It was presumptuous to guess what I had and hadn't seen. In this case, they happened to be right. I hadn't seen a gigantic snake. I had seen things that frightened even me, though. I didn't need to fill their minds with terror as I was trying to get them to the forest above us.

I didn't think we could outrun a snake large enough to make the tunnel I'd first jumped into. I didn't know if a gigantic snake could move faster than a smaller one but they'd probably move fast enough especially in their own tunnels.

The passages were so quiet the sounds of Steph and Nathan breathing behind me were almost deafening. Much of this segment was pretty skinny but nearly tall enough for me to stand at full height if I needed to. Every step was uncertain and I was held up as much by my elbows pressing against the sides as I was by the ground under my boots.

“Can't we look ahead?” Nathan said. “I think this is starting to get to Steph.” The sound of something hitting a human back punctuated the silence.

“I'm fine. Just keep moving,” Steph said.

I slipped my hand inside my pocket and pulled out the cracked flashlight. I pressed the little rubberized switch to click the light on. Because of the bends and twists of the tunnel, I couldn't see much further ahead with the light than I could feel. I pressed the button again and dropped the flashlight in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt.

Several long and tense minutes later, we found ourselves in an empty space.

I turned the light on again and shined it around the room.

Steph shrieked as the light passed over some bats.

“They don't have any interest in us,” I said. “They eat bugs and small rodents.”

“No! You don't understand! Nate!”

I turned around.

Nate was down low with his ass on the ground, crawling backward. He looked up with his mouth wide open.

I spun around and searched for what they were reacting to. All I saw at first were the same flying shapes I'd identified as bats just a moment earlier. They still looked like bats but a large group of them melded together.

At first, the shape they made was like nothing I have seen on Earth or beneath it. It could have been like the shapes that swarming birds make sometimes but it morphed and shifted until they made five bipedal forms. The forms stood at about shoulder height. They weren't shaped much like humans. They had round bodies and spindly legs and arms. Their heads were roughly melon-shaped with big, gaping jaws and no sockets for the eyes they didn't have.

Even I felt a cold shiver in my bones. I didn't recognize them. Maybe I would have if I hadn't lost my memories. Something about them spoke of hunger and something else. Despite the similarities of our present forms, they didn't recognize us as anything more than prey.

Something fluttered around us. More of the little flittering, flying things that had merged to form the figures in front of us.

Nathan shrieked this time.

The form closest to us took a swipe at me. Its gleaming claws looked sharp enough to rend flesh from bones.

Instinct pulled me back in time to avoid a serious injury.

“Don't let them join up,” Steph shouted.

I scowled at that. I didn't have any reasonable options to keep them apart. I stepped between two of them, leaving three to my left and two to my right. I protected my front with my left arm and my back with my right.

The creatures formed of little flying animals shrieked and hissed at me. One of them held a clawed hand up for a moment and took a swipe at me.

I didn't have enough room to dodge this time.

It hit my left arm and left three deep gashes in it. The pain was sharp and bitter. It stung.

I was going to need a new shirt. I reached my right hand behind me.

“Get close and follow me. You can hold your fists up together to protect your midsection and most of your arteries,” I said with a quiet hiss.

There was a little scuffle behind me and then I felt someone press up against my back.

I reached and grabbed a shirt and pulled them forward with me.

“Don't stop for anything,” I muttered.

A few more of the bat creatures took swipes at me. A few claws landed, tearing the shoulder open on my shirt. I pulled through anyway.

Steph and Nathan both made noises of surprise. I would be able to rescue them if I could get them out but I didn't see a way to do it without further injury. It was no time to stop.

We pulled past the beings and made it to a tunnel.

“We got everyone?” I shouted without looking back.

“Yes,” Nathan and Steph both said.

“Alright. Keep going.”

I pulled the flashlight out and flicked it on, lighting up a little of the winding path in front of me.

We did the closest thing to a run that we could do in a tunnel that was a little wider and much shorter than me.

We came to another open area. This one was pretty small. The others wouldn't be able to pass me unless I pressed myself up against a wall.

“How are we doing?”

“You're bleeding,” Nathan looked like he might pass out at the sight of the blood running down my left arm.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” I said. I didn't know how bad it was but I had recovered from fatal burns. I figured a few cuts on the topside of my arm were probably not going to do the job. I squeezed past them and shoved the flashlight into my mouth. I dug into the low roof of the tunnel we'd just come through, partially collapsing it. I turned around and squeezed past them again. “Let's get going.”

---

The next stretch of tunnel started heading up a little. It was a relief. We'd been pretty steady in depth for a while. I'd already considered trying to dig up whenever we found a good place to try it.

Before I could give it any more thought, I realized I'd missed something.

“Back up,” I told the others.

“What's wrong?” Steph's voice came from behind Nathan.

“Nothing. We might have found a way out.”

They backed down the tunnel.

I turned back and found the hole I'd missed. It was a little small for me to fit in. I used both hands to dig it out.

Nathan watched me with something like fear mixed with excitement.

I was sure he was watching the wound on my left arm. I held the only light in my mouth. It was just strong enough now to help us make out the path ahead. It wouldn't give him much of a hint about how deep the cuts were.

I got the hole big enough to lift myself up into it. I shined the light and found one of the bigger, rounder tunnels.

I let myself back down.

“Go on. I'll help you up. Head left when you're up there,” I pulled Nathan toward me and lined him up with the hole.

I helped push him up. He disappeared into the dark.

“Are we getting close?” Steph said.

“It's heading in the right direction and it looks like the hole I came down to find you. I hope so.”

She nodded, looking more like she was thinking on what I'd said than anything else.

I pulled myself up into the tunnel after them.

“Careful where you step. On the way down, I fell into a hole that led me to you two.”

That seemed to give Nathan an idea. He got into a crawl and spread himself across as much of the width of the tunnel as he could.

“Do what Nathan's doing,” I told Steph.

The three of us crawled up the steep incline. The tunnel curved gently this way and that, occasionally leveling for twenty feet. It was almost a surprise when we crossed the hole I'd fallen in to begin with.

Nathan was able to easily avoid the hole. Steph and I followed after him.

Soon, the three of us were in mud from the rain that had come down into the tunnel.

“We're almost there,” I said. “Keep going but be careful. We don't want to slip down the tunnel.” I let the mud that we were crawling in cover my forearm. The mud couldn't hide the shreds that had been made of my shirt but the cuts would be less obvious. There was still water dripping but it might have been the leftovers of the rain working its way off the leaves and needles of the trees.

Steph managed to get herself out of the hole on her own but Nathan needed help.

As I was pushing Nathan out, small shapes chattered around us, moving past us and into the night sky.

“God. Not again!” Nathan said.

I pushed him out of the hole and climbed out of it myself.

The flying creatures formed up. This time, not in the shapes of the bipedal creatures that had found us underground. They formed into a gigantic, curving snake.

Steph wept silently and shook.

“Oh shit,” Nathan said when he saw what Steph was reacting to.

“Don't panic,” I said through gritted teeth. I pulled the flashlight out and turned it on. I shone it at the snake and walked steadily and calmly toward it.

It hissed and moved past me.

I spun around and saw it go down into the tunnel. It seemed to give us a final flick of the tail as it disappeared down the hole.

“What are we going to do now?” Steph said.

“I'll lead you back to Mrs. Welkie's place. You can find your way to your car from there.”

---

We walked through the damp of the night. I hoped they would calm down before we made it back to their car. I hoped the memories would fade into a dream-like thing with fuzzy edges.

They bickered about what to do. Nathan wanted to go to a nearby bar and try to tell others about what they experienced.

Steph looked skeptical.

“Will you go with us?” she asked me.

“We fell in a hole and dealt with some bats and badgers. I've already had my vaccines. You should get yourselves taken care of.”

“Bats?!” Nathan seemed offended. “You saw what we saw.”

“I don't think I did.” I flashed the light up ahead of us. “There's your car.”

“Where are you going?” Steph said.

“Back to my own truck.”

“Thanks for everything,” she said.

“Yeah. Thanks, man.” Nathan sounded a lot less grateful than Steph did but I hadn't just insinuated that she'd been imagining everything they went through.

We parted ways. I did stop at my truck. I pulled my torn shirt off and tossed it into a waste bag I keep under the shell. I pulled out a spade. I usually used it for latrine duty but it would have to do for my purpose.

The walk back to the tunnel was faster since I didn't have to worry about the others keeping up.

I hopped down the tunnel and scratched at the roof with my spade, aiming for the spots I thought might be weakest. It may have been my paranoia but I felt eyes staring at me in the dark. I didn't know how long I had before the others showed up.

Minutes of work left a nice pile of dirt and stones blocking the tunnel entrance. It would take more time and effort to block out the dim light from the moon and stars.

I dug faster, aiming to bring down big chunks. I was a little too successful and got myself caught in a crumbling pile of dirt and roots. I backed myself out of it and shook out my undershirt. I walked down the tunnel a good ways.

The eyes I'd felt on my back shone lightly in the dark. It might have been a trick of the mind or eyes.

What I saw had dim, red eyes. They made small movements. A group of them worked on another hole in the top curve of the tunnel. Each figure was a little taller than half the height of the tunnel itself. I couldn't make out much more about them than that.

I drew near. This part of the tunnel still required me to hunch down to move through it. I couldn't have been silent even if I'd tried. Every foot step and move involved a subtle crunch.

The red eyed beings didn't run or flinch. They did look at me from time to time as I moved closer to them. That didn't mean there was no danger. There wasn't enough light in the tunnel to see if they were the same kinds of creatures as the ones that had tried to keep us on the right paths before.

My heart pounded. After the help the others had given us, I wasn't ready to assume these were interested in harming me but I was still cautious.

The red eyed beings backed away from the hole they'd been digging. One of the closer red eyes nodded at the hole.

I looked up through the hole. It had a steep slope but it led to a dim sky blocked by the tops of waving trees.

“Thanks,” I said. I tucked the spade in my back pocket and started making the climb out of the hole.

I got out in time to find men wandering around the woods with flashlights in hand. Closing the hole I'd climbed through would have made too much noise. I slipped behind a row of trees.

They didn't see me.

I went off to the left, parallel to the line I figured they were making from Mrs. Welkie's house. I hopped Mrs. Welkie's chain link fence and slunk through the back yard to the house.

The yard was covered in leaves but the damp from earlier made the surface soft if not quiet to walk through. Someone who stood perfectly still might hear me from a pretty close distance. It was a risk but a smaller risk than standing still in woods that were being scoured by men with flashlights.

I scratched at the back door.

Mrs. Welkie opened it. She spotted me and came back out with a broom. She brushed me off and then let me into her house. She locked the back door behind us.

“Shower's in that way. I'll come in for your clothes and leave you a pile of my late husband's so don't mind the door.”

I nodded.

---

A knock came on the front door. I rushed through pulling on the clothes Mrs. Welkie had left me. The cuts on my arm and shoulders had stopped bleeding though they looked pretty severe still. The shirt would cover the wounds long enough to keep prying eyes away from them. I gave my hair another pass with the towel before walking out.

“John,” Mrs. Welkie said. She was near the front door and looked a little nervous.

“Coming,” I said. I took a steady pace to the front door, towel still around my neck.

A group of men stood outside Mrs. Welkie's house.

“Take us to the tunnels,” a man at the front said. He directed this to me.

I stepped out onto the porch. I felt a cold shiver. There were about thirty people gathered there.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“All my life. Forty years.”

“In all that time, how many have gone missing from these woods?”

His face twitched. He looked around at the crowd that surrounded him.

“Before today, none.”

“Counting today, none,” I said. “There's no one missing unless there are other hapless tourists no one has told me about.”

Some muttering broke out between the others in the crowd.

“They said there were monsters in the tunnels. It's not safe to have them so close to our houses.”

“I found them disoriented and distraught. They got out safely with my help. I climbed through dirt and muck to get them out. I didn't see anything scarier than a bug or a bat. I've already had my shower. I'm not showing you a hole I'll have to rescue you from in forty-five minutes.”

“Come on, James,” one of the other men pulled James's shoulder. “Let's go back to the bar. First round's on me.”

James scowled and pulled his shoulder back. He walked away from the woods.

I went back inside Mrs. Welkie's house. The smell of grilling sandwiches hit my nose. I sat down in a chair at the kitchen table and rested my head on my hands on top of the table.

“You know how long I've lived in these woods?” Mrs. Welkie said as she stirred the soup that was bubbling beside the sandwiches.

“No,” I said. Exhaustion filled my voice.

“All seventy some odd years of my life. I've seen things in the darkness. Things I wouldn't dare tell anyone but you. I think of them as friends. Or at least well-behaved neighbors. They never borrow my sugar or shout at each other after the sun goes down.”

There are things in the forest worth worrying about and I did see some of them that night. Most of those were humans, though.

“I feel like thanking you but I wonder if you're not something more than you appear to be,” Mrs. Welkie said as she placed a pair of grilled sandwiches on a plate and set them in front of me.

I raised my head and gave her a slight smile.

---

I cleaned up the plate, bowl, pan, and pot after the sandwiches and soup.

Mrs. Welkie came back out. She had on a night gown that went from her neck to her socked feet.

“I put a blanket and pillow on the couch. You can sleep there while you wait for the dryer to finish or stick around until morning and get breakfast out of the deal. I'm up past my bedtime.”

I nodded.

She left and I bedded down on the couch.

The night sounds of a strange house are hard to sleep through. I wondered if some of the noises would have been more familiar before I lost my memories. I nodded off and slept until nearly three in the morning.

It was almost dead silent in and outside of the house. It might have been the quiet that woke me. I looked out the window beside the front door.

Some of the gold-eyed rag creatures were outside, rambling in the dim light of the moon on a night that had become clear since I had fallen asleep.

I stepped out into the chilly wet with my bare feet.

The creatures froze when they heard me but relaxed when they saw me.

I walked to them, crouching down to make myself less tall. I tried to see the world as they must have. A human might have seen the dark but even they could have made out the shapes of the trees and the dips and climbs of the uneven ground around us.

The creatures' ramble was almost like a dance. Their frames were built more for a four limbed stride than bipedalism but I still saw the artistry in it.

One of them rambled up to me. It turned its left hand up and raised it twice.

I held my hand up as it had but didn't repeat the raising motion.

It made a sound that might have been a squeak or a chortle and dropped something in my hand. It was a smooth but pliable round ball. In the dim light, I couldn't tell the color but it might have been a smooth ball of dirt. A little less heavy and maybe wrapped in smooth leaves.

The being showed me another ball in its own hand and touched its tongue to the ball.

I licked the ball it had given me. It tasted a little savory and slightly sweet. It was nothing like human food but it stirred something familiar in me. I was sure I wasn't one of these beings. It wasn't just the fact that I looked like a human to the casual observer. There were other, more fundamental differences between us but that didn't mean we were too unalike to share a moment.

“Thanks,” I said. I slipped the ball in the pocket of the shirt Mrs. Welkie had loaned me. I snapped the pocket button closed.

The creature made a repeated noise that sounded a bit like “squork.”

“It's a little late in the night for me to eat.”

The being rolled over its shoulder like it was a ball. It scampered to catch up with its friends.

I slipped back into the house and went back to sleep.

In the morning, a movement in the shirt pocket woke me up. I slipped out the front door and unsnapped the pocket. A bug flew out of it. Big enough to be the thing I'd licked before.

I lifted the left cuff on the shirt and peeked at the wounds on my arm. They'd started an inch deep and each was now the depth of a fingernail's thickness.

I may be strange but, so far, it seems I'm only as strange as the world I've found myself in.

#AudioFiction #Horror #Halloween #Fiction #JohnDoeIsNotAlone