Minerva and August, Supernatural Investigators: The Little People Village(Part Two)

Here’s the conclusion to Minerva and August, Supernatural Investigators: The Little People Village.

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“I am the queen here.” she declared in a proud voice. The leaves of her dress rustled as she walked past Minerva and August. She smelled of dry leaves and  the cool autumn night. Her dark eyes met with August’s as she sat on the throne. Hewn from stone and bearing carved images of thousands of faeries intertwined with each other, the throne looked impossibly uncomfortable, but the queen seemed perfectly easeful. She traced the body of one of the faeries with her fingernail, bringing the carved being to life and letting it dance in her hand. Minerva watched; August was transfixed by the queen and her power. The tiny villagers began to dance around the throne, chanting.

“August.” whispered Minerva. The spell cast by the beautiful queen preoccupied August’s mind. His hand had gone for a scroll, but he made no move to unroll the parchment. Minerva weighed her options. She knew her powers were limited; she had placed the limits on them herself. She wouldn’t use the scroll; she couldn’t bring herself to cast a spell ever again. She felt herself slipping into the past, her mind wandering back to one night, seven years ago. Minerva forced herself back into the present; the queen was looking at her quizzically.

“What did you do, dear?” asked the queen in a motherly tone. Minerva had to decide what to do quickly, before she gave the queen a chance to learn anything she could use against her. The queen blew softy on the faerie in her hand and it turned to rose-scented dust. Minerva pulled at August’s arm and rushed at the startled queen. She crashed into the queen with all her weight and sent her hard into the throne’s back. August fell to the ground, dazed but free of the spell. He tried to stand, but his head was swimming. Pawing at the scroll, he tried to remember what he was doing here and why. Five tiny people rushed at him with pitch forks; each sting brought a wave of pain and rememberance. He brushed the people aside and unravelled the ten foot long scroll. The parchment bore an intricate painting of a labyrinth. Agust struggled to remember the words he needed to recite, his concentration breaking when he chanced to see Minerva trapped in a series of roots that flowed from the queen’s hands.

“The thousand eyes of Uggthac are on you,” he yelled, “the master of the maze calls you.” August repeated the words, louder and louder. He could feel the power swelling slowly from the scroll. He saw one of Minerva’s hands grab for a rock; in a moment, the rock crashed hard on the queen’s skull. The queen fell to the ground, pulling the root entangled Minerva with her. August continued his invocation, drowing out the little peoples’ attempt to counter his spell. The roots relaxed as the queen began to fade from reality. The tiny people screamed in anguish as he winked out of existence completely.

“What did you do?” they demanded, brandishing their tiny farming implements. August pulled a small parchment out of his coat and placed a drop of ink on it, smearing it into a magical symbol of rememberance. Minerva stood up, brushing herself off and combing the leaves from her hair.

“Remember who you are.” he said as the symbol began to glow. A scent of rosemary filled the air as a wave of energy pulsed from the symbol. Slowly, the little people remembered that once, they were not so little. Sadness filled their faces as they remembered lives long abandoned and forgotten. “She got into your minds and made you her subjects.” said August. The silent shame of the little people brought him his answer. Minerva rested her hand on August’s shoulder. He looked up to see sadness in her expressive blue eyes.

“You didn’t need to do that.” she said softly as they left the melancholy village.

“I did. They had a right to know.”

“But you can’t undo the spell she put on them, can you?”

“No, the magic is too old and powerful. I’d fall into a horrible debt calling on such strength.” August felt disappointed with himself. He looked at the scroll with the labyrinth and saw a tiny speck moving through its drawn corridors. “One hundred years isn’t enough for her.” he said finally. Minerva lost herself in thought. She knew why August did what he did; he had lost one friend to a monster in the past and wouldn’t let it happen again. However, she knew it didn’t have to end the way it did. If only I used the spell instead. I could have trapped her and freed August from her spell. I could have stopped him…

They sat in the station wagon and gloom blossomed. Neither of them spoke through the ride back to Woonsocket. When August shifted the car into park and turned the engine off, he sunk into his seat.

“I got carried away. This was supposed to be just an investigation, not a removal. It was supposed to be a fun escape and nothing else. “I go get myself entranced, then I start slinging curses and spells.”

“Don’t worry. I would have done the same thing if it came down to it.” said Minerva, “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“I guess you’re right. I just feel so bad.”

“You were right; the people had a right to know. Maybe there was a kinder way to tell them. The queen was aggressive and you did what you know how to do. I’m the one that’s wrong. I should have cast that spell.” Minerva sighed and sunk into her seat. August studied the pensive expression on her’s face. He just didn’t know how to respond.

“You want some ice cream?” popped out of his mouth.

“Sure.” responded Minerva. August sat up and started the car again. He drove down the street to a small ice cream stand. Somehow, as they sat there eating their ice cream cones, everythng started to seem all right again.

“What should we do tomorrow?” asked August.

“Hopefully, we get a call. The electric bill’s going to be coming in.” said Minerva, punctuating her sentence with a bite of the crunchy ice cream cone.   

Minerva and August, Supernatural Investigators: The Little People Village(Part One)

This is a story based on a real place in Connecticut. I thought I was going to have time to finish it all in one post, but unfortunately I need to get up early in the morning. I hope to post the rest before the end of the weekend.

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August stared at his laptop in disbelief. He closed the lid and swiveled his chair so he could face Minerva, who was sitting on the floor, surrounded by dusty books.

“Can you believe it? No e-mails. Not one.” August whined drearily. He had been in demand as an investigator of all things supernatural since 1999. Back then, he was an unsuspecting art student, but since then he abandoned his studies of the human form for the study of occult tomes. His specialty was binding and exorcising; Minerva was much more sensative to psychic vibrations than he was. She also was much more patient.

“I’m sure even Superman has his off days. Dr. Doom can’t trouble Gotham everyday.” Minerva smiled widely as aggravation spread across August’s face. He loved comic books almost as much as he loved hunting for ghosts; Minerva knew just how to provoke him.

“Superman doesn’t live in Gotham. Dr. Doom is not even in the same universe.” said August, exaspirated. “All I want is a case. Something to sink my teeth into. I can’t just sit here.”

“Then why don’t you dust the bookshelves. Some of these volumes of Tobin’s Spirit Guide are caked with dust.” Minerva ran a finger along the cover of volume two-hundred and twelve and showed August her dust laden finger.

“I don’t want to do something mundane. I want some action. I need to get out there and find something.” Minerva was tiring of August’s rantings and wished that he would find himself a girlfriend, or something; anything to get his mind off of work for a few hours. She pulled a copy of The Most Haunted Places in New England, a thin soft covered book of about two hundred pages, and tossed it at August’s feet.

“How about a field trip? Some hiking, fresh air, and all that.” August picked up the miniscule volume and leafed through it inattentively.

“Where are you thinking?” he asked.

“Connecticut. The Little People Village. Page one-seventeen. It’s a bit of a ride, but it might be worth it. Some weird stuff happened there. A guy built these tiny houses for the voices he heard in his head, and then he built a throne. After his death, a cult used the site for ritual murders. Place hasn’t been on the radar since 2000, when the current owners of the land destroyed the throne.” Minerva closed the copy of Marduk and Other Divinities Amongst Us and put it back on the shelf. She picked up the other books she had littered the office floor with and put them back on the shelf as well. August read the entry about the Little People Village and felt intrigued enough to undertake the hour and a half drive to get there.

Leaving their tiny office, which sat above a weiner shop on Woonsocket’s Main Street, the pair looked like an odd couple. Minerva was wearing a soft pink peacoat and her long, blonde hair was waving like a spider web in the wind. August was dressed in his usual work attire; a black kilt made out of thick cotton and a black duster. His dark hair was recently cropped into a curly mass atop his head. They walked down the street past several brick buildings with glass store fronts. Some were normal businesses; shops selling antiques, some small restaurants, and a karate studio. However, others were simply facades for less mundane enterprises…

They piled into August’s station wagon, in the back of which was a tangle of wires, books, camera equipment, scrolls, and a massive altar top from one of the city’s abandoned churches. As he started the car, Minerva’s cell phone exploded into the chorus of ABBA’s Dancing Queen. While Minerva talked unceasingly to her sister, August guided the automobile towards the highway. They headed Westward on thickly forested highways.

“Connecticut lasts forever.” said August when Minerva finally finished with her call. “It’s like Connecticut is a wormhole or something. You get so far, then suddenly you’re right where you started, or at least at a place that looks just like where you started.”

“It isn’t that bad. At least it’s nice and green. I bet it’s pretty in the fall around here.” Minerva contentedly watched the scenery pass by while August concentrated on the road ahead. Silence slowly filled the car. Neither was uncomfortable; they had been working together for nearly ten years now. They rode on in silence, listening only to the hum of the car’s engine because the radio died years before.

“Do you think we could have been something?” asked August, breaking the quiet. Minerva was surprised by the question. August, thinking he needed to clarify the question, said “I mean, do you think we could have been an item? If things were different?” Minerva took a moment to digest the question.

“Why?” she asked, evading the question.

“I just found myself thinking about it. What if? You know, those questions bug me. ’What if I never came to Woonsocket and saw the shuggoths?’ ‘What if I hadn’t met Ana? or Sarah?’ Sometimes, when I’m just sitting there, I think of these things. I don’t mean anything by it. I know you’re in a relationship and all, but I was just thinking how weird this would be if we were, you know, a couple.”

“Do you really think it would be weirder? We’ve seen some strange stuff over the years, and couple or not, I don’t think it would be weirder.” responded Minerva.

“Well, I just don’t know if I’d want to let you risk yourself going out like this if you were more than just a friend.” said August. His mind wandered back to the day that Sarah had saved him, throwing herself at that thing. 

“I don’t know if I should be offended by that.” remarked Minerva, trying to be playful. Seeing the grim expression on August’s face, she changed the conversation. “So, this village. Are you excited to see it?”

The smile returned to August’s face as he nodded his head. “Yes.” At the end of the long ride, August was himself again. They parked the car in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. August took a sheaf of parchment from the rear of the station wagon, as well as his digital camera and a small, wooden writing set. They made their way on foot through the quaint town; locals looked at them suspiciously, half-knowing why they had come to visit. In the late afternoon, they arrived at the path that, according to The Most Haunted Places in New England, would wind into the woods and lead to the Little People Village. The path was hard to follow, but after fifteen minutes of wandering, Minerva spotted a tiny house. August took out his camera and took a picture of the knee high cottage.

“Windows. Tiny windows!” marvelled Minerva as she bent down to look at the exquisitely detailed house. It was carved from stone; intricate patterns of shingles covered the roof and when she looked in a window, she saw that Persian rugs were skillfully hewn on the floors. “How did he do this?” she asked out loud. August heard her, but could offer no answer. His eyes were drawn deeper into the forest, where a stone throne sat on a small hill, surrounded by a dozen detailed domiciles.

“I thought you said that was destroyed.” said August as he took steps away from the distant object. “Minnie, Do you think we should leave?”

Minerva took her attention from the tiny house and let her focus drift. Her vision slowly blurred and she felt herself expanding into a thin sheet of consciousness that canvassed the area. August quieted his thoughts and heard a squeaky voice.

“Greetings, friend.” said the voice. August stumbled forward, startled. Minerva’s focus fell to a tiny man, about the size of her thumb. Other tiny men and women started to swarm out from the houses. August held up his camera and snapped several pictures. He started to think about wards that he could use to keep the little people away, but none came to mind.

“Hello,” responded Minerva in a friendly tone.

“We don’t get many visitors here.” said the tiny man, “except for the Queen.”

“Queen?” asked August.

“Yes. She comes at night and takes her place upon the throne. She is our Queen and Goddess.” explained the man, “She is our Great Mother.” The other little people began to chant ‘Great Mother’.

“Who is this Queen of yours?” asked Minerva, hoping for a less general answer. 

“She called us here and had this town built for us.”

“And that is her throne.” said August, pointing at the hill.

“Yes,” replied the tiny man.

“Yes.” said a voice from behind August and Minerva. They turned to see a tall woman with green, bark splotched skin and root like hair. She wore a dress crafted from leaves and a crown of antlers…        

To Part Two 

Numbers on the Wall (Part Two, Ending Version 2)

The following piece of fiction contains bizarre and digusting images. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

(Ending Version 2)

“Hello.” said Roger. The line remained staticy, though Roger could hear a sound, somewhat like a voice echoing in a tin can. “Hello? I can’t hear you very well. Can you hear me?” asked Roger, not noticing an inky cloud puffing out of the reciever. When he saw it, he dropped the phone on the floor. The black smoke filtered out of the phone swiftly; in the cloud he could see the face of a young woman. He fell over himself, tumbling to the floor. The amorphous cloud grew; a dozen faces floated in the cloud. Each face was unique, except that every face writhed in pain, sneering with mouths lined with fangs. Roger pushed himself away from the apparition as dozens of arms and legs began to form on the cloud’s perimeter.

“What are you!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. He reached for a knife from his galley kitchen’s counter. His hand shook as he pointed the blade at the apparition. One of the hands swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. He shouted in pain as the thing pulled him towards itself. Its voice, echoed and tinny, called to him.

“We need you.”  it said as it wrenched his wrist around. Roger screeched in pain as the creature pulled at him. One of the mouths sunk its fangs into his flesh as several hands groped clumsily at him while others held him fast. Looking up at the apparition, Roger felt faint and powerless. He felt as though he left his body; he watched as the creature tore at his clothes. He watched as the mouths bit at him, sucking his blood. He winced as the scene became too disgusting to watch, but he could not look away. The apparition had many genitals; some male, some female. No! Stop! STOP! He tried to cry out, but the apparition was pulling his mouth open, pushing a tongue down his throat. He gagged, almost vomiting; he felt helpless and broken…

When he awoke, he was still bleeding. He pulled himself to the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash over him. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and spotted. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. He rushed from the shower and saw that his face was heavily wrinkled. I look like I aged 80 years! What the hell did that thing do to me? As he looked in the mirror, he could see the apparition behind him, a hand reaching out and clasping him painfully on the shoulder.

“We want more.” said the creature, speaking in Roger’s voice and looking at him with Roger’s youthful face.

“No!” screamed Roger pleadingly, tears welling in his eyes.

“Then another. Bring us another. If not, we will be back.” The apparition slowly disappated back into the telephone, leaving behind only a dial tone. Roger nervously grabbed at the phone and terminated the call. Naked and alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. His eyes fell on the torn clothes on the floor and the blood, his blood. He looked at the phone number and knew that there was only one way to deliver himself from the creature and what might be endless, nightly torture.

The next day, he went to the super market and went into the bathroom. He had taken a permanent marker with him; he started to write the phone number on the wall of one of the stalls. He felt guilt filling him as he scrawled ”For a Good Time, Call Annie” above the number. The words became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He left the stall, taking his marker with him, hopeful and fearful.  

 

Numbers on the Wall (Part 2)

This story still contains adult content, similar but different from the first part. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

“The night,” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was soft and eerie, like an old recording. Roger strained to hear the quiet voice over the static. “Tonight is when I will come. Leave the door open. I cannot open it. I want to be with you.”

“Tonight?” Roger asked.

“Yes. Leave the door open.” responded the voice. Then, there was silence.

“But how will you know where to find me? You don’t know who I am.”

(Ending Version 1)

There was no response to his question, just static and silence. He thought he might have heard something. Was that a wimper? A moan? Roger became frustrated, as this was evidently some kind of trick. That voice was so creepy, so unreal. Maybe it’s somekind of ad? For a horror movie or something; viral advertising through graffiti. It sounds reasonable enough. Roger terminated the call with a button press. He watched television, checked his e-mail, ate some macoroni and cheese, and settled into his bed to watch more television. The late night talk shows weren’t keeping his attention; all day long he was obsessing about sex, and now it was on his mind again. I should be with a woman right now. It just isn’t fair! I thought for sure that the number was someone’s. Roger wallowed in his self constructed misery until he started watching a movie on Cinemax. It was something about witches and their need for the life giving powers that only a man could provide. It was when the red headed witch was “extracting the life giving power” from a man that Roger heard a loud banging on the door.

It was past four in the morning, and it was unlikely that anyone he knew would be knocking at the door so late. Then he remembered the call; Tonight is when I’ll come my ass! It was a fucking prank. Tired and cranky, he pulled his flat sheet into a makeshift toga and walked to the door.

“I don’t know who this is, but you better fuck off.” He threatened weakly, “I’ll call the cops.”

“I said to leave the door unlocked.” responded a ghostly voice. Roger looked at the door and saw smoke billowing under his door. The smoke was also pouring in through the sides. Someone went through a hell of a lot of work to prank me like this. It has to be someone that knows my voice. Could it be Fat Brian? No way! Roger unbolted the door and opened it in a rage. He was determined to yell at someone over this outrage. The guts someone has to pull shit like this. Fucking asshole is going to…

Outside the door was the form of a woman clouded in a black haze. Her hair lashed around like tendrils; her eyes were white and unseeing. Her slender hand reached out for Roger’s sheet and tugged at it. She smiled coyly as she pulled herself through the open door. She was voluptuous and sensual; rather than be repelled by her, Roger felt himself drawn to her. The woman’s arms wrapped around him as she pressed her lips against his. Roger felt as though he was losing control of himself. He felt her lie him down; he felt her take his manhood within her. Pleasure flowed through his body as he heard one of the witches from the movie fake an orgasim. This is unbelieveable! It feels so good! 

Roger’s life changed that night. Over the next few months, he gained weight. His belly began to sag and he felt like there was something moving inside of him. When he went to his doctor complaining of nausea, they conducted a series of tests that concluded he had a large tumour growing in his stomach. The doctor told him surgery was the answer, and so surgery it was. However, when the surgery was over, the doctor spoke with Roger.

“Son,” said the doctor, ”I don’t know how to say this, so I will be blunt. The tumor wasn’t a tumor. It was something else…”

Roger was startled and aghast. Don’t let it be what I think it is! Please! Please! He silently prayed to God that the doctor wouldn’t say the words he didn’t want to hear. Don’t say that it was…

“a baby.” said the doctor.   

The Stadium (Inspired By Missie)

The following is based on a recent blog post that my friend Missie had made about a short adventure she had walking by the Stadium Theatre on Main Street in Woonsocket. I took some liberties with details, and of course added a haunting or 300. This works less as a horror story, and more as a mild drama with supernatural tones. Maybe I should develop it further? It features one of my stock characters; Belphegor, a Minstrel Show performer, supernatural entity, and sometimes nice guy. He first made an appearence in an RPG I ran, and I have wanted to revisit the character again.

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Late at night, a young woman walked past the Stadium theatre downtown. It had been a great theatre eighty years ago, but its heyday was lost in the past. Now, it was home to sporadic over-priced shows featuring impersonators of great performers. She smiled to herself, remembering what the theatre had been to her; she was part of the theatre’s renovation, but now it had taken on a life of its own; a life less glorious than it had been nearly a century before, but definately better than being an additional municipal parking lot. Looking through the dark windows, she tried to see inside the lobby. Just then, a booming chord sounded from within the building.

Her mind ran wild for a moment, thinking firstly of The Phantom of the Opera. She just giggled at herself and walked along, dismissing the sounded chord as someone practicing for an upcoming show. What she could not see through the darkness was the spectre of a man in his late forties, dressed in a trim-fitting tuxedo emerged from the orchestra pit. His hair is a tangled mess and his boney fingers are capped with long, thick nails. He shuffled despondently across the floor, making his way to the door. He was certain someone had to have heard him; he thought he saw eyes in the darkness. He was certain of it. Pressing his hand against the glass, he sighs softly and his head droops down like a flower in need of water.

“She done gone.” boomed a bass voice from the stage, followed by a horse-like laugh.

“No one hears us.” said the man in nearly a whisper as he turned. A man in blackface sat on the edge of the stage, letting a leg sway to and fro and propping his elbow up with his other leg. His hair was dusty and kinked; he wore stiped pants and a dickie without a jacket. The spectral organist gaped at the blackfaced man and rushed towards him, wagging his finger in protest.

“You don’t even belong here! Why are you here?” asked the organist.

“Everyone’s gotta haunt somewhere, and I figured here was as good as anywhere. What’d you expect? I’d be haunting a tub ‘a fried chicken? You think I’m some kinda poutry-geist?” the blackfaced man laughed at his own joke with another horse-like laugh. The organist just fumed; he had been alone for so long, and didn’t want to share his home with this buffoon. The blackfaced man’s heart crumbled when he saw how sad the organist had become.

“You know, there was somebody there just now.” said the blackfaced man seriously.

“But what does it matter? I’m dead…”

“Dead, but not gone.”

“Not gone, but forgotten.”

“There you are wrong. I bet there’s someone out there that remembers you.” The blackfaced man tried his best to comfort the organist, but his despair seemed just to double. “Hey! Why don’t you play something?” asked the blackfaced man.

“Why?” responded the organist.

“Because I’d like to hear it.”

The organist’s fingers pushed at the keys, and the wurlitzer sprang to life. The tune was ponderous and slow at first, but slowly gained momentum. Soon, it became bouncy and joyful; the organist’s face beamed with joy as the blackfaced man’s white teeth gleamed in a wide smile. He watched as the theatre slowly filled up to capacity. He always loved opening night.

You and Your Ghost

 The following poem is basically the outline of the next short story I plan on working on. It should be a fabulous time with a ghost, unwilling  lover, and the psychic that he loves. Essentially, the ghost has attached herself to the male lead. The male then enters a series of relationships that end with death and despair. His misery is lifted when he finds a woman that turns out to be able to see ghosts and exocise them. However, the quandary becomes weather or not he’d be happy without his little ghost around. 

“You and Your Ghost” by Harry L. Thompson, Jr.

I can see her behind you.

Watching your every step,

Waiting for me to turn my back;

Waiting for the moment she can end me.

Susie died in a car crash,

Rena fell in a hay bailer.

Carla’s heart failed,

And now there’s me.

I see your ghost behind you, scheming.

She wants you to herself,

But she can’t have you.

You are mine, always.

Tina was committed,

Audry was burned alive.

Kim was thrown from a plane,

But now she must reckon with me.

I’m a witch.

I’m a vessel of the gods.

I’m able to draw the sacred signs;

Soon, there will be no more her and plenty of me.

She will feel a pinch (The first since death).

Her soul will crackle (Pain unknown, even in life).

She’s going to regret this (The sigil is stronger than her will),

And I will sever her from this earth ( She is weak and dead; defeated).

When she’s gone,

Will you feel all alone?

Without her haunting, can you thrive?

If it’s her or me, which one would you choose?

~H