The Old Blog in the Desert

Call me a skeptic, but I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, or supernatural mumbo-jumbo. So when I found myself floating above my body one night in 2012, I thought I was dreaming. But this was no dream. It was real.

Jack is my name, a 52-year-old overnight radio announcer living a mundane life in suburbia. Nothing extraordinary ever happens to me until that fateful night. I remember it vividly. I had gone to bed like any day, tired after a long morning at work. But as I drifted off to sleep, something strange happened.

At first, I felt weightless, like being lifted off my bed by invisible hands. Then, suddenly, I was standing beside my bed, staring down at my sleeping form. Panic surged through me as I realized what was happening.

Was I dead? Was this an out-of-body experience?

Try as I might, I could not touch my body as my hands passed through it like mist. I was incorporeal, a mere ghost of my former self. But I wasn’t ready to accept that I was dead. I needed answers.

With no physical form to hold me back, I floated through the walls of my apartment, out into the cool night air. The city sprawled below me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows. It was surreal, like something out of a science fiction movie.

As I drifted through the city streets, I realized I could see and hear things impossible for a living person, including the whispered conversations of strangers and the hidden desires on their faces. It was as if I had access to a world beyond the veil of reality.

But even as I marveled at my newfound abilities, fear gnawed at the edges of my mind. What if I was trapped in this state forever? What if I could never find my way back to my body?

I wandered through the city and the country, lost in my thoughts. But then, something caught my attention.

A figure standing on a street corner shrouded in darkness. Instinctively, I drew towards it like a moth to a flame.

As I drew closer, I realized that the figure was not alone. Others were lurking in the shadows, eyes gleaming with bitterness. They were not human, not in the traditional sense. They were something else, something darker.

Fear gripped me as I realized they were aware of my presence. They turned towards me, their gaze piercing through the darkness like daggers. And then, with a sudden burst of speed, they lunged towards me, their claws outstretched.

In terror, I tried to flee, to escape their grasp, but it was no use. They were faster than anything I had ever encountered. With a desperate cry, I felt their claws tear through my essence, ripping me apart.

And then, darkness.

When I woke up, I was back in my body, lying in bed, drenched in sweat. It took me a moment to realize that it had all been a dream, a terrifyingly vivid nightmare. But even as I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than my imagination running wild, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was real.

As I lay there, trembling, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to me. Was it just a trick of the mind, a manifestation of my deepest fears? Or had I truly experienced something beyond the realm of the living?

I may never know the answer, but one thing — I will never look at the world in quite the same way again as in that moment between life and death, I caught a glimpse of something truly extraordinary, something that defied all logic and reason.

The studio lights glowed softly overhead, casting warmth on the polished wooden desk. I adjusted the microphone, “Good morning,” I began, my voice steady, as I launched into my unprepared monologue, recounting the strange events that had unfolded the night before.

As I spoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was opening myself up to ridicule, exposing my deepest fears and vulnerabilities to the world. But to my surprise, the response from the listeners was overwhelming.

Call after call flooded in, each telling a similar story of a strange, out-of-body experience that had occurred at the same time as mine.

“It was like I was floating above my own body,” one caller said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I thought I was dreaming, but it felt so real, like I was really there.”

Others shared similar accounts, describing sensations of weightlessness and disembodiment that mirrored my own experience. Some spoke of encounters with shadowy figures, while others recounted feelings of overwhelming dread and fear.

As the calls continued to pour in, I felt a strange sense of validation wash over me. I wasn’t alone. Whatever had happened to me, it had affected others as well. And though I couldn’t explain it, I knew it was something significant and that it demanded further investigation.

As my show progressed, I shifted gears from the personal unexplained weirdness of my dream to more mundane matters by diving into the latest news headlines.

“Scientists at the European Organization for Nuclear Research, better known as CERN, have made a groundbreaking discovery,” I read, “They have successfully detected the elusive Higgs boson, also known as the ‘God Particle,’ using the Large Hadron Collider. This particle, which is believed to give mass to other particles, has long been the holy grail of particle physics.”

A few hours later, I signed off for the morning, handing the studio to the morning show. As I drove home and the sun began to rise, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of concern stirring within me.

In the days following, I could find no concrete answers, and the experience remained a mystery. And yet, despite the lack of answers, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was on the brink of a discovery, something that would change how I perceive the world forever.

Lost in the labyrinthine aisles of the bookstore, I stumbled upon a volume that would alter the course of my understanding—the concept of Neuromemory Errors. As I pored over its pages, the words seemed to dance before my eyes, igniting a spark of curiosity that would soon consume my every waking thought.

With each example of collective false memory, the tendrils of doubt tightened their grip on my mind. The Berenstain Bears, the Monopoly Man, the iconic misquote from “Star Wars”—all served as reminders of the fragility of memory, the way our recollections can diverge from reality with disquieting ease.

“But what if there’s more to it than just faulty memory?” I mused aloud. “What if Neuromemory Errors are manifestations of something deeper, something beyond our comprehension?”

As I pondered the implications, a chill crept up my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Memories of that fateful night flooded my mind, the sensation of weightlessness, the feeling of drifting through the darkness like a specter haunting the world of the living.

“What if,” I whispered to myself, the words barely audible in the stillness of the bookstore, “what if Neuromemory Errors are more than just glitches in our perception? What if they’re glimpses into alternate realities, echoes of lives we’ve never lived, and events that never occurred?”

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, the boundaries between reality and illusion blurring like ink on wet paper. It was a tantalizing possibility that threatened to unravel the fabric of my understanding and reshape the core of my being.

But as the puzzle pieces fell into place, a sense of clarity washed over me like a wave crashing against the shore. Perhaps the out-of-body experience I had encountered was not an anomaly but a doorway into a realm where the rules of reality were fluid and ever-changing, where the boundaries between self and other blurred and merged into one.

Days turned into weeks as I delved deeper into my research, poring over scientific journals and obscure texts in search of answers. But with each passing day, the questions only seemed to multiply, like branches spreading outwards from the trunk of a great tree.

“What if our understanding of reality is fundamentally flawed?” I mused, my thoughts drifting like clouds across the sky. “What if there are dimensions beyond our perception, realms of existence that exist outside the boundaries of our comprehension?”

The notion was exhilarating and terrifying, like standing on the edge of a precipice, poised to leap into the unknown. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t turn away from it, no matter how unsettling it might be.

And then, one morning, as I sat alone in my study, surrounded by stacks of research papers and my dim desk lamp, it happened—a strange sensation washed over me, a tingling at the edges of my consciousness, like a whisper in the darkness.

I looked up, my heart pounding in my chest, and there, before me, was a shimmering doorway—a doorway to another realm of understanding, where the boundaries of memory blurred and the mysteries of the mind beckoned.

With trembling hands, I stepped over the threshold and into a world of vivid recollections and forgotten dreams. Colors swirled around me, sounds echoed in strange harmonies, and I felt a sense of wonder, unlike anything I had ever experienced.

And in that moment, as I stood on the precipice of discovery, I realized that Neuromemory Errors were not just a quirk of the mind. They were a complexity of human cognition, a reminder that our memories are not infallible but malleable.

As my obsession with Neuromemory Errors grew, so did the strain on my professional life.

Each day, I found myself consumed by my research, poring over obscure texts and scientific papers late into the night. The lines between work and obsession blurred, my thoughts consumed by questions of alternate realities and the nature of perception.

But as my focus shifted, so too did the quality of my broadcasts. Listeners grew weary of my increasingly esoteric topics, and ratings plummeted. It wasn’t long before the station manager called me into his office.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. “But we can’t continue to support your show if it’s not bringing in listeners.”

And with those words, I cleaned out my desk drawers and left the building. I felt like I had been cast adrift on an ocean of uncertainty, the waves of doubt threatening to pull me under.

But even as I packed up my belongings and said my farewells, a sense of liberation came over me like a cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. For the first time in seven years, I was free—free to pursue my research without the constraints of corporate expectations or the pressure to perform.

As I returned home, I threw myself into my studies with renewed vigor, the walls becoming a sanctuary for my burgeoning obsession. Days became weeks, weeks into months, as I delved deeper into the mysteries of Neuromemory Errors. I lost track of time, caught in a labyrinth of my making, searching for answers in the darkest corners of the human mind.

But with each discovery, I felt a sense of exhilaration, unlike anything I had ever experienced. The world seemed to shimmer with possibility, every question leading to another, every answer opening new doors of inquiry.

And as the months turned into years, I emerged from my self-imposed exile a changed man. No longer bound by society or the expectations of others, I had become something more.

The year is 2024, and the world teeters on the brink of chaos. The COVID pandemic has ravaged economies, shattered lives, and left a trail of devastation in its wake.

For Jack, now known as “Bastard Jack” among the unhoused, as the media and the politically correct now call the homeless, at an unauthorized encampment along the river, the fallout from the pandemic had been brutal. With his savings depleted and his mind consumed by his obsession with Neuromemory Errors, Jack had become a shadow of his former self.

To the others of the encampment, he appeared little more than a madman, his incessant ramblings about alternate realities and fractured memories falling on deaf ears. But amidst the chaos and despair, one voice seemed to cut through the cacophony of madness—Crazy Charlie, an eccentric recluse with wild eyes and a penchant for conspiracy theories.

To Bastard Jack, Crazy Charlie’s rants about government corruption and the collapse of society found a chord, resonating with the shattered echoes of his fragmented thoughts. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the makeshift encampment, Bastard Jack and Crazy Charlie huddled around a small fire, their voices rising and falling in heated debate.

“You see, Bastard Jack,” Crazy Charlie began, his eyes alight with the flicker of the flame dancing in the cooking pit, “it’s all a sham, a grand illusion designed to keep us subservient and obedient. They want us to believe that socialism is the answer, and that big government is our savior. But look at Venezuela, look at Cuba—socialism only leads to poverty and oppression.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully, the flames of the fire glowing in his eyes. “But what about the hypocrisy, Charlie?” he interjected, his voice tinged with frustration. “How can they preach equality and justice while discriminating against their citizens?”

Crazy Charlie chuckled darkly, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Ah, you see, my friend, it’s all part of their twisted agenda,” he said. “They talk about equality, but when it comes down to it, they only care about maintaining their own power and privilege. It’s a rigged game, Bastard Jack, and we’re the ones paying the price.”

There was a pause, a silence filled by the crackling of the fire as it roasted a squirrel on a spit, barely dinner enough for one man, split between two.

“You see, it’s all connected,” Crazy Charlie would proclaim, his voice rising as he espoused his outlandish theories. “The government’s been lying to us for years, feeding us a steady diet of propaganda and misinformation. But I see through their lies, Bastard Jack. I see the truth.”

Jack nodded, his mind racing with the possibilities. “What truth?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The truth is that we’re all just pawns in their game,” Crazy Charlie replied, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Forget Biden and Trump. They’re just puppets, dancing to the tune of their corporate masters. An forget Congress. They’ve been manipulating us from the very beginning, pulling the strings behind the scenes to further their own twisted agenda.”

As Crazy Charlie spoke, Jack felt a sense of exhilaration coursing through his veins. Could it be that they were onto something, that there was more to their existence than met the eye?

“But that’s not all,” Crazy Charlie continued, his voice taking on a somber tone. “There’s something else, something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. It all started back in 2012, when CERN discovered the God Particle.”

Jack’s eyes widened in disbelief. “The God Particle?” he echoed, his mind racing with possibilities.

“That’s right,” Crazy Charlie confirmed, nodding solemnly.

“But what they didn’t get the chance to tell us is that it tore open the fabric of reality, unleashing forces beyond human comprehension,” he added. “We’re all just ghosts, trapped in the final seven minutes before complete brain death.”

The Mound House company, Polymer80 has reached a settlement agreement with the City of Baltimore to address the proliferation of untraceable firearms.

A lawsuit, initiated by city leaders two years ago in response to a surge of “ghost guns” on Baltimore streets, accused Polymer80 of intentionally circumventing federal and state firearms laws. It alleged the company provided unassembled firearm kits without serial numbers to buyers, facilitating the acquisition of firearms by individuals prohibited from purchasing them legally.

Terms of the settlement are that Polymer80 will cease sales of its gun kits to Maryland residents. The agreement includes $1.2 million in damages.

Mayor Brandon Scott emphasized the settlement addresses the issue of gun-related crimes in the city, citing statistics indicating that a majority of homicides in Baltimore are from firearms. A partnership with the Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence played a role in pursuing legal action against Polymer80.

While similar litigation against Polymer80 has emerged in other cities, the Baltimore settlement is the most comprehensive by imposing restrictions on operations, prohibiting advertising, and extending the sales ban to dealers in neighboring states conducting business with Maryland residents.

Scott, a Democrat, is running for reelection as Baltimore mayor this year, said the lawsuit shows his administration is “using every tool at its disposal to address the epidemic of gun violence we face.”

City officials said the Baltimore Police Department (BDP) seized 462 ghost guns in 2023, and so far this year, the BDP has seized 43 “ghost guns,” 30 percent more when compared to last year. There have been 24 homicides in the city since the start of 2024.

Carson City judge has ruled against two proposed ballot questions to establish an independent redistricting commission in Nevada.

Senior Judge Robert Estes sided with the plaintiffs, represented by Bravo Schrager and Elias Law Group, both Democrat-aligned firms. Estes concurred with their argument that the proposed petitions would violate the Nevada Constitution by imposing an unfunded mandate.

The petitions, which were identical except for the timing of redistricting, were contested because they would create a new state entity, an independent redistricting commission, without providing the necessary funding for its operations. The ruling preserves the Legislature’s control over the redistricting process, a power utilized by Democratic lawmakers in 2021 to reinforce their structural advantages in state legislative and congressional elections.

Fair Maps Nevada, the organization championing the petitions, has advocated for an independent redistricting commission for several years. Despite previous attempts in 2020 and 2022, they continue working to get the measures onto the ballot.

Sondra Cosgrove, a professor at the College of Southern Nevada involved in the initiative, expressed disagreement with the ruling, particularly regarding the petition’s attempt to establish the commission for the 2031 redistricting cycle. Cosgrove argues that funds already exist for the Legisture’s process could be used to support the proposed commission.

The next step for Fair Maps Nevada is uncertain, with Cosgrove indicating that the organization had not yet decided whether to appeal the rulings. The possibility of revising the petitions to include funding for the commission raises additional challenges, such as potential violations of the single-subject rule for ballot initiatives.

Supporters of an independent redistricting commission have argued that it would mitigate partisan biases in redistricting, addressing gerrymandering practices that favor one party over another. Nevada’s electoral maps, redrawn during 2021 under Democratic control, have faced criticism for maximizing Democratic advantages in legislative races.

Historically, redistricting disputes in Nevada are about divided government control. Past conflicts, such as those in 2011 and 2001, involved disagreements between the governor and the Legislature, resulting in special sessions or judicial intervention to finalize new maps.

In the ancient place of Yhvona, east of Mound House and below the Comstock lode, buried beneath the shifting sands of the desert, lies the forgotten ziggurat. The structure, rumored to be older than civilization itself, is said to hold secrets of unimaginable power. As archaeologists unearth its mysteries, they unknowingly awaken forces that should have remained dormant.

Among them, Dhumin, the Burrower from the Bluff, stirs, casting a growing shadow over the expedition. As the team delves deeper into the ziggurat’s depths, they uncover forbidden knowledge that threatens to unleash chaos upon the world.

A team of archaeologists led by Dr. Evelyn Hartley, a renowned expert in ancient civilizations, embark on an ambitious expedition to uncover the secrets of the legendary Ziggurate of Yhvona, a structure steeped in mystery and myth. As they begin excavating, strange occurrences plague the team.

Bizarre symbols appear on the walls, and members report unsettling dreams of vast, cyclopean cities beneath the sea. Despite the growing sense of unease, Hartley is determined to press on, driven by her thirst for knowledge.

As they delve deeper into the ziggurat, they uncover a chamber untouched by time. Within lies an ancient tome bound in ungodly leathery flesh, its pages filled with blasphemous incantations and eldritch sigils. Ignoring warnings from colleagues, Hartley begins to decipher the forbidden text, unwittingly awakening the slumbering serpentine earth-shaking horror dwelling in the subsoil, Dhumin.

With each incantation spoken, Dhumin’s influence grows, twisting the minds of the expedition members and warping reality itself. Madness descends upon the team as they become pawns in the Master of R’lyeh’s grand design, their sanity slipping away with each passing moment.

As chaos consumes the expedition, Hartley must confront the consequences of her actions and find a way to seal the ancient evil she has unleashed before it devours them all. But with Dhumin’s power growing with every heartbeat, the world hangs in the balance.

The desert sun beat down mercilessly upon the sands of Yhvona as Dr. Evelyn Hartley stood before the imposing structure that loomed before her team. The Ziggurate of Yhvona, whispered about in ancient texts and half-forgotten legends, now lay exposed to the elements after millennia buried beneath the shifting dunes.

Hartley adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and adjusted the strap of her backpack, excitement and anticipation coursing through her veins. She had spent years researching the enigmatic civilization that had once thrived in this desolate land, and now, finally, she stood on the threshold of unlocking its secrets.

Beside her, archaeologists and researchers buzzed with activity, setting up tents and unloading equipment. Among them were Dr. Marcus Ramirez, a geologist with a keen eye for detail, and languages and scripts expert Dr. Li Wei.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, Evelyn,” Ramirez said, wiping sweat from his brow as he surveyed the vast sand that stretched before them. “But if anyone can uncover the mysteries of this place, it’s you.”

Hartley smiled, her gaze never leaving the ziggurat.

“Thank you, Marcus. But remember, this is a team effort. We’re all in this together.”

As the day wore on, the team set to work, carefully mapping out the site and cataloging their findings. Wei meticulously translated the inscriptions carved into the weathered rock while Ramirez examined the geological composition of the surrounding area.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon and the desert sky turned crimson, Hartley noticed peculiar symbols etched into the walls of the ziggurat, symbols she had never seen before in any of her research.

“Marcus, come take a look at this,” she called, beckoning her colleague to where she stood.

Ramirez approached, squinting at the intricate carvings. “That’s odd. These symbols don’t match any known language or script.”

Wei joined them, furrowing her brow in concentration, “Indeed. It’s as if they’re… otherworldly.”

The hairs on the back of Hartley’s neck stood on end. She had heard whispers of ancient civilizations making contact with beings from beyond the stars, but she had always dismissed them as mere myths.

“We need to proceed with caution,” Hartley said, her voice tinged with unease. “There’s more to this ziggurat than meets the eye.”

Little did they know, their journey into the heart of Yhvona’s mysteries was only beginning.

Days turned into weeks as the team delved deeper into the heart of the ziggurat, each step bringing them closer to unlocking its secrets. Hartley led the expedition with excitement and trepidation, her thirst for knowledge tempered by an underlying sense of foreboding.

Inside the ancient structure, the air was thick with dust and the scent of decay. Torchlight flickered against the walls, casting eerie shadows that danced in the darkness.

Wei traced her fingers along the faded inscriptions, her lips moving as she translated the ancient text.

“These writings speak of a time before time,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of gods and monsters that walked the earth long before humanity took its first breath.”

Ramirez glanced around nervously, his hand never straying far from the revolver holstered at his hip. “I don’t like this, Evelyn. There’s something… off about this place.”

Hartley nodded, her gaze fixed on the yawning darkness ahead. “Agreed. But we must press on. The answers we seek lie within these walls.”

As they ventured deeper into the ziggurat, they came upon a chamber unlike any they had seen before. The walls had intricate carvings depicting scenes of cosmic horror—tentacled monstrosities emerging from the depths of the sea and vast, cyclopean cities that lay hidden beneath the waves.

“This is incredible,” Hartley breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. “These carvings… they depict beings of unimaginable power. It’s as if they were trying to capture the essence of the divine.”

But Ramirez shook his head, his expression grim. “I’m not so sure, Evelyn. These carvings… feel more like a warning than a celebration. Like the ancients were trying to ward off something… or someone.”

Before Hartley could respond, a sudden wind swept through the chamber, extinguishing their torches. Darkness, thick and suffocating, sent a chill down their spines.

“What was that?” Wei whispered, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence.

But before anyone could answer, a low, guttural chant echoed through the chamber, sending shivers down their spines. It was a language unlike any they had ever heard, ancient and primal, filled with power and menace.

And beneath the chant, they heard something else—a sound that chilled them to the bone. A sound like the grinding of stone on stone, the scraping of claws against ancient stone.

With growing dread, they realized they were not alone in the darkness.

Heart pounding in her chest, Hartley strained her eyes against the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. But all she could hear was the rhythmic chant echoing through the chamber, growing louder with each passing moment.

“We need to get out of here, now!” Ramirez hissed, his hand trembling as he fumbled for the matches in his pocket.

But before he could strike a flame, a sudden light illuminated the chamber, casting stark shadows against the walls. And there, standing before them in all its grotesque glory, was a creature straight out of a nightmare.

It stood tall and imposing, its form shrouded in darkness save for the glowing eyes that burned with an otherworldly light. Its skin was slick and glistening, covered in slimy tendrils that writhed and squirmed with a life of their own.

Hartley’s breath caught in her throat as she beheld the creature before her, her mind struggling to comprehend the horror of its existence. It was no mere artifact of the past—it was a living, breathing nightmare from the depths of the abyss.

As the creature advanced towards them, its chanting growing louder and frenzied, Hartley knew they were out of options. With a trembling hand, she reached for the revolver at her side, steeling herself for what was to come.

But before she could pull the trigger, a voice echoed through the darkness—a voice that sent a chill down her spine and froze the blood in her veins.

“Stop.”

The word hung heavy as a figure stepped forward from the shadows. It was tall and imposing, features obscured by the hood of a cloak, but there was an aura of command about him that brooked no argument.

“Who are you?” Hartley demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.

The figure inclined his head, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “I am known by many names,” it replied cryptically. “But you may call me… Yhagni.”

Hartley exchanged a wary glance with Ramirez and Wei, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. There was something about Yhagni, an unnamable something that commanded their respect as it spoke of a power beyond mortal comprehension.

“What do you want from us?” Ramirez asked, his voice trembling with fear.

Yhagni’s gaze bore into theirs as if searching their souls for some hidden truth. “I am here to offer you a choice,” he said solemnly. “You have uncovered secrets that were not meant to be revealed, and now you stand on the precipice of a great reckoning. You can turn back now, and flee from this place, or you can continue down the path you have chosen… and face the consequences.”

Hartley hesitated, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. But in the end, her thirst for knowledge won out, driving her forward despite the overwhelming sense of dread that gnawed at her insides.

“We will continue,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her heart. “We will uncover the truth of this place, no matter the cost.”

Yhagni nodded, his expression unreadable. “So be it,” it said before fading back into the shadows from whence it came.

And with that, Hartley sealed the fate of herself and the team as they ventured further into the heart of darkness, their minds and souls teetering on the brink of madness.

With Yhagni’s cryptic warning echoing in their minds, Hartley and her team pressed onward into the depths, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. The air grew colder with each passing moment, and a sense of unease settled over them like a suffocating shroud.

Wei trailed her fingers along the walls, eyes scanning the carvings for any clue that might shed light on their predicament. But the symbols remained as unreadable as ever, their meaning lost to the sands of time.

“I don’t like this, Evelyn,” Ramirez whispered, his voice barely audible over their footsteps. “We should turn back while we still can.”

But Hartley shook her head, her determination unyielding. “No. We’ve come too far to turn back now. We must press on, no matter the cost.”

As they ventured deeper into the ziggurat, the darkness seemed to close around them, filling the air with an oppressive weight that threatened to crush their spirits. Strange whispers echoed through the corridors, the voices of long-dead civilizations crying in agony and despair.

And then, they came upon it—a chamber unlike any they had seen before.

The walls were adorned with strange sigils and symbols, pulsating with an otherworldly energy that sent shivers down their spines. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, upon which rested a book bound in ancient leather, its pages filled with arcane writings and forbidden knowledge.

Hartley approached the pedestal, her heart pounding as she reached out to touch the book. But before her fingers could make contact, a voice spoke from the shadows—a voice that sent a chill down her spine and froze the blood in her veins.

“Stop.”

The word hung in the air as Yhagni stepped forward from the darkness. Its eyes blazed with an otherworldly light, its gaze piercing through them like a dagger.

“You have trespassed upon sacred ground,” it intoned, its voice like thunder in the silence. “You have awakened forces that should have remained dormant, and now you must face the consequences of your actions.”

Hartley swallowed hard, her throat dry with fear. “What… what do you mean?”

Yhagni’s gaze bore into hers, its expression inscrutable. “This book, the Necronomicon, contains knowledge beyond mortal comprehension,” it explained. “It holds the key to unlocking powers that should never be wielded by human hands. If you take it, you will unleash forces that will consume you from within, driving you to madness and despair.”

Hartley hesitated, her mind racing with conflicting thoughts and emotions. But in the end, her thirst for knowledge won out, driving her forward despite the overwhelming sense of dread that gnawed at her insides.

“We must take the book,” she said, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “We must uncover the truth of this place, no matter the cost.”

Yhagni’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of green energy crossing its features. “Very well,” it said solemnly. “But know this—you have been warned.”

And with that, it faded into the shadows, leaving Hartley and her team alone in the darkness, their fate sealed by her hubris. With a trembling hand, Dr. Hartley reached out and took the book, feeling its ancient power coursing through her veins like wildfire.

As she opened its pages and began deciphering its secrets, she felt something stirring within her—a darkness that threatened to consume her soul and drag her down into the abyss.

But it was too late to turn back now.

As Hartley delved deeper into the forbidden knowledge within the ancient tome, she felt a dark power coursing through her veins, giving her a sense of exhilaration and dread. The words on the page seemed to dance before her eyes, twisting and writhing like living things as she struggled to decipher their meaning.

But with each passing moment, the darkness within her grew, consuming her from within and driving her to the brink of madness. Visions of unspeakable horrors flickered through her mind—vast, cyclopean cities that lay hidden beneath waves and monstrous entities that slumbered in the depths of the abyss.

And then, with a sudden burst of insight, she understood.

The ziggurat was not merely a structure built by mortal hands—it was a gateway to realms beyond human comprehension, a conduit of power. And now, with the knowledge contained within the book, she held the key to unlocking its true potential.

Smiling, Hartley turned to her companions, her eyes burning with a mad zeal. “We have done it,” she declared, her words echoing. “We have unlocked the secrets of the ziggurat, and now we shall wield its power as our own.”

But Ramirez recoiled in horror, his face pale with fear. “Evelyn, no! You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re playing with forces beyond our control.”

But Hartley brushed aside his protests, her mind consumed by the intoxicating rush of power. “You cannot stop me, Marcus,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “I am destined for greatness, and nothing you say can stand in my way.”

With a flick of her wrist, she uttered the words of power contained within the book, unleashing a wave of dark energy that rippled through the chamber like a tsunami. The walls shook and groaned, and the air crackled with eldritch energy as reality unraveled.

And then, with a roar, the ziggurat collapsed in on itself, its ancient stones crumbling to dust as the darkness consumed everything in its path, the void swallowing Hartley and the team, their screams drowned out by the cacophony of destruction.

And as the dust settled and the echoes of their demise faded into silence, the ziggurat lay in ruins, a folly of hubris.

Yhagni watched from the shadows, “I warned them,” it murmured, but the humans will not listen.”

Hartley delved deeper into the forbidden knowledge within the ancient tome, and darkness began to take hold of her mind. Whispers echoed through her thoughts, urging her to unlock the secrets of the ziggurat at any cost.

Ramirez and Wei watched with growing concern as their colleague became increasingly obsessed with the book, her once bright eyes now clouded with madness. They tried to reason with her, to convince her to abandon her quest before it was too late.

“We have to stop her,” Ramirez insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. “Before it’s too late.”

Wei nodded grimly, her expression mirroring his concern. “We can’t let her unleash whatever horrors lie within that book. We have to find a way to destroy it.”

But as they moved to confront Hartley, they met a sight that chilled them to the bone. The chamber transformed, its walls pulsating with otherworldly energy that seemed to emanate from the book itself as shadows danced across the stone, twisting and writhing as if alive.

And at the center of it all stood Hartley, her eyes ablaze with madness as she chanted incantations from the pages. Her voice was low and guttural, filled with a power that sent shivers down their spines.

“We have to stop her,” Ramirez repeated, his voice tinged with fear. “Before she unleashes something we can’t control.”

Wei nodded in agreement, steeling herself for what was to come. Together, they lunged forward, tackling Hartley to the ground and wrestling the book from her grasp. But as they did, a blinding light filled the chamber, and a roar echoed through the darkness.

And then, all was still.

When Ramirez and Wei opened their eyes, they found themselves standing alone in the chamber, the book on the ground before them, and Hartley nowhere to be seen.

“We have to get out of here,” Ramirez said. “Before whatever she unleashed consumes us too.”

Wei nodded silently. Together, they fled from the chamber, leaving behind the horrors that lay within.

But as they emerged from the depths of the ziggurat, they found the world outside had changed. The sky was dark and foreboding, and a sense of unease hung like a thick fog.

And in the distance, they could hear something stirring—something ancient and terrible, awakened from its slumber. As they looked out upon the desolate landscape before them, Ramirez and Wei knew a cosmic evil lay over the world and that they were powerless to stop it.

In the end, they had stared into the abyss, and the abyss had stared back. And it had consumed them whole.

“Welcome to Yith,” a voice spoke from behind the pair.

Senator Roberta Lange has announced her intention to reintroduce a revised version of her “film tax credit expansion proposal,” she presented during the last legislative session, for consideration in the upcoming 2025 session.

In a letter addressed to fellow Senate members, Lange outlined her plans to bring back the concept, albeit with significant adjustments, including halving the proposed credit amount. Lange’s proposal, which initially sought $190 million in annual tax credits over 20 years, will now aim for $95 million annually over 17 years.

The decision to revisit the legislation stems from its failure to progress during the 2023 session, despite endorsement from Hollywood figures like Jeremy Renner and Mark Wahlberg. Lange attributed its demise to time constraints within the 120-day legislative session.

The proposed tax credit system, part of ongoing efforts to bolster Nevada’s film industry, faced criticism for potentially straining infrastructure and diverting funds from other vital areas. Nonetheless, proponents argue that it could stimulate economic growth and job creation.

Lange emphasized that the revised bill maintains provisions to encourage private investment in infrastructure, particularly in collaboration with UNLV’s Harry Reid Research and Technology Park.

Despite reducing the credit amount, Lange remains steadfast in her commitment to fostering a thriving film industry in Nevada. She clarified that the proposal aligns with her original vision and economic feasibility studies, albeit accommodating increased interest from various stakeholders.

Regarding rumors of competing proposals, including ones from the Howard Hughes Corporation and Sony Pictures, Lange reiterated the focus on Southern Nevada’s economic development. However, she expressed openness to collaborative efforts for a unified approach.

In response to inquiries, representatives from Howard Hughes Corporation and Sony Pictures highlighted progress in advancing the Summerlin Production Studios Project, emphasizing its potential to generate significant investment and employment opportunities in Nevada.

Meanwhile, in Northern Nevada, community leaders are exploring inclusion in film tax credit legislation, backed by figures like Jeremy Renner and former governor Brian Sandoval.

Lange’s announcement coincides with continued private sector initiatives, such as the partnership between Birtcher Development and The MBS Group to establish “Nevada Studios” in Las Vegas. The project, part of the proposed Las Vegas Media Campus, underscores Southern Nevada’s appeal as a burgeoning hub for the film and television industry.

It was a cloudy, chilled afternoon, with a fresh Zephyr blowing out of the southwest the evening of Friday, December 11, 1863, when Deborah Anne Phillips, after three attempts, shot and killed Charles Stier in Virginia City.

In her late twenties and a widow, Phillips recently arrived from California and made her living taking in laundry. Stier was a butcher, about 30 years old, born in Hamburg, Germany.

Both occupied a two-unit cottage on South C Street in Virginia City. Stier and Joseph Peterson resided in the east apartment; Deborah and her 8-year-old daughter, Susie, occupied the west apartment facing onto South C Street.

Each residence had a separate entrance on the north side of the building about 10 feet apart, each at the head of a short flight of steps.

A man named McMillan visited Philips between 3 and 4 p.m., where she spoke of Stier and his recent kindnesses, followed by his rude behavior. Stier had provided wood for her fire and relieved her of several household chores but later made some insulting remarks, most likely resulting from a realization that the relationship was not developing as he had hoped.

Suddenly, Stier came to her door enraged, let himself in, and said in his thick accent, “I don’t want anything more to do with you; you can’t play me.”

He then repeated, “I know all of your kind,” several times.

He pointed at McMillan and said, “I insult a lone woman, and if anyone wants to take it up, I am ready for him.”

Stier returned to his apartment, repeating his words through the thin walls. McMillan, however, chose not to rise to the challenge and returned to his store, where Stier later came “and spoke derogatively as to her character.”

Shortly afterward, Deborah borrowed a six-shooter from a friend named Schofield. About 6 p.m., Stier returned to her apartment, where he called her a “damned whore.”

She chased him into his apartment with the pistol, calling him a coward, fired through the closed door, and briefly returned to her residence. Moments later, Stier and Phillips, now unarmed, came back out into the hallway and argued from the tops of their respective stairs, with Stier adamantly refusing her demand to take back his insult.

Philips went back into her apartment, returning with the pistol.

Responding to the altercation, Peterson attempted to stop Phillips and prevent any further gunplay.

Still standing at the threshold of his steps, Stier said to Peterson, “Let her fire.”

Despite his efforts, she fired and missed.

Stier repeated, “Do not hold her — let her shoot.”

Again, she fired the gun and again missed.

Continuing to ignore Stier, Peterson took the pistol from Phillips, but Stier insisted, “Give her back the pistol and let her shoot.”

Following his demand, Peterson returned the gun. Phillips shot Stier in the head on her fourth attempt, and he fell to the bottom of the stairs.

Hearing the shots, witnesses had gathered, where Phillips addressed them, “Boys, you may all see that I have done this with a clean conscience.”

According to Dr. McNally, who testified at the coroner’s inquest the following morning, Stier died about 8 p.m. that night “of the effects of the gunshot wound.”

Her defense of her honor captured the imagination of the public. Three days after the shooting, the Saturday, December 12, 1863 edition of the Gold Hill Daily News reported, “We need scarcely say that public sympathy is generally on her side because Steir [sic] called her out of her name.”

Arrested and jailed by Storey County Sheriff H.W. Howard, Philips posted a $1,000 bond. She was found guilty of manslaughter and treated with unusual courtesy at her sentencing as reported in the Sunday, March 29, 1864 edition of the Gold Hill News, “…Judge North remarked that as the prisoner was a woman, he would not, as is customary in such cases, request her to rise…”

North sentenced her to one year in the Territorial Prison on Monday, March 28, 1864. However, the following month, she received a full pardon from Governor James Warren Nye in response to public outcry.

According to the Saturday, April 9, 1864 edition of Gold Hill Daily News, “The petition presented to the Governor, praying for her pardon, was signed by the jury that convicted her, by Judge North and the Prosecuting Attorney, by the Sheriff and his Deputies, also by all the city officials, a majority of the members of the Board, a great number of prominent citizens.”

There remains the question of motivation by Stier in repeatedly urging Peterson to allow Phillips to shoot at him.

The Gold Hill Daily News of Monday, December 14, 1863, offered the most likely explanation, “Steir [sic] was a butcher, and formerly worked in this city, and was regarded as a harmless fellow. Of late he indulged so excessively in strong drink that he was looked upon as a little ‘daft.’”

Set free, her subsequent life seems relatively uneventful. The 1880 census listed her as widowed, working as a housekeeper for Stephen Milligan, a single, 51-year-old farmer in Branch Township, Stanislaus County, California.

Her daughter, Susie S. Phillips, married in 1870 to Wright S. Curless and divorced in 1877, lived with them and was listed as a servant. Others in the household were her grandson, four-year-old Joseph R. Curless, and a Chinese farm laborer named Chung.

The 1900 census showed her living in San Francisco, now head of household and still widowed, working as a seamstress with her now 24-year-old grandson, Joseph, working as a day laborer. She died on Friday. January 13, 1911, at 77, in San Francisco, her daughter Susie having pre-deceased her.

According to her obituary in the Sunday, January 15, 1911 edition of the San Francisco Call, she left behind a sister, a Mrs. Ryan of St. Joseph, Mo., grandson Joseph Curless, a granddaughter listed only as Mrs. Oscar Jacobson, and great-granddaughter Althea Jacobson.

There was no mention of the half-century-old manslaughter incident in Virginia City.

The Nevada Ethics Commission dismissed a complaint lodged against Assemblywoman Michelle Gorelow regarding her vote to allocate $250,000 to a nonprofit organization that hired her after it found no evidence of impropriety or misuse of her position.

Filed in August, the complaint alleged that Gorelow leveraged her legislative position to secure employment with The Arc of Nevada, a nonprofit aiding individuals with developmental and intellectual disabilities. Gorelow was appointed the organization’s executive director just one month after the legislative session concluded.

Despite the allegations, a three-member panel unanimously ruled that Gorelow did not exploit her legislative role to pursue private employment nor utilized government resources for personal gain. Additionally, the panel concluded that her acceptance of the position did not compromise her impartial discharge of public duties.

In response to the dismissal, Gorelow expressed relief, denouncing the complaint as baseless and politically motivated. Her attorney, Bradley Schrager, echoed this sentiment, emphasizing her adherence to ethical standards throughout the process.

Gorelow’s case is part of a broader controversy surrounding legislative ties to nonprofits benefiting from state funding. Referred to as “Christmas tree bills,” the legislation allocated millions to numerous nonprofits and governmental entities. Gorelow, in her defense, provided evidence demonstrating that her job interview with The Arc of Nevada occurred after the legislative session concluded and affirmed no prior communication with the organization.

While the Nevada Ethics Commission lacks authority over core legislative functions, it maintains jurisdiction over non-core actions, thereby permitting an investigation into Gorelow’s case. Executive Director Ross Armstrong conducted interviews and reviewed documents as part of the inquiry.

My Cousin Elmo says, “After getting up throughout the morning to use the bathroom, I now know why they are called the wee hours.”

Sadly, no matter how I vote, no matter what I say, nothing is ever going to be the same because:

• • We see other countries going Socialist and collapsing, but it seems like a great plan to us. 
  • It is un-American for the census to count how many Americans are in America.
  • People who say there is no such thing as gender are demanding a female President.
  • Universities advocate equality but discriminate against Asian Americans in favor of African Americans.
  • Some people are blamed for things that happened before they were born, while others are not being held responsible for what they are doing now.
  • Criminals are captured and released to hurt more people because stopping them is a violation of their rights.
  • People who have never owned slaves should pay slavery reparations to people who have never been slaves. 
  • After legislating gender, if a man pretends to be a woman, I am required to pretend with him. 
  • It was okay for Joe Biden to demand the President of Ukraine fire a prosecutor, but it is an impeachable offense if Donald Trump inquiries about it.
  • People who have never been to college must pay the debts of college students who took out huge loans for their degrees.
  • Immigrants with tuberculosis and polio are welcome, but you had better be able to prove your dog is vaccinated.
  • Doctors and engineers who want to immigrate to the U.S. must go through a rigorous 12 to 20-year vetting process, but illiterate gang-bangers who jump the southern fence get welcomed immediately.
  • $5 billion for border security is too expensive, but $1.5 trillion for “free” health care is not.
  • If you cheat to get into college, you go to prison, but if you cheat to get into the country, you go to college for free.
  • Biden has provable dementia and can hardly talk, but it is Trump who is “mentally ill” because he says unkind things about people who attack him publicly.
  • People died from COVID-19, but it is racist to refer to it as Chinese despite being developed in China.
  • We are living in an upside-down world where killing murderers is wrong, but killing innocent babies is right.
  • I cannot ask an honest question of a friend or point something out without them getting angry.
  • And pointing out any of this hypocrisy somehow makes me “racists” and “a privileged white male.”

Finally, I can’t even ask a friend an honest question or point something out without them getting angry and some people will read this but because they are so set in their ways, they won’t or can’t agree with me on any of this.

Am I wrong?

My Cousin Elmo says, “While politicians are busy canceling TikTok, why don’t they cancel themselves too.”