23 April, 2021 18:05
A World of Madness: Cream of Wheat
"Woking on my game"–lol. Imma leave it.
A World of Madness: Cream of Wheat
She really enjoys the Cream of Wheat when she finds it. With just water and salt was fine; with a few tablespoons of milk it was a delight.
She happily eats it every day in that house that isn’t her own. As she performs chores to repay her presence there.
Fixing the electricity was a matter of course. She fumbled around for nearly a whole day before she figured out the setup and got the lights to switch on. But once she got it going, she was quick to get the food back into the newly disinfected refrigerator.
She left that place with her head held high and hope in her heart.
She didn’t know why the phones had stopped working.
She didn’t know why the sudden snowstorm had blanketed everything in feet of snow. She didn’t know why the bridge had flooded out. She didn’t know why she had made that wrong turn.
When she thought back, it was a series of mishaps that had brought her to the house.
Trudging back toward where she’d abandoned her car, she kept up a whispered conversation with Dahlia.
The cat had been so good natured throughout their month long adventure. They’d never been away from home for so long. It had been a relief not to have to keep Dahlia locked up. Something she would have had to do if the cat had been ruining anything.
Instead, Dahlia had seemed to show a genuine respect for their borrowed house. She had made use of the array of cat towers but had otherwise kept her claws to herself.
"When we get home," she said, "I’m going to buy you a whole bunch of new toys. Some little jangly balls and a new cardboard scratch pad. You’ve been such a good girl."
Dahlia took the praise with admirable aplomb, though there was a vague sense of rolled eyes. She accepted the scratching fingers through the side of her carrier, even going so far as to roll onto her side and offer more surface area.
"We’re going to be all right," she said. "It’s just been a really weird month. I’m going to be glad when things get back to normal."
A World of Madness; Restart the World;
Woking on my game, coming up with concept ideas.
My account: (https://harperkingsley.itch.io)
I’ll be posting my notes as I go.
A World of Madness
"A World of Madness" (https://harperkingsley.itch.io/awod current password: "behemoth") is my tester game. It’s where I’m planning out the format and colors (though the current color palette is eh) and how I’m going to make it happen.
Starts with "Impasse" and then the picking of a universe. The character "She" from Impasse is a ubiquitous character. She can be anyone. Or no one.
Currently there’s not much there, and that’s why the game is set to Restricted Access, but I think purchases can be made at this time. So I might add separate downloadable content.
As it is, as a browser playable game, feel free to click around. I even made a discussion board for it if anyone wants to help my html/css problems. (When a div is opened, the screen view doesn’t go to the top of the div. It just stays where it’s at. Very unhappy making for me. And the mobile view turns to landscape and the colors are off. Like way off.)
I’ve been making updates as I go along. It’s most definitely a work-in-progress. Though I’ve got a lot of ideas for the multiple storylines.
Restart: the World
She’d always seen the world in smears of color and soft detail. (Near-sighted with an astigmatism. It was the way it had always been.
- She restarts the World. Everything is based on the way she perceived things. And she had bad eyesight.
People quickly realize that things are odd. Nothing is quite right, not just the noticeable color shifts but the feel of things. There was a palpable oddity to the world after The Phase Shift.
- The Phase Shift — "The world had been attacked. Everything was changed. Human perception has been Shifted due to the interference of an alien virus."– the public is not to know what really happened. That the whole of reality has been restarted and reshaped. That everything they have always known is no longer real. They have been brought into a new and different place that reeked of familiarity. And they are to believe that it is home.
Smears of white clouds across a vibrant blue sky. The grass was shades of green all blended together with the occasional golden tuft rising high above, the puff-ball of seeds an odd [1-word, conglamation? conflagration? con-something put together] to minds expecting to see something different.
BRB…
Ripping on Precut Food; Amazon Smile
RIPPING ON PRECUT FOOD
I don’t know where the hate is coming from, but when people straight up tell you that you’re being ableist, maybe stop?
"I know. I don’t care" is not the answer to give. That’s some seriously negative shizz and that’s not the hill you want to die on. For reals.
Precut fruit and vegetables are very useful for people that don’t have the dexterity to cut their own ingredients. It allows people to eat prepared food straight out of a bag, or to throw a bunch of ingredients together and, I don’t know, what’s the word? cook their food.
It’s not just ableist to mock people’s food choices. It’s also really classist.
Like, why can’t poor people have nice things?*
I’m sorry everyone can’t afford a personal Frannie to come in and prep ingredients. I’m sorry everyone doesn’t have the time available in their day to spend hours of it preparing food when it’s easier to combine readily available ingredients. I’m sorry some people have to be super judgemental about how other people are living when there’s more serious concerns taking place.
Prepared ingredients are not the Big Evil alarmists are concerned about. It’s a distraction thrown out by social media influencers and bad operators attempting to spark moral outrage to flood timelines and muffle the messages that really should be heard.
Defund the Police = They do not need 80% of a city’s budget. If it came down to it, I’d rather garbage people get more money to sort recyclables out of the mess. There should be more social workers. There should be more outreach programs for the poor and socially isolated.
The fact that police responded to Black Lives Matter and the idea of "Defund the Police" by brutalizing massive amounts of people? It’s a clear signal that the system needs fixing. And the police shouldn’t have military-grade weapons backed by protection laws that keep individual officers–murderers!–from facing justice.
It’s wrong.
As is the idea that a group of people STORMED THE CAPITOL to OVERTHROW THE GOVERNMENT. That shizz was fukked up.
And the fact that some of them–most of them–are out on bail right now?!?
Some kid is accused of stealing a backpack and spends years in prison. A trans woman is put in men’s prison and KEPT THERE because she couldn’t afford $500 bail. A man is accused of using a fake $20 and is executed by the police. (That’s not their job!) Persons of color and poor does NOT mean subhuman treatment.
The fact that the insurrections were rich racists doesn’t take away from the fact that they committed a horrible crime and are being let back out on the street while poor people die. The cops weren’t prepared for the insurrection because it was committed by rich people in positions of great power.
Rich people met in secret and arranged to overthrow our government.
The only thing that stopped their plan from succeeding? Stupidity.
That’s all that saved us.
They looked at the cops, they looked at the National Guard, they looked at the federal officers and assumed a shared color of skin would mean they would all band together as one race to suppress the will of the American people.
Living in their echo chambers, noshing on the same foul stew, the insurrectionists arrived in the Capitol expecting that the POLICE would help them overthrow the government.
And some of them did.
Brave officers DIED or had their lives threatened because some of their number did NOT have their backs.
I will be angry if there is no justice.
"No justice, no peace" doesn’t mean violence.
It means that as long as I look around and see this BULLSHIT going on… I’m not going to stop sounding the alarm. None of us are.
Whatever holes they want to hide in. Whatever dark corners they want to whisper in. If I catch a glimpse… I’m going to scream out "Here they are! This motherfucker is the one that ‘ruined our water’/’destroyed our economy’/’spread sedition’/’assaulted that girl’/’passed that shitty law’/’caused a pandemic that has killed over 420,000 Americans’!"
Because if we wave our hands and say "Well, they’ve learned their lesson" then yeah, it’s true. They learned that they can fukk everything up and we’re going to roll over and let them.
They’re just going to keep on keeping on–screwing up everything and destroying lives for the lulz and their own short-term benefit.
Politicians may have the pop culture reputation of being sleazebags and law breakers but, get this, THEY’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE. They’re supposed to be the best of us representing the needs of the least of us so that everyone has the chance of a good and happy life.
They’re not supposed to actively be working to make things worse.
They’re not supposed to cheat, lie, steal, false represent themselves, and KILL over 420,000 people because they’re death cultists.
Like WTF?
I don’t even know what’s going on. But I’m angry. And it’s not at people buying prepared food to feed themselves.
- "Poor" people deserve food, medical care, housing, consideration as human beings. And everyone deserves a hot meal.
It’s already really gross that people on disability aren’t allowed to have above a certain amount of money in their bank accounts before they lose their benefits.
It’s like "Bitch, they’re only $100 over their monthly limit and you’re CANCELING their insurance? WTF is wrong with you?" — The whole idea of it makes me seriously heated.
To keep the disability insurance they need to live, they are forced to stay in poverty.
If there was medical for all, then it wouldn’t be a problem.
Medical costs are KILLING people.
And the big issue is precut, prepackaged food? Seriously?!?
AMAZON SMILE
FYI, if you donate via Amazon Smile (5% of your purchases go to your charity of choice) you have to MANUALLY activate it.
Via website: use the smile.amazon.com link.
Via the app: Tap the three dashes in the left corner -> Settings -> AmazonSmile, then activate it.
I’m personally donating to Meals on Wheels right now, though pre-pandemic I would choose Operation Smile. (I feel terrible because there’s nothing I can do, but during these current times, I don’t think those poor children are being taken care of 😦 Without the surgeries they desperately need, there’s likely been a lot of deaths. It bothers me a lot.)
If you’re shopping on Amazon anyway, and if you’re not using my affiliate link code => https://amazon.com/?tag=harperkingsley-20 <= you should put a smile on it.
Because why not.
Pax,
~HarperWCK
POEM: We Gotta Take a Step Back
WE GOTTA TAKE A STEP BACK
Though we supported you
against all reason,
sorry, Josh,
but what you did was, kinda, treason.
Don’t sue us for our accusations
social media live-streamed your agitations.
The bottom line, Josh, is
we’re a card making corporation
that depends on the public’s monetization
so we have to break our association
with you, Josh.
We helped you in the past
though we don’t want to say why
and now we regret it
as our donation is dragged into the public eye.
We’re embarrassed to know you
so now we have to blow you
off, Josh.
This will be our last friendly communication
as we have to protect our reputation
and so, sorry Josh,
F off.
WIP: Music is the Food of Love
Title: WIP: Music is the Food of Love
Author: Harper Kingsley
Summary: inspired by Twelfth Night. Duke Orsino sends Bastian to speak to the fair Olivia on his behalf.
Prompt: https://twitter.com/AuthorNikSky/status/1336499047033688065
MUSIC IS THE FOOD OF LOVE
Bastian kept her chin tilted down, but her eyes couldn’t help straying to Orsino where he sprawled in the window seat. The handsome duke was a surly sort, melancholy wrapped around a poet’s soul so tight that sometimes he lost his words. And then he had her play and play and play.
I would play him a thousand sonnets and a million lullabies, if only he would think of me as he does HER. And that was a hateful thought perhaps, to wish misfortune on the mysterious Olivia she had never met.
In her guise of man, the duke did not look upon her. Would not.
But this was the way she was. The way she’d always been. The way she’d always wanted to be.
Feminine wiles and fripperies were as foreign as the soil of the moon would be beneath her feet. It was not her fault that she had to pretend to be a man to dress the way she FELT inside.
Neither woman nor man. Simply herself.
Born Viola, twin to Sebastian. Now Bastian in memory of her lost other half, torn from her by the grasping white caps of the sea.
She’d been so alone without him. But dressing in his clothes made her feel close to him somehow, as though it were his face gazing back at her from the mirror. Smiling gently. Promising that he would make everything all right, even after their father died so tragic and ruinous a death.
He’d promised her he’d never leave.
But where was Sebastian now? Swallowed by the sea.
Her fingers had been continuing their journey over the keyboard, music pouring out of the heart of the piano, yearning toward a man that dreamed of someone else.
He rose from the window seat with startling abruptness and strode across the room to slam the fallboard down. She flinched, barely pulling her fingers out of the way in time.
“I don’t like this song anymore,” he said.
“I… I could play something else,” she offered.
“No. I’m tired of music. My soul hungers for more than song. It calls to her. Olivia.”
She wasn’t sure what to do. What to say. Her shoulders felt tight and her skin hot and stiff. She glanced around and saw the other retainers studiously busy at their various tasks, none wanting to draw the duke’s attention when he was in such a manic state.
She licked her lips and opened her mouth to say–she didn’t know what–but he didn’t give her a chance to speak.
“You have a way about you, young Bastian.” Orsino’s face was suddenly close to hers, examining her closer than they ever had before. Dancing over her face until she ducked her chin away in the hopes that he would grant her mercy. “No sign of a single mustache hair, but a way with words is what you have. More than these, hollow-headed jackanapes. She sent Sergino scuttling, but you… You are young and still so boyish yet. She might allow you into her parlor and give you a chance to speak my favor into her delicate shell of an ear.”
Orsino’s eyes–gray with specks of maybe blue–gazed into the soul of her. Bastian swallowed a shuddering breath and felt her heartbeat fluttering at the side of her neck.
“You would do this for me, will you not?” he entreated. “Go to her, Bastian. Speak for me. Spin sweet words of wonder and beauty. Bring into her my heart, Bastian, and you will never live in want again. I will make you a wealthy and most fortuitous of men. Bring my love into her heart. Warm her by my fire.”
Bastian swallowed. There was only one answer that she could give: “Of course, my lord.”
His beaming exuberance had her up off the piano bench, his hands grasping her upper arms as he led her in a riotous dance around the room. His chest brushing against hers, his arms encircling her; it was glorious hell.
It was inevitable that she would find herself making the journey to Olivia’s house on Orsino’s behalf. The letter he’d written and sealed with wax was a fat weight in her breast pocket. She allowed a merry tune to escape her lips and told herself that she was happy.
If Duke Orsino found love, she would rejoice for him. Because her love was a pure love, in as much as her envy allowed. She would not deny him happiness simply because her lips were not the ones he wanted to kiss.
She walked the meandering path over hill and pasture to reach the sprawling estate that belonged to Olivia. It was such a lovely day that she didn’t mind the walk for the joy of the journey.
The tune she whistled became a jaunty sounding thing of extra trills accompanied by the occasional jig of her feet. It was good to walk. The sun was warming against her face and she liked the solid tromp beneath her booted feet.
And the land she walked through… Olivia’s family had left her a beautiful and well-maintained estate. She could see men and women in the distance performing their various tasks and duties, and they all appeared clean and well-fed. The group of children playing outside a crofter’s house were in good health and bright spirit, their singing and laughter carried to Bastian’s ears by the cheery breeze.
She smiled and tipped her face back to the sun. It was a lovely day for a walk. There was no room for heartbreak and might-have-beens but never-will-bes. It was too good a day for feeling sad.
Her feet met a stone walkway that wound a cutting path direct to the stately manor house. She curled her toes in her boots as she walked, experiencing every bit of the journey. She felt connected to everyone and everything in this moment. The air and the sky and the trees, sun-warmed and beckoning, carried her feet around the house to the side door waiting for those daring to come to call on the fair Olivia.
She tugged the elegant chain next to the door and heard the ringing of bells inside.
The door was answered promptly enough by a young woman in a maid’s cap and dress. “Who is calling?”
Bastian bobbed a quick nod. “I have been sent by my lord, Balthus Orsino, Duke of Illyria. He has charged me to deliver a letter on his behalf to the lady of the house.”
“I suppose if you give it to me I could pass it along,” the maid said.
“Nay, fair lady. I have been instructed to deliver his words directly into your lady’s hands. He would be most wroth if he found me slacking.”
“I see,” she said. “Come with me.”
Bastian allowed himself to be ushered inside where he was led to a parlor room and instructed to “Stay here. Touch nothing.”
She wondered if she should feel outraged, but just laughed. She was a nobleman’s page. There was a good chance the household had seen many a glitter fingerprinted or perhaps even outright destroyed by curious hands left to wait too long.
She resolutely put her hands behind her back and began walking the diamter of the room, counting the steps one two three before closely examing the artwork on the walls and the decorations left on low tables and tall baseboards.
Bastian was duly impressed. The place was lovely. At the very least, the Duke had fallen for a woman of taste as well as means.
There was the brisk clatter of footsteps and she hurriedly propelled herself to the middle of the room, standing in a close approximation of attention. The butler that entered was who she had to impress if she wanted to be let in to see the lady.
“I have been told that you wish to see Lady Olivia?” the butler’s accent was crisp and ringing. He had a way of projecting his voice that made Bastian feel smaller than she was. She noted the effect and promised to practice until she carried as much presence.
“Yes, good sir, I have been instructed by my lord, Duke Balthus Orsino, Duke of Illyria, to call upon your good lady. I am to present a letter from his hand direct into her own.” She attempted a charming smile, but could tell by his expression that she didn’t much succeed.
“I see.” He looked her up and down, his still expression perhaps hiding a sneer at the presumption. Olivia had refused the Duke’s suit on half a dozen occasions by this point. Most suitors would have already moved on to sweeter dispositioned fruit, yet here he was sending yet another letter to remain unread. “Come with me.”
In her time as a page, Bastian had grown accustomed to being told to go here and there, to stand in place for long stretches of time, and to entertain her melancholic lord as needed to keep his dark moods at bay. She followed the butler without complaint, choosing to spend the walk glancing to-and-fro with her eyes while her head remained appropriately positioned, chin tipped up as she was careful not to clatter on the marble floors.
She was led to the closed double doors of a larger parlor. She caught a slight glimpse inside when the butler tapped on the dark grained wood and went in, the door closing firmly behind him.
Bastian figured she’d be left to cool her heels for another long while. Olivia would be in no hurry to see her as the Duke had no favor here. She wished for a chair, but the hallway was large and bare of furniture, though there were nooks for decorative vases and art pieces were strewn here and there. The wallpaper was a lovely oddity of rose and gold, and she had just reached out her hand to touch when the doorknob turned.
She hurriedly straightened her shoulders and pushed out her uniformed chest. She schooled her expression to hopeful attention.
The butler held the door open. “The lady will see you.”
Bastian gave him a nod as she passed, acknowledging the warning in his hooded glance if she tried anything inappropriate with his employer. He didn’t look like much of a fighter, but since beginning her martial training Bastian had been surprised a good few times by men turning out more dangerous than her eyes had presumed.
The parlor was large and airy, with velvet covered furniture and lovely oak wood. It was cast in a pall of somber darkness by the heavy curtains drawn closed and the decorative black grate spread before the fire, the etching of leaves and lions taking nothing away from the sense of misery in the room.
The lady herself was shrouded in black silk and lace, her much vaunted beauty hid behind a fine mesh veil that turned her features to outline and shadow. She was seated on a low divan, a lady’s maid to either side, and a large embroiderers hoop spread on the table before them. Bastian spared the fine needlework an admiring glance. The lady had a great skill.
“My lady.” Bastian gave the bow she’d been forced to learn by the strict Master Gereson and pulled the letter from her pocket with as much grace and elegance as she could muster. She held the envelope toward the lady on the palms of her gloved hands, waiting until the lady deigned to reach out and snatch it away.
“I told your lord that I have no interest in love at this time,” the lady said. She tore the envelope open with barely suppressed impatience. “My brother is barely cold in the ground. The fires of my passion have burnt out, and I don’t think it appropriate that they be rekindled so soon. I wish merely to be left alone.”
Bastian nodded. “I hear you, my lady. I apologize for intruding upon your grief. But my lord, he wishes you to know that he holds you in his heart. I think that he would gladly wait the lifting of your grief, if he but knew that at the end his patience would be rewarded by even a chance at your heart. He loves you so.”
“I see, I see.” Olivia held the letter up to the light of the candleabra on the table, straining through her veil to read the strong looping strokes of Orsino’s pen. “Ah, my face is a picture, my form a poetry, and every bit of me a delight to be savored and worshipped. He sounds like any other, promising the sun, the moon, the stars above, if only to kiss my hand, my feet, my lips, and my… well. He at least has not chosen to write of such indecorous things. Perhaps he truly wishes to win my heart and not simply access to my nethers.”
Bastian sputtered a shocked laugh. If she’d been the boy she appeared, she would have perhaps been lost in the imagery presented. “My lady!”
“Oh, I do apologize.” Olivia seemed to peer over the letter, the brightness of her eyes peeking at Bastian. “You’re quite young, aren’t you? Still callow in your youth. Untouched by such things as lust and avarice.”
“Your pardon?”
Olivia waved a lace gloved hand. “With the death of my brother the family fortune’s have fallen to my shoulders. There is many a man that has taken one glance at my situation and decided that I would make a perfect wife.” She snorted. “They all want to take it away from me. To relegate me to the bower or the birthing bed. It’s quite sad and pathetic really. That they think me such a fool.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Bastian said truthfully. “I think that you’re wise. Tis better that you wait and find someone that will love and cherish you than to settle on the first face to come to call. But the duke… He is a good man. He has true feeling for you. I do not think that he would ever treat you wrong.”
“But that doesn’t mean I won’t be ill-treated.” Olivia sighed, tossing the letter to the table and settling her back against the couch. “Even the best of intentions means nothing to the truth that all men see my sex as inferior to their baser needs. They are more set to impressing their fellows than to treating the womenfolk in their lives as more than chattel. I refuse to lose all that I have so that my husband can feel himself a greater man. I refuse your duke. Tell him no. He will not have my love or my hand.”
From the way Olivia looked at her, Bastian felt that she was waiting for some form of explosion. “Very well,” she said. “I will tell my lord that you have refused his troth. His sadness will be great. He will have me play plenty a weeping lullaby, but I suppose his heart will move on.”
She shook her head. “Tis a sadness though.” She laughed. “He so handsome, you so lovely, the world is made lesser for the lack of matrimony. Your babes would have been most beautiful.”
There was a startled silence. Olivia tilted her head. “You are very free with your tongue.”
“I am my duke’s man,” Bastian said, showing her teeth in a smile, “which curbs the worst of my humor. But at the best of times, I have been called ‘sharper of tongue than wit.’ For if I were a smarter man, I would not be so free around a lady of your great quality. Forgive me, my lady, and please do not tell my lord. His punishments are most severe, and my hands cannot stand the digging of another hole in the ground.”
“I… I will not tell your lord.”
“Oh thank you, thank you, most gracious of women.” Bastian executed a florid bow to Olivia’s begrudging amusement. “Though I admit, I feel sadness for my duke. You are all that he has said and more. His poetry when he speaks of you makes quite a wit of sense. I can tell why he would be disappointed that you refuse to be his wife.”
She had begun wandering the room as she spoke. Olivia’s head turned to follow her, as did the suspicious gaze of the older lady’s maid. “Is there something in the room that has caught your attention?” Olivia asked.
Bastian shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I find your decorative senses charming, though… It is quite dark in here.” With a smooth jerk, she pulled aside the curtain of the largest window. Light flooded into the room, and she could see the flowers in the garden below. “There. It’s so much lovelier with the light coming through,” she turned and blinked, “and so are you, dear lady. A great beauty indeed.”
“You’re not going to win me over with your charms,” Olivia warned.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t dare try.” Bastian wandered the edges of the room until her eyes were caught by a piano that had been hidden in the shadows. “Well, hello there,” she murmured, heading straight to it, her eyes drinking in the complete perfection. “Is that what I think it is?”
“And what do you think it is?” Olivia asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Bastian crooned, running her hand across the top of the Blüthner. She carefully opened the fallboard, letting her fingers hover over the keys. “Do you mind?”
At Olivia’s nod of permission, Bastian sat at the piano bench and ran a quick set of scales. Then she began to play, a lilting tune meant to get the toes tapping.
TBC…
On the first day of Xmas…
On the first day of Xmas, Harper Kingsley wrote for me of Darkstar transformed into a tree
Title: The Carrion Tree
Author: Harper Kingsley
Character: Kanon-Darkstar, post-Battle for Terra
The setup: After ruling a city of sycophants, a tired-of-all-the-bs Darkstar approaches Dr. Zee for the technology to jump universes. He activates the device and travels to a new Earth… And in that moment, there are an infinite number of worlds he could have gone to. And if branch-theory is a thing, a version of him has gone to a version of every world. This Darkstar has come to this world.
Darkstar ends up on an Earth with some very different plant life. Including the carrion plant that all smart humans avoid unless they want their every orifice entered.
The pleasure is great, but most people avoid carrion plants unless they want to die.
CW: consent issues due to it being an inhuman plant using aphrodisiacs as a prey attractant.
Mature.
Twitter meta-thread: https://twitter.com/HarperKingsley0/status/1341191075742924805
*—
The birds circled overhead, their screeching caws more than anything else telling him he was far from home. Their red feathers were a bright slash against the blue-blue sky. The air smelled of some foreign spice, near overpowering in its intensity.
"Well shit," Darkstar said, and sneezed. He could feel his nose beginning to run and it was such a foreign sensation that he allowed himself to enjoy it. From his reading, he figured he wouldn’t be marveling at the feeling for long.
Reaching down, he picked up a rock and crushed it between his fingers. Superstrength intact? Check.
It looked like the air-quality of this alternate universe could affect him. At least until his body adapted to it. (He hoped his body adapted to it. He was already growing annoyed with the sensation.)
He looked around at the alien scenery and wondered if even half these plants existed on his own Earth. Some of the grass and trees appeared familiar. The rest… were exotic to say the least.
He thought about flying, but felt an instinctive aversion. He wanted to experience this new Earth from the ground floor. Wanted to get a closer look at the plant life. Wanted to trudge the dirt with his own booted feet and follow that strange elusive scent that was fluttering his nose hairs and making his nerves hum.
A flush of heat went over him, but he ignored it. If the sun rose and set the same as on his Earth, then he was walking east with the breeze in his face. He could see the leaves folding and bending under its invisible force.
The air was sweet perfume. He absently swept his hand under his dripping nose and wiped it off on his pant leg.
Walking became an automatic function. It felt as though his legs were working without him, carrying him toward something amazing.
There’s something funny happening here, he thought, but it seemed distant and unimportant.
He was on another Earth, one that was somehow completely different from his own while at the same time being kind of the same. Plant-life was different, but gravity still existed and the ground was solid beneath his feet.
Timeline update
Current(ly) timeline of events to come in my various writings.
SPOILERS AHOY.
Current timeline: 2020-12-24 (this list will be reposted with future updates.)
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This is what your patronage is creating.
Thank you.
~HarperWCK
Timeline
timeline of events and the universes they happen in.
WARNING: SPOILERS.
I have a bunch of unwritten stories that are mentioned and summarized because the events are part of the canon of other stories. You might want to pass on viewing this timeline if you want everything to remain a surprise.
SERIES ORDERS
Heroes and Villans Universe: VEREINT GEORGES (Universe B)
Black Friday -> Origins: Starburst -> Heroes & Villains -> The Wedding -> Allies & Enemies -> Psychotic -> All That Remains
Kanon: DARKSTAR (Universe B/AU)
Unnamed Couch Fic -> Just Another Titanic Tuesday
Faizel
A Beautiful Paradise -> The Beautiful Death -> Faizel 01 -> Faizel 02 -> Faizel 03
UNIVERSE A — kama
This universe was heavily affected by The Event. The tip of the spear connected with one point of the Earth and pierced the fabric of reality. And in that moment of impact, 99% of all life died. And the other 1% was forever changed.
The Earth became a poisonous hellscape of death and destruction. And the life that survived… became gods (definition: god: “superhuman being or spirit worshipped as having power over nature or human fortunes; a deity.”).
The surviving humans become beings of great power able to warp reality to their whims and desires.
But the air outside their domed cities is poisonous even to human gods. Animal gods are able to attack and harm human gods. Even with all their great power, the changed humans are trapped within their biodomes where they force all animals and insects out. (Lice in a dome are a nightmare scenario as they can’t be killed and must be picked out of the hair with a comb and by hand.)
Within their domes, they create paradise cities where there every desire can be fulfilled with a wish. Food appears on command and depending on their level of power they can create anything they can visualize.
Its just that life outside the domes is impossible. The Earth has been destroyed, and the particles that gave them their godly powers also prevents them from affecting the environment.
Learning their new powers, the gods discover a means of creating dimensional doorways that allow them to travel to other Earths. Where their powers allow them to do near anything they like with only other gods to control them.
Different pantheons choose different Earths to make their own. Stronger gods have more choice over the Earths they travel to while lesser gods band together in groups.
The gods of Universe A largely stick to Universe A/AU and alternates of that reality. Over time, their various groups of humans begin to colonize other planets, taking their god-connection to create a genetic pathway that the Doormakers can use to travel along.
Doormaker
*Living with his mother in their tiny dome apartment, a young god discovers how to create doorways between reality. And once a door is opened, it can easily be reopened and used. (Tiny apartment that has a doorway that opens to his chosen reality. “This is my Earth. My paradise. I will show you how to find others.”)
Pantheon
* Zeus, Hera, etc. make their first appearance on Universe A/AU. They begin building their pantheon
* the first Zeus?
* as time passes, they drift further and further away from their original selves, the normal human people they used to be
* a modern world upswept by devastation, a surviving population having great impossible powers while stuck with a broken world
* introduction to a brand new Earth, one where a god’s every whim is reality. Where only another god has the ability to hurt a god.
* the new patheon is comprised of “born gods,” the children born after the Great Cataclysm. They are the children born on the new Earth with the powers of their godly parent but no memory of a life different from temples and worship
* the occasional visit back to [homeworld: name for], but its a strange place of tiny domes and deadly creatures and plant life that can attack and move with the power of a god
Timeline
Current(ly) timeline of events to come in my various writings.
SPOILERS AHOY.
Current timeline: 2020-12-23: Happy Festivus (this list will be reposted with future updates.)
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Timeline
timeline of events and the universes they happen in.
WARNING: SPOILERS.
I have a bunch of unwritten stories that are mentioned and summarized because the events are part of the canon of other stories. You might want to pass on viewing this timeline if you want everything to remain a surprise.
UNIVERSE A — kama
This universe was heavily affected by The Event. The tip of the spear connected with one point of the Earth and pierced the fabric of reality. And in that moment of impact, 99% of all life died. And the other 1% was forever changed.
The Earth became a poisonous hellscape of death and destruction. And the life that survived… became gods (definition: god: "superhuman being or spirit worshipped as having power over nature or human fortunes; a deity.").
The surviving humans become beings of great power able to warp reality to their whims and desires.
But the air outside their domed cities is poisonous even to human gods. Animal gods are able to attack and harm human gods. Even with all their great power, the changed humans are trapped within their biodomes where they force all animals and insects out. (Lice in a dome are a nightmare scenario as they can’t be killed and must be picked out of the hair with a comb and by hand.)
Within their domes, they create paradise cities where there every desire can be fulfilled with a wish. Food appears on command and depending on their level of power they can create anything they can visualize.
Its just that life outside the domes is impossible. The Earth has been destroyed, and the particles that gave them their godly powers also prevents them from affecting the environment.
Learning their new powers, the gods discover a means of creating dimensional doorways that allow them to travel to other Earths. Where their powers allow them to do near anything they like with only other gods to control them.
Different pantheons choose different Earths to make their own. Stronger gods have more choice over the Earths they travel to while lesser gods band together in groups.
The gods of Universe A largely stick to Universe A/AU and alternates of that reality. Over time, their various groups of humans begin to colonize other planets, taking their god-connection to create a genetic pathway that the Doormakers can use to travel along.
Doormaker
- Living with his mother in their tiny dome apartment, a young god discovers how to create doorways between reality. And once a door is opened, it can easily be reopened and used. (Tiny apartment that has a doorway that opens to his chosen reality. "This is my Earth. My paradise. I will show you how to find others.")
Pantheon
Prompt: FESTIVAL IN FLAMES
Prompt: FESTIVAL IN FLAMES
The information about Fyre Festival was borrowed from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fyre_Festival). It is presented as blockquoted text.
Everything else is story inspiration for anyone that wants to write about a similar event. Drabbles and snippets and speculative fiction. None of it is real. All of it is purely for entertainment.
I know nothing about the real people or events of Fyre Festival. I don’t want to know anything.
All characters are fictional and in no way reflective of the real people that I don’t know anything about.
Fyre Festival was a fraudulent luxury music festival founded by Billy McFarland, CEO of Fyre Media Inc, and rapper Ja Rule. It was created with the intent of promoting the company’s Fyre app for booking music talent.
The festival was to promote an app.
The festival was scheduled to take place on April 28–30 and May 5–7, 2017, on the Bahamian island of Great Exuma.
Three days in hell.
The event was promoted on Instagram by social media influencers including Kendall Jenner, Bella Hadid, Hailey Baldwin and Emily Ratajkowski, many of whom did not initially disclose they had been paid to do so.
It was just a little oversight. A couple of button taps and the posts were scheduled and she never even thought about it again.
Except there were rules for promoting things on social media. Laws that had to be followed when someone was making as much money as she was.
This was her job.
And she fucked up.
During the Fyre Festival’s inaugural weekend, the event experienced problems related to security, food, accommodation, medical services and artist relations, resulting in the festival being postponed indefinitely.
"’By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’" she crooned, then shook her head near violently. "Nope, James. We’re staying home on this one."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Look at the way this is all being advertised. Look at the fly-by-nightness of it all." As she spoke, Violet mouse-clicked her way through the various pages of the website. To James’ eyes, everything looked good. More than good; like heaven on Earth with scantily clad bodies enjoying the paradise of beach and bungalow. "Nope. I’ve been in this business long enough to smell a con job. We’re turning this one down."
"But it’s so much money!"
"Exactly." She wagged her finger. "The biggest mistake you can make is to get so greedy you don’t notice when things are too good to be true. No. This whole thing reeks of being a scam. We’re gonna pass on this one."
Instead of the luxury villas and gourmet meals for which festival attendees paid hundreds of dollars, they received prepackaged sandwiches and FEMA tents as their accommodation.
"What the F is this supposed to be?" Kimber demanded, crossing her arms angrily. "This is some grade-A horse crap."
Off to the side, Marla sat on her suitcase and stared around in dejected horror. She’d given up lunch for a month and cashed in three CDs to get here. This was a once in a lifetime splurge!
There were supposed to be beautiful bungalows and like 10,000 count sheets and cabana boys flexing their muscles while bringing her daiquiris.
"I’m so disappointed!" she wailed, lowering her head against her arms. She hoped the fall of her hair kept strangers from seeing her cry.
Further prompt: Kimber feels guilty because she’s the one that talked Marla into going to the festival.
- Kimber is from a wealthy family.
* The trip for her isn’t that big of a deal, but she knows that Marla works hard for all her money and will refuse to let Kimber pay for her ticket. (She doesn’t understand Marla’s sense of honor, but she respects it.)
* She was very excited to have Marla actually go on such a great vacation with her, and it’s absolutely devastating to realize what an awful experience they’re sharing. She’s very angry at the event planners, though she’s trying not to take her rage out on the staff caring for them all.
* She hates the ratty tent and the lack of food. She paid extra so they could be here for the first Fyrefest and so they could have one of the better accommodations. And instead everything is terrible.
- Marla works an office job that she doesn’t exactly hate, but that she doesn’t love. Over the course of the festival disaster, she discovers her inner strength.
* On returning home, she makes great changes in her life. Different options:
* quits her job
* falls in love with her boss/coworker
* follows her dream career
* gets a pet and fixes up her crappy apartment
* She and Kimber fall for each other, the disastrous vacation being one of the funny romantic stories they like to tell.
* They return home and date before moving in together
* They reveal their changed status to their family and friends
- The whole festival turns out to be a horror story. A literal horror story.
* Like Hostel, they’ve been gathered for nefarious reasons.
* Left on a literal island, they are forced to struggle against other festival goers for resources and to stay alive.
* Things take a turn for the weird. They lose all contact with the mainland, eventually to discover that the island is somehow cut off from the wider world. Kimber and Marla are trapped with other vacationers and low supplies becomes the biggest problem and the biggest impetus for murder.
In March 2018, McFarland pleaded guilty to one count of wire fraud to defraud investors and ticket holders, and a second count to defraud a ticket vendor that occurred while out on bail. In October 2018, McFarland was sentenced to six years in prison and ordered to forfeit US $26 million. The organizers became the subject of at least eight lawsuits, several seeking class action status, and one seeking more than $100 million in damages. The cases accuse the organizers of defrauding ticket buyers.
Two documentaries about the events of the festival were released in 2019: Hulu’s Fyre Fraud, and Netflix’s Fyre: The Greatest Party That Never Happened. It was also featured on an episode of the CNBC series American Greed in 2019.
The festival was organized by Billy McFarland and Ja Rule, to promote the Fyre music booking app. Ja Rule had come to know McFarland through regular visits to events McFarland hosted at his previous venture, Magnises.
During a flight to the Bahamas, McFarland and Ja Rule’s private plane touched down on a lightly populated island which they later discovered was Norman’s Cay, the former private island of Carlos Lehder Rivas, a kingpin of the MedellÃn Cartel.
One look at the island was all it took.
"This is the place," he announced.
"What?" his assistant asked.
He swept his arms out from his body in a wide arc; spun halfway around on his feet to encompass the entirety of the island. "This is it. This is the place. This is where my vision comes to life."
McFarland then leased the island from the current owners, with the owners giving the strict condition that McFarland make no reference to Pablo Escobar (leader of the MedellÃn Cartel) in any marketing materials.
"Everything that you want, you can have. There’s just the one thing that you cannot do."
Temptation has lured many a man to his own ruin.
Promotional footage with hired supermodels was shot on Norman’s Cay, and planning for the festival went ahead.
The island had been leased. The ad material released. And then it all went to hell.
On December 12, 2016, Kendall Jenner, Emily Ratajkowski and other influencers paid by Fyre simultaneously posted to their Instagram feeds a video with a thumbnail consisting of an orange square and a logo made of stylized flames. The video showed Bella Hadid and other models represented by her agency running around a tropical beach. Text with the video promised "an immersive music festival … two transformative weekends … on the boundaries of the impossible".
This was the beginning of the Fyre Festival’s promotional campaign, during which McFarland himself claimed that the island had been owned by Pablo Escobar. The owners cancelled their arrangement with McFarland soon after.
"You only had to do one thing: Not mention his name in any of your promotional materials. Everything that you ever wanted was in your grasp. And you threw it away."
In reality, Pablo Escobar never owned Norman’s Cay.
"Threw it all away for a lie. Oh, but you should change your name to Jimmy Pesto, because just like his fictional restaurant’s connection to the Italian mafia was a lie… So was this island’s history false. But if you’d only listened… The lie would never have been shared, and your dreams would not have turned to ash and smoke."
When they were kicked off of Norman’s Cay, they only had four months before their inaugural festival on April 28–30th.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Time kept passing by, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week.
It felt like he’d sweated out his whole body’s worth. Shirt after shirt he’d dirtied and had laundered. Three or four shirts a day, a memorable ten on the day he’d had to face down the investors.
There was a way to dig himself out of this hole, he knew there was. But he couldn’t see it, so he kept finding himself pulled down deeper and deeper.
His guts were a constant churning mess of nerves, but he kept smiling and smiling and smiling. Selling it, even as he felt himself dying inside.
After several small islands that seemed like likely venues were turned down, and with only two months to go before the Fyre Festival, the Bahamian government gave McFarland a permit to use a site set aside for development at Roker Point (Coordinates: 23.6350°N 75.9188°W) on Great Exuma, just north of the Sandals Resort.
The resort and hotel were right there. Only a couple miles away down the beach.
They’d been promised exclusivity and a once in a lifetime experience. Instead they were in a parking lot with raggedy tents half set up and a mess of porta-potties off to the side.
"I think we’ve been lied to."
Material released on social media continued to promote the falsehood that the Festival was being hosted on Pablo Escobar’s private island, with maps of the site altered to make it appear as if Roker Point was an island unto itself.
It was desperation that drove him. The single-minded need to have something to give all the people showing up. To make them understand that he wasn’t a liar.
"Change the maps," he ordered.
"What?"
"You heard me. Change the names on the maps. None of these guys knows anything about the world outside of America. We just change a few names, and voila! They’re not smart enough to even know the difference. We just got to sell the idea. Sell. Sell. Sell."
In reality, the Festival was in a remote parking lot north of a Sandals Resort and a nearby marina where locals’ boats were stored.[citation needed]
Furthermore, Great Exuma was not a private or remote island. Instead, the festival was scheduled to take place in an abandoned resort development. McFarland never announced the change; he just simply renamed the island "Fyre Cay". With no infrastructure and no villas, the team had just under two months to turn Roker Point into Fyre Cay.
An investor, fashion executive Carola Jain, reportedly arranged for Fyre to receive a $4 million loan, which the company used most of to rent luxurious offices in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood.
He looked so pitiful to her eyes. The once vibrant man reduced by stress into the sweaty mess taking up her couch.
"Fine, fine," she interrupted his blubbering, unable to take it any longer. "I will give you some money if you stop asking me. You get this much from me, and no more. Agreed?"
"Agreed! Agreed!" His face was lit up with exultation. "I’ll get you the best cabin and fly you out with me."
She waved her hand. "No, no. I don’t have time to get sunburnt on an island. I have a lot of work to do. You go and tell me all about it when you come back."
"Thank you," he said. He was suddenly standing close to her desk. She hadn’t even seen him rise to his feet. Yet here he was, close enough to touch, eyes hooded and dark. "Thank you so much."
With no experience staging an event of the proposed festival’s scale, McFarland began approaching companies that did, and was reportedly taken aback when informed the event would cost at least $50 million to stage in the time available as he had promised.
He’s a lunatic, Francois thought, keeping his expression pleasantly neutral. "Allow me to reiterate: It will cost much more than $10 million to get things set up the way you’re talking. At least five times more. And the time scale… There’s no way. You’re at least a year away from an event like this, and that’s only with a veteran crew setting everything up for you."
He sighed. "I’m sorry, but there’s no way you’re going to get your festival off the ground in the time you’re talking about. No way at all."
Furthermore, the more experienced consultants told them that in addition to the cost, an event of this magnitude would have needed an extra year to plan. He and his associates at Fyre believed it would cost far less and continued with their plans under that assumption. The organizers tried to do things themselves where possible; McFarland supposedly learned how to rent the stage by doing a Google Search.
"It can’t be that hard," he said, tapping away at the laptop keyboard.
"People go to school for years to learn how to do this kind of stuff, Mac. I don’t think you’re going to unlock the secrets to festival planning in the weeks we’ve got left."
"Look, Google exists for a reason. I’m going to hit Wikihow, and watch a few videos, and it’s all going to come together. Just you watch. This is going to be a festival for the history books."
In the days leading up to the festival, they cut expenses extensively, having learned that the luxury villas were going to cost $10 million alone, and targeted deposits for the bands, food, infrastructure and staff.
"If we pack the island with awesome music and great people, nobody’s gonna want to go back to their villas anyway. Everybody is going to be busy having a great time on the beach. It’s gonna work out. It’s gonna."
"I think we’re really overreaching here, Mac. We should cancel, or at least postpone until we can figure things out."
"No, no, we don’t need to. All those people pre-ordered. All those people are not going to be disappointed. We just have to get so many great acts here that nobody even cares about the villas. We can do this. We can."
"I… I don’t know, man."
"We can."
Scheduled for two weekends in April and May 2017, the event sold day tickets from US$500 to US$1,500, and VIP packages including airfare and luxury tent accommodation for US$12,000.
Customers were promised accommodation in "modern, eco-friendly, geodesic domes" and meals from celebrity chefs. The final advertised lineup was for 33 groups, including Pusha T, Tyga, Desiigner, Blink-182, Major Lazer, Disclosure, Migos, Rae Sremmurd, Kaytranada, Lil Yachty, Matoma, Klingande, Skepta, Claptone, Le Youth, Tensnake, Blond:ish, and Lee Burridge. In the days leading up to the festival, all of the aforementioned acts pulled out, with Major Lazer never confirming their attendance despite being advertised.
"F you. I’m not going to end up stuck on some island in another country. Cancel it. I’m not going."
"But we…"
"No. I don’t care that they’re promising a private jet and accommodations and blah blah blah. No. I’m not getting stuck in another country with no way to up and leave if I need to. No."
To make matters worse, organizers of the Fyre Festival planned their first event for April 28–30th, the same weekend as the Exuma Regatta, a Bahamian sailing race series that utilized most of the island’s hotels, vacation rentals and resources.
While the festival’s promotional material kept claiming that the festival would be held on a remote private island that once belonged to drug trafficker Pablo Escobar, workers were busy preparing Roker Point for the festival, scattering sand over its rocks and improving a road to a nearby beach, where they built some cabanas and installed swing seats.
"Hey, do you know why we’re doing this like this?"
"I think they’re trying to fool them into thinking this is some of private island or something."
"Fantasy Island?"
"Yeah yeah. Looking around, I don’t think it’s going to be happy laughs and smiling faces. We’re gonna want to be out of here before the people start showing up. There’s gonna be a lot of yelling."
"Yeah there is. But as long as we get paid."
"As long as we get paid, brother."
On the mainland, 5,000 tickets had been sold, and an air service was hired to charter festival-goers from Miami. A medical-services company and caterer were also hired, but the latter withdrew a few weeks before the festival.
"No way. I’m not taking all my stuff there. He lied to us, Janice. Blatant and extended lying."
"Yeah. That’s what it looks like."
"We’re going to end up in the middle of nowhere and have to bring all our gear home on our own dime and I’m not having it. If he jumps out on the bill, we’re ruined. I’m not risking my whole business. I won’t do it. Tell him no."
With only two weeks to go, a new catering service with a $1 million total budget was hired, drastically reduced from the $6 million originally allocated to provide for what was promised as "uniquely authentic island cuisine…local seafood, Bahamian-style sushi and even a pig roast".
In March 2017, Fyre also hired a veteran event producer, Yaron Lavi, who saw that it was impossible to hold the sort of event McFarland and Ja Rule envisioned at the site. He assumed they would postpone the event to November as they had been discussing since they were not ready.
The smartest thing would be to postpone the festival. They’d sat in a room, he’d told them they needed to postpone, and he could have sworn that they understood and agreed with him. No matter how unhappy it made Mac, the festival had to be postponed.
"So why am I looking at what I’m seeing?" he said out loud. His tablet was on a stand in front of his breakfast plate, the browser opened to a brand new article proclaiming the festival was going on as planned, including the falsehood about it taking place on a private island.
"This is gonna be bad."
However, when Fyre told him they would stage the event in the spring anyway, Lavi told them to abandon plans for temporary villas and instead erect tents, the only accommodation that could be delivered in the time remaining. Lavi advised Fyre to make this clear to those who had already bought tickets, as otherwise it would be damaging to their brand. He says the company assured him that an email was being prepared, but he was not sure if it was sent.
Comcast Ventures considered investing $25 million in the Fyre app, which McFarland apparently hoped would allow him to finance the festival, but declined days beforehand. Reportedly, McFarland had valued Fyre Media at $90 million but was unable to provide sufficient proof of that when Comcast requested it.
"The app has great potential, but the company itself… They’ve been hemorrhaging money. The guy is obsessed with having his big festival right now. It’s a bad investment at the moment."
"Thank you for your opinion. Please notify him that we’ve changed our mind on the deal. No need to pour salt in the wound, but be firm. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man that understands anything less than a solid No."
Writing for New York magazine, one of the event organizers later noted that since at least mid-March there were significant problems with the planning, and at one point it was suggested they reschedule the 2017 festival until 2018.
"I don’t understand why we don’t reschedule." She sighed heavily, fighting the urge to scrub her hand over her face.
She, along with the rest of the office staff, had been asked to help set up the event. She’d never pitched a tent before, but she was trying her best and her dirty sweaty body showed it.
It may have been April, but the heat was brutal for someone that had flown straight from a New York spring. Already she was regretting letting herself be talked into the trip. She could have been sleeping in her own bed instead of the lop-sided haphazardly assembled yurt that had been set aside for the staff. They hadn’t even given her an air mattress; so it was just a sleeping bag on a tarp on asphalt.
"We need to reschedule," she said. "There’s no way everything’s going to be ready on time. He’s dreaming. There’s no way."
These plans, however, were revoked at the last minute with the decision to go on with the event as planned. "Let’s just do it and be legends, man," one of the organizers is reported to have said. Later that month, Page Six began reporting rumors that the festival organizers were too disorganized and "in over their heads."
After the Comcast deal fell through, McFarland obtained some temporary financing for Fyre through investor Ezra Birnbaum that required the company repay at least US$500,000 of the loan within 16 days.
In order to raise quick cash for the event, and with under two weeks to go before the inaugural event, Fyre informed ticket-holders that the event would now be "cashless (and cardless)," and encouraged attendees to put up thousands of dollars in advance on a digital Fyre Band to cover purchases at the festival, according to one lawsuit. Each attendee would be issued an RFID-equipped, smartwatch-like ID to use during the festival; this was despite warnings that such digital bracelets would be useless because of the poor Wi-Fi connection at the site.
"It’ll be like we’re in the future. Just wave your wrist, and everything’s paid for. It’ll be amazing. You’ll all love it."
"But… Are you sure you want the whole event to be cashless? I mean, that seems a little…"
"It’ll be great! I can see it all in my mind’s eye: Beautiful women in strips of nothing not having to worry about purses and cards and cash. Just a wrist band and a bikini. It’ll be perfect."
McFarland, who signed the email, suggested that attendees deposit $300–500 for every day they planned to attend. About $2 million from festival goers was taken for these bracelets, 40% of which, according to a lawsuit later filed by Birnbaum, was used by McFarland to pay off the short-term loan.
Festival events and attendee experiences
Early in the morning of April 27, heavy rain fell on Great Exuma, soaking the open tents and mattresses piled out in the open air for guest arrivals later that day.
The rain had come from nowhere. That’s what he’d say later over and over again. The rain had come from nowhere.
Clear skies had become heavy and gray, then rain was soaking everything, from sleeping bags and mattresses to the pile of tents the staff were still desperately attempting to assemble.
He wondered if he was being punished by some higher power. But he couldn’t see why they’d do such a thing. He’d always tried his best to live a good life.
It was just this festival turning his everything into hell.
The first flights from Miami International Airport to Exuma International Airport, operated by Swift Air and Xtra Airways, landed at 6:20 a.m. That afternoon, Blink-182 announced that it was withdrawing from the festival, stating in a Twitter post that: "We’re not confident that we would have what we need to give you the quality of performances we always give our fans."
Initial arrivals were brought to an "impromptu beach party" at a beachside restaurant, where they were plied with alcohol and kept waiting for around six hours while frantic preparations at the festival site continued. McFarland had hired hundreds of local Bahamian workers to help build the site. Meanwhile, organizers had to renegotiate the guarantees they offered to the people who would be playing at the festival as costs spiraled out of control. Later arrivals were brought directly to the grounds by school bus where the true state of the festival’s site became apparent: their accommodations were little more than scattered disaster relief tents with dirt floors, some with mattresses that were soaking wet as a result of the morning rain. The gourmet food accommodations were nothing more than inadequate and poor quality food (including cheese sandwiches served in foam containers).
Festival-goers were dropped off at the production bungalow where McFarland and his team were based so they could be registered, but after hours of waiting in vain, people rushed to claim their own tents. Although there were only about 500 people, there were not enough tents and beds for the guests, so they wound up stealing from others.
It was wrong. They knew it was wrong. But they were not going to spend another moment in the open air with nothing comfortable to sit on while others had mattresses and tents.
With a stealthness that had them mentally humming spy music, they stole the unassembled tent and air mattress from a woman loudly complaining at her distracted boyfriend. He was frantically tapping at his phone, cursing the lack of a dependable signal. Byrd could have told him it was useless.
The first thing they’d done when they’d realized the situation was try to call their mother. They’d managed a brief "Help me! Send money!" message, and they weren’t even sure she’d really heard them before the signal was lost.
It was the knowledge that they weren’t likely to be leaving soon that had them stealing the tent and mattress. If they knew they were going to be out of this hellhole in a few hours, they wouldn’t have bothered. But they had a suspicion that it was at least going to be overnight, if not the full three days.
I’m going to sue them all so hard, they thought, returning to the area they’d claimed for their own.
Attendees were unable to leave the festival for the nearby Sandals resorts as it was peak season, with almost every hotel on Great Exuma already fully booked for the annual Exuma Regatta. Around nightfall, a group of local musicians took to the stage and played for a few hours, the only act to perform at the event. In the early morning, it was announced that the festival would be postponed and that the attendees would be returned to Miami as soon as possible.
Reports from the festival mentioned various other problems, such as the mishandling or theft of guests’ baggage, no lighting to help people find their way around, an unfinished gravel lot, a lack of medical personnel or event staff, no cell phone or internet service, portable toilets, no running water and heavy-handed security. These problems were exacerbated as the festival had been promoted as a cashless event, leaving many attendees without money for taxi fare or other expenses.
Many attendees were reportedly stranded, as flights to and from the island were cancelled after the Bahamian government issued an order that barred any planes from landing at the airport.
The first flight back to Miami boarded at 1:30 a.m. on April 28, but was delayed for hours due to issues with the flight’s manifest. It was cancelled after sunrise, and passengers were locked in the Exuma Airport terminal with no access to food, water or air conditioning; a passenger recalled that at least one person passed out from the heat and had to be hospitalized.
The flight eventually left Exuma later that morning, and more charter flights to Miami departed from Exuma throughout the day. One attendee who was stuck in Miami reported that the pilot of their airplane had told them to get off so they could turn the plane around for immediate departure, as they were now serving as a rescue aircraft to get attendees off Great Exuma Island.
Seeing the island disappear far behind and below the plane, she reached up and shut the window cover. She was glad to be going home.
She didn’t want to see or hear about her island hell ever again.
Harper Kingsley 