The awful virus of it, the expectations of genius arising out of nothing mere attention to the banal. Over the years, I've learned to watch it and wait. There's an old haiku about writer's block. Disobedient poems, they never come when you call.  But even if I sat still in the grass after a rain, there's no promise any words would approach. There are enough poems about rain. Is anything left unwritten? What melodies play between blades of grass? Does rain get an afterlife? Are there poems about sitting in puddles? One should never write a poem about poetry. It seems counterintuitive, like getting a receipt for a receipt. Yet I remain afflicted by writer's block. I toss, I turn, I can't break the fever of wanting. I've exchanged curious telepathic glances with birds, read articles on the myriad types of chili peppers, and gasped when I saw cloud forms appear to hold hands while skipping over mountains. But I failed to write any poetry on this because it's also obvious, right? I mean, you've seen it. Besides, I felt choked up with wanting. I was envious, envious of clouds, envious of the first graze of rain across a mouth. There are things I haven't yet written as there are prayers God won't take responsibility for. Prayers like dead batteries, prayers like toxic medicines. Perhaps I should ask here, what's the difference between prayer and poetry? Perhaps this is how to confront writer's block. Ask questions. What type of grass grows on Jupiter? How might you spend your day if you were a goat, or a dolphin, or a cloud, reaching out for another cloud while leaping over a mountain range like stepping over cousins asleep on your dining room floor? Every day there are miracles and moments of beauty that need poems. Unchaperoned flowers making love in a field of bluegrass. Cephalophotic clouds shifting color, texture and giggling rain. Animals that stop and appear to admire the lighted dusk. They seem contemplative, thinking, having realized something, if only, if only. All right. So this poem is, the reference here in 88 Miles is not about back to the future. This was written and inspired after a Facebook post posted by my biological niece who visited my birth mother, who I haven't really talked to in 10 or so years or so, and posted a photograph of her on her deathbed. When I saw that photo, I realized, as I was sitting in my office in San Francisco, there was 88 miles between where I was sitting and where she was at that moment. And this is what happened. There are 88 miles between us, rocked, raw, and dead-ended. 88 miles of asphalt poured gumbo hot. Meteorite roadkill igniting into white phosphorus solar flares, blurring what's left of Route 66. 88 hospice beds grow wild in a Fibonacci bouquet along Burmishave highways. 88 gray wolves hopscotch the distance while the dawn's sun branches the horizon like a plum. A squadron of 88 blood moons hover the interstate aboard a keyboard of crows pitching eggs like grenades. 88 days have passed without incident involving unwanted riverbank babies begging for bottles in the blackberry bushes. No matter how many flower beds I crawl into, they're not as warm as the grave of your final embrace. 88 bayous boil down to banks of Salt Peter bringing whole brotherless armies to their knees in service to shame. 88 deltas of bubbling crawfish the color of devotion roses, born again crustaceans pinching hallelujahs from the air. I am one of 88 men staring at a photograph of someone dying or dead. The person in the photo resembles a melting sculpture, its mouth loose as a child's shoestring, the yoke leaking from their eyes. I have been here before standing bedside waiting for the drop. Unsure of what to pray for, I keep clearing my throat. We are not touching. My hands don't know you so they hang from my arms like sleeping bats while death dings off the elevator holding 88 sunflowers dripping crinkled leaves. I am squinting to focus a memory having blurred into strangers. Perhaps I should hurry my apology but where was I going with it? This makes 88 times I've thought all scotch was consecrated while 88 tongues await the unleavened forgiveness of the body. I smoked 88 blunts at the double locked door of a no vacancy church where God keeps their eyes bashfully shut.   Yeah, I am going to do that because I made a mistake of actually submitting this poem to a journal and they're going to publish it in November. And I'm like, huh, I don't know actually how I feel about that now. Um, this is called, uh, this is called trigger warning. Having always preferred funerals in the rain. The casket, a husk, the body, a seed sprouting wild from a garden of ravens. See a cemetery in Oklahoma, the land a pancake of petroleum. A troop of clones file out of a minivan to floss weeds rippling around the engraved name on a placard. A name getting more attention than when he, she were alive, cornered and confusing phantoms from memory. Now he, she is the phantom preferred in photo albums over aged irrelevance. My mother once lit new ports with lightning between bong hits of prednisone, the habit of flavored breath being that hard to break. Stare at the ground or mounds of shoveled earth. Now think what do we really bury the black chrysalis in my mother's casket receipt in ashes. I was never clear what that was. Instead of her, perhaps it was what soured and sapped her into that furrowed fig, leaving us witnesses to put it finally into the ground, praying it stay there and offering a neat grave for ritualized devotion. The weakness of our humanity is not letting anything remain buried long enough. Years later, a new job but with a former coworker. Her first question was would I treat her to lunch having forgotten her wallet as I'd forgotten melody to the song of my own lineage. Her second question was for a list of all my exes without including family, pushing a stack of chips towards me. But I've always been resistant to the obvious. These are not casino chips, they are bullets, and this is a trigger warning. She tells me she was loved once, but that wasn't the word she used. A baby cashed out of her womb a slot machine clanging human cells. But what explains my dormancy? Who are my references in life? She called for documentation on the impact crater weeping stones in my chest. Then watches me load an inherited pistol with her words, a mid-century parlor trick. Aim it at my own head and pull the trigger. I told her just like I told the dead I'd rather be blank than rent space in any more arms of ashes. Everything I've loved has led to unmarked holes and wild grasses. The rain falling over a funeral is the only touch I can stand. Holes and wild grasses, I said. Holes and wild grasses. Let me do, thank you. This is so odd to me how the brain works because this poem I'm about to do now is older than that poem I just read, but it is related and it took place during the exact same weekend that that funeral I was kind of describing happened. And this poem is called Wicked Game, Oklahoma Flatlands, Night's Rich Perfume in Lightning and Oil. This back when I was clairvoyant in music videos. I'm with my cousin who's driving on a knife blade of asphalt neatly slicing the tundra. He appears rigid, fixed. He hard stares into the blue-black screen of sky tuned to nothing. We are together this week due to death and blood, both strands sagging loose between us. We are family without ever having made friends. Perhaps the true death is not his grandmother but himself since his heart remains this week in the purse of a woman who can no longer be bothered. This empty plated landscape, licked clean even of any footprints is the perfect metaphor for all I've ever known of love. But before I can figure anything out, just then a sudden guitar calls order from the radio. Between the silences we pass back and forth, the car fills with strummed notes. A swirling phantom embroidering the air. Sometimes, I said, gently parting our curtain of silence. When I hear this song, I imagine an astronaut bouncing along a moon rock like a yo-yo in slow motion. Away from the crumpled spaceship that he's just been tossed out of. And in the distance, beyond the crash, planet Earth spins, turns a perfect and silent ball as he crawls back to his smoldering vessel, his face a shattered web of blood. Some people, he said to the highway, just see things different. All right, so I'm going to end with this and I will sneak and tell you that this poem has... I actually did a psychic reading many, many years ago and kind of forgot that I had an audio cassette of that reading. Some of the lines from that recording I put in this poem, this is called psychic reading. My last therapist advised, I see a psychic. I did, but one cynical about the future who stopped mid-sentence and said, a lot of this takes place in Africa. I see you in a blue cave with a sunroof hand dug through sandstone, a natural telescope that doubles for a trumpet in case of blues emergency. I see you as a shaman scientist with a pimp's taste, enthusiastic about saber-tooth fur, simply because you look good in it. You're cold medicine and a candy wrapper, fluent in stars centuries before Galileo. The galaxy bears witness to everything it's seen. You eat ripe stars from the valley of the sky and let juice from the cosmos run sticky veins along your arms. You're an astrologer sending out a Gemini Eagle to gather roots and information. The eagle is nursed to the sky and you its spirit doctor with a voice like Tony Bennett. Your prescription of flowers will sing the gospel of water if you incant the right words at the right time. You know birds have a tendency to strip feathers in their sleep. They cuddle and dream darkness in fear of what the light might reveal. You have the tongue to communicate with gazelles, but what is there to talk about since all they do is gossip? They prefer the cobalt jazz of salt peanuts. I see you armed with a friendly whip, captaining a storm of pages, flipping in a library of haunted shells. The oceanic quilt of night is your chemistry set. You know how the origami of time is, everything folding into everything else. You practice an extinct magic, finger painting the geometry of light tickling the surface of the ocean until its waves open like a nightgown. Thank you guys very, very much.


Check it out Hey, it's Brent and in this video I want to talk to you about one of the biggest mistakes that you're making When women are testing you and here's one of the biggest mistakes you think you believe That she's testing you or that they test you because they don't like you and that's not necessarily true now What is true is you might be a creepy pursuer and so they might be making snider marks or acting rude to you Because you've got that wanting desperate over-pursuing vibe but On the other hand she may like you and I find a lot of times that they like you and that's why they test you either way Here's what they're doing They're throwing out the test so that they can see if in fact you are as creepy as you sound or as creepy as your first opener or Are you actually different than every other guy who's ever approached them?  Well, you know, he has a great vibe But let's let's see if it's real or it's just a fluke. Let's see what he's actually made of and if he can follow through So they want to see if you can follow through so that's where they're giving you that test So that's why it's important what you do next So not one of the number one mistakes or one of the top mistakes is just having this limiting belief that if a woman Test you that she doesn't like you. Okay, so remember it's It's either that she does like you and she's still just trying it even if you approach well She's trying to figure out if in fact you're for real You start it off well, but let's see if he can follow through or you might be creepy. So either way It's just something they do as a defense mechanism to filter out and you know Well as they're searching for the right guy to approach them.  Okay, so That's one of the biggest mistakes Hey, it's Brent Smith for 21 studios again I hope you enjoyed the video to find out more information on how to pass any woman's shit test. Just click the link


Welcome to Paranormality Magazine. Each week, Paranormality Magazine explores all 40 subjects from phantoms to UFOs, and every cryptid creature in between. Each week, you're treated to a collection of well-researched and investigated stories, interviews and reports on cutting-edge paranormal projects and topics they know you crave. And here in the podcast, I share stories from the magazine to give you just a taste of what you receive in every issue. I'm Darren Marlar and this is Paranormality Magazine. Tombstone, Arizona prides itself on being the town too tough to die. You'll see the slogan painted on walls, on t-shirts, sold in curio shops, even on coffee mugs. There is a reason that this phrase so perfectly aligns with the tiny town of Tombstone. Even though the Wild West is a bygone era, just saying the name Tombstone calls to mind images of cowboys, outlaws, gunfights, and women of the night, it's only natural that some of the rowdy residents of Tombstone may be hesitant to move on. Billy White brings us The Ghosts of the Bird Cage Theatre. The city of Tombstone was originally founded by a man named Ed Scheifelin in 1877. Ed was a soldier serving at Camp Now Fort, Huachuca, in what is now Sierra Vista. Ed had an interest in rocks and rumors of precious minerals in the area.  In fact, his wandering is what gave Tombstone its ominous name. The other soldiers told Ed that he wouldn't find anything in the desert except his own Tombstone. However, instead of finding his Tombstone, Ed found silver deposits and quickly laid claim to his own mine, which he named the Tombstone. Shortly after Ed's mine claim, the town site previously known as Goose Flats became a mining boom town as people flocked to find their own fortune out there in the Arizona desert. This boom led to Tombstone becoming a city at one time that housed more than 100 saloons, many houses of ill repute, while also being home to the first community swimming pool in Arizona. One of the most famous buildings in Tombstone and possibly its most haunted is the Bird Cage Theatre. The Bird Cage wasn't really what you would consider a traditional theatre. The Bird Cage was more of a gambling hall and saloon with a brothel. Although the Bird Cage also hosted some of the most famous acts of the time on its hand-painted stage, including Nelly Boyd, Robert McWade, the Shakespearean actor Frederick Ward, Lola Montez, the vaudeville performer Eddie Foy, and the belly dancer Fatima. The theatre opened on Christmas Day in 1881 and operated 24 hours a day seven days a week until it closed in 1889. At one point, the New York Times called the Bird Cage Theatre the roughest, bodyist, and most wicked night spot between Basin Street and the Barbary Coast. Reportedly, the Bird Cage got its name from the 14 boxes along the second floor balcony where the women could entertain men. However, the bottom floor of the Bird Cage also contains small rooms where women would take their clientele for some privacy. The Bird Cage is the site of one of the most grisly murders in Tombstone's history. Along with its 140 alleged bullet holes that are still visible in the ceiling and the walls, possibly the most gruesome murder in the Bird Cage involved Little Gertie, also known as Gold Dollar, and Margarita. Little Gertie and Margarita were rival madams and Little Gertie killed Margarita with a stiletto to the chest. The legends state that the gambler Billy Milgreen was using the services of both women and possibly living with Little Gertie. Little Gertie found out about his activities with Margarita and went to the Bird Cage one evening. When she saw Margarita sit down on Billy's lap, she attacked Margarita with a double-edged stiletto, stabbing Margarita repeatedly in the chest. Little Gertie fled the scene before the marshal arrived and reportedly disposed of the murder weapon somewhere behind the theater. Since no murder weapon was found, no charges were able to be filed and Little Gertie did not face any consequences. The Bird Cage currently has a stiletto on display that was found behind the theater 100 years after the murder that they claim was the murder weapon. The ghosts of Bird Cage are extremely active while some report traditional possibly residual haunting activity like hearing laughter, yelling and music throughout the night at the Bird Cage. Others have reported more personal interactions with the spirits of the Bird Cage. Many visitors report smelling whiskey and smoke when walking through the main room. Others report being touched in a variety of ways. Most men report being touched while in the Bird Cage in rather provocative ways. Some male visitors that I spoke to stated that they felt soft touches to their face, shoulders and other more private areas. Some of them stated that they felt or heard whispers in their ears, especially when they entered the lower crib rooms where women entertained men previously. However, women do not have the same experience at the Bird Cage. I spoke with one couple who toured the Bird Cage together with their young children. The man reported feeling very comfortable while walking around the entire museum. He felt relaxed and enjoyed the entire tour. One interesting thing the man experienced was something that kept happening with the motorcycle chaps that he was wearing. They kept coming unbuttoned as he walked. He said it was extremely weird because he had owned and used those chaps for years and something like this had never happened before. The woman's experience was very different. Other than feeling comfortable and having a part of her clothing come undone, she had pressure that was placed on the bag that she was carrying. She stated that her bag seemed to continue to get heavier and heavier as she walked through the museum. It began digging into her shoulder. In fact, she had deep pressure marks on her shoulder that appeared to be from carrying a heavy weight. Because it was getting uncomfortable, she began to empty out the bag and carry items in her hand without even thinking about it. She said that she was taking things out as she continued looking at the exhibits, hoping that the bag would become lighter and it would relieve some of the pressure on her shoulder, but the bag just kept getting heavier. It was almost like there was someone pulling on one end of the bag and dragging it down. Eventually, she looked down into the bag to see that it was basically empty, minus a couple of tissues and pieces of paper. Everything else was in her hands. The bag, however, was still digging into her hands. At this point, she went to her boyfriend and showed him what was happening. He said he could see one end of the essentially empty bag being pulled, taught. They continued with their tour of the museum. The pressure on her bag lifted immediately when she left the building. The birdcage in Tombstone does continue to draw paranormal investigators and ghost hunters on a regular basis. The activity in the theatre does not seem to disappoint, as the spirits seem to be extremely active. For those traveling through Southern Arizona wanting to see and experience the ghosts of the birdcage for themselves, it is currently only open for ghost tours. Tombstone does consider itself the town too tough to die, but its most famous inhabitants are definitely the disembodied. Colonist Jurstie Beth brings us confessions of a lazy ghost hunter. The haunted doll on my lap's name is Molly. My friend detected me a photo of her tied up to a milk crate on the side of the highway roughly 30 minutes ago. Haunted doll for sale was scrawled on a torn piece of cardboard beside her. Legit scary AF. Corner of 8th and Redland he also included. Thought of you. My friends should know better. They know I have no self-control when it comes to this sort of thing. They should have known I would get my shoes on and grab my keys, peel out of the driveway, weave fanatically in and out of rush hour traffic, locate the discarded oddity and check for bugs, hypodermic needles or the makings of a pipe bomb, and promptly bring that thing back to my apartment for a thorough inspection and a seance. I text him back a photo of the doll now in my possession who is most notably missing part of her face. She also has some leaves in her hair. His response was immediate, succinct and an accurate reflection of the situation. LOL. I've started collecting haunted items in my paranormal adventures, road trips, urban exploring and stuff their relatives don't want in their house anymore for reasons unknown. Nothing bad has happened. To my knowledge things haven't wandered across the living room on their own. Yet, if anything happens to me, I text my friend, it was in the name of research. I get a thumbs up emoji. I like dead people's things. Some of them have a good and cozy backstory. The cast iron doughnut maker that has been passed down in my family for generations. Others a more sinister previous life, the chipped glass top of a mid-1800s morphine bottle from the fields of Gettysburg. A lock of hair from an old German Bible. Antler sheddings from a legendary haunted forest. The 1930s ventriloquist dummy whose jaw dislocates at random. When you inherit an object, you inherit its memories, its journey. And I like things that have a story, preferably a spooky story. A story beyond fresh paint shrink wrapped factory direct. A story like Molly's. What incredibly absurd, complicated and potentially nefarious sequence of events had to have occurred for her to get herself and that predicament on the highway. We'll never know.  Upon entering my homestead for the first time, it's worth noting that it may be unclear to the visitor whether I am a good witch or a bad witch based on my chosen cozy macabre aesthetic. I often think of this when the maintenance man arrives to repair yet another blown fuse. I've always loved the paranormal culture. I love our fascination with black, with ink, with the latest app to communicate with the dead.  At one such event I talked to an expert on shadow people, got my chakras cleansed, purchased an EMF detector and took a selfie with a life-size alien statue, all in the diameter of 50 feet and for a chunk of change. The inn I had stayed at for said convention had its own paranormal activity to boot. A disembodied sneeze outside my door in the middle of the night. Gazuntite, I said to no one in particular, and a stack of coins left on my bedside table in the morning. None of the paranormal activity in my life has made sense. I've found it to often be absurd, benign, and sometimes just plain annoying. When I'm driving home late at night and a large and lumbering pixelated monster of a wolf blurs past the front of my car and disappears into a grove of trees, I've found myself under the prickly impression that had I hit this creature, I would have driven right through it. Who do you go to when you experience something that's miraculous and strange or maybe traumatic that cannot be explained by conventional laws of physics? What professional help is out there that will not hand you a rosary or a prescription for syroquel? Not everyone who asks their mom why grandma is still walking through the house six months after she died gets the response, yeah, grandma does that sometimes. They get, you're imagining things, or it was just a dream. Or worse, stop it. They get rejection of their own awareness and refusal to discuss the matter any further. I'm fortunate to have grown up in a home where talking about weird death stuff was commonplace, if not outright encouraged. The existence of the supernatural was a frequent discussion at dinner time and I'd been to over half a dozen funerals by the time I was ten. At thirty-eight I got the cremains of my beloved cat tattooed onto my wrist. The day after I put her down I binge watched serial killer documentaries. I guess we deal with death in our own weird ways. But how do we deal with life? The paranormal culture is one of curious souls whose only recourse is to research the paranormal world for ourselves. Thank you very much. There's no 911 for a paranormal encounter. There's no one to confide in but each other. We have to reflect on our own mindscapes and others with similar darknesses. We investigate, we write, we befriend people who will text us about an abandoned creepy doll on the side of the highway. We deal with life as strangely as we want to. The haunted doll on my lap is nothing more than a writing prompt. This story wouldn't exist without hers. A bizarre set of circumstances indeed, but does that make her haunted or just another oddity to dust off? I brush a leaf out of Molly's hair and confide in her that I'm merely a lazy ghost hunter who boldly accumulates items of questionable backstories for the sake of a good story to tell. Ligrithism with a morbid twist. I leave Molly on the back patio propped against an old flowerpot. The rusty railroad spike I place across her lap comes from an abandoned stretch of old track that's notorious for sightings of a phantom train. Can't be too careful. Want more paranormality? Subscribe to Paranormality Magazine and each month get it delivered digitally or via mail in our print version. Paranormality Magazine is a collaborative endeavor featuring works from people like you who have a passion for all things mysterious and unexplained. Our goal is the pursuit of knowledge gathering captivating stories from our own team of writers, researchers and investigators, as well as from writers such as yourself. Each monthly issue also includes a list of paranormal, horror, UFO and cryptozoology events around the country, incredible paranormal themed artwork, articles and writing sent in from our readers, suggested books and podcasts to consume and more. Visit ParanormalityMag.com and subscribe today for as little as $3.99 a month. That's ParanormalityMag.com ParanormalityMag.com The account of Mr. Billy, real name withheld by request, stands at the forefront of legendary UFO encounters as he was witness to one of the most documented UFO encounters in American history. Smitty Neves and Dr. Tim Mounts collaborate to bring us the story. February 10, 1977 It was a cool 33 degrees when someone knocked on Mr. Billy's door at 9.30 PM. Surprised, Mr. Billy rushed to the door to find Deputy Kenneth Creel at the door. The deputy's eyes were as large as saucers. Creel stammered, Billy, grab your camera, that thing you've been telling us about is out here. Mr. Billy, who had been seeing unexplained objects in the skies over the flora Mississippi area since the 1950s, was eager to see what Creel was so excited about. He jumped into his own patrol car and followed the deputy into the vast dark expanse of rural gravel roads. The vehicle ahead of him kicked up a steady plume of dust and pebble. According to Mr. Billy, the deputy sheriff stopped about a mile or two miles back from the UFO site and that was as far as he would go. However, Mr. Billy was determined to lay eyes on the object he had been watching for many years, his very own white whale. He continued to drive toward the tree-lined area the UFO was hovering at, where there were at least 20 law enforcement officers staring in stunned silence. Above them was an actual craft hovering at 35 feet. Mr. Billy described the craft's shape as two antebellum bells that had been welded together at the bottom. The craft was a metallic blue with porthole windows located at its center. The portholes were filled with a bright yellow light, but Mr. Billy could not make out what was inside the craft. The UFO was moving slowly back and forth like a suspended pendulum, but it was producing no discernible sound or evidence of propulsion. Unlike many UFO encounters which last only mere seconds or minutes, the craft remained there in front of them for up to 40 minutes. Two of the witnesses, an off-duty policeman and his friend, decided to drive their truck across the cotton field toward the object. Much to everyone's surprise, the UFO slowly reversed course away from the oncoming vehicle, but returned to its original position when they turned around and headed back. It was then that they all saw a red flame-like light on the bottom of the craft. Without warning and still silent, the UFO rose slowly in the air and headed northwest. Two Flora City police officers jumped in their patrol car and followed the strange object. Crossing over the creek, the deputies radioed back that they had spotted the craft, which was now several hundred feet off the ground. The craft continued to move upward to the northwest and was soon gone from sight, leaving approximately two dozen law enforcement officers scratching their heads. After years of encounters in the area, Mr. Billy felt vindicated by the event that was witnessed by so many. He left, convinced that he had witnessed an alien spacecraft. Mr. Billy returned home with no idea that the next day he would be receiving a phone call from one of the world's leading astronomers, professors and ufologists, Dr. J. Allen Heineck. Heineck was born in Chicago, completed his Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Chicago and four years later in 1935, received his PhD in Astrophysics. During World War II, Dr. Heineck was instrumental in developing the U.S. Navy's radio proximity fuse. With the war over, he returned to Ohio State University's Department of Physics where he rose to full professor in 1950. With his academic background, the Air Force approached Dr. Heineck and tasked him to investigate the reported UFO phenomenon. Labeled Project Blue Book, the program began in 1947 and lasted until 1965. Dr. Heineck, who created the term Close Encounters of the Third Kind, claimed that the United States Air Force hired him to debunk major UFO sightings. Surprised as he was, Mr. Billy's memory is airtight when recalling his conversation with Dr. Heineck in 1977. After quizzing Mr. Billy about his experience, Dr. Heineck stated that he had traveled all over the world and even talked to tribes in the jungle, yet many of the accounts he heard matched Mr. Billy's description. Dr. Heineck was curious to know more about Mr. Billy's location, including his proximity to military bases or nuclear facilities. Dr. Heineck, regarding the matching descriptions, told Mr. Billy, that's scientific proof. Heineck went on to add, we think that they are somehow harnessing the power of gravity. We believe they're guiding along magnetic lines around the earth, but where they go after that, we don't know. As for Mr. Billy, his conversation with the famous astrophysicist was reassuring. It seemed that he was not alone in experiencing multiple UFO sightings. Dr. Heineck, who had studied hundreds of UFO sightings, also experienced what he labeled as a turnaround, or change of mind about the truth behind the sightings. Sadly, several of the law enforcement officers who witnessed the UFO in Flora began to deny their involvement in the otherworldly encounter. They experienced a great deal of public mockery and more. One of the officers involved in the incident revealed to Mr. Billy that he received a call from the CIA who told him to keep quiet about the incident. He asked Mr. Billy what he should do. You can do what you want, but I'd advise you to do what they say, said Mr. Billy. Present Day Even today, UFO, UAP witnesses and whistleblowers are subjected to various forms of nefarious tactics to dissuade their stories. In addition, denial is not uncommon for people who've had encounters. The fear of being ridiculed, being labeled crazy, or even facing professional repercussions has silenced many. Fortunately, Mr. Billy has never allowed pressure from any source to force him into silence. His and other people's stories need to be told, compared and recorded. Their stories could be the key to finding out what lies beyond the stars. When visiting a cemetery, it is essential to remain respectful. Careless actions such as damaging gravestones or leaving debris can be perturbing and should be avoided for the deceased's benefit. Despite numerous cautionary tales, some individuals remain persistent in their search for haunted locations and objects. Despite the danger, those seeking such places and items risk encountering the supernatural, often resulting in grave consequences. Gary Brand brings us the story of the vengeful grave of Carl Pruitt. In 1938, rumors about an evil spirit started to spread throughout eastern Kentucky. Despite the lack of concrete evidence, it was believed that this ghost was responsible for five unexplained deaths in the area. The similarities between the deaths only added to the fear and mystery surrounding this supposed killer ghost. In a quiet town of Pulaski County, Kentucky, the month of June brought a shocking and tragic event. It all began when a known, hot-tempered man, Carl Pruitt, returned home to find his wife in bed with another man.  The other man barely escaped through a window while Carl's unfaithful wife met her grisly end. But the violence didn't stop there. Overcome with remorse and realizing the gravity of his actions, Carl turned a gun on himself just moments later. A small community was left reeling from this harrowing tale of love, betrayal and tragic consequences. It was an act that rocked the small town to its core. The murderers' in-laws were so overcome with grief that they refused him to be buried near his wife. As a result, Carl's body was instead laid to rest in a distant cemetery. Little did anyone know this event would lead to a local legend, one with stories circulating about Carl's ghost never being able to find peace and endlessly continuing his killing spree from beyond the grave. In the years since, there have been numerous reports of mysterious activity centered around the graveyard where Carl is interred, most curiously in the form of peculiar grass circles forming an eerie chain-like pattern across the grounds. While some residents had called for authorities to remove and destroy Carl's tombstone due to these strange occurrences, officials had taken no such action. Unfortunately, this only served to fuel further speculation, particularly regarding possible acts of vandalism and even deaths occurring at Carl's final resting place, leading many locals to wonder if something sinister was indeed happening. So it was no surprise when James Collins, an adolescent aged leader and his friends decided to visit Pruitt's grave for a thrill. Naive to these supernatural forces at work, James threw rocks at the gravestone in an attempt to prove his courage. One of these stones caused a significant chip in the tombstone. Nevertheless, nothing peculiar happened and the boys mounted their bicycles to return home disappointed. Little did they know that this act of audacity would lead to a tragedy beyond words. Minutes later, James' bike experienced a sudden acceleration that sent him careening off the road colliding with a tree. A bizarre accident as though orchestrated by some invisible sinister force, the bicycle chain unraveled itself. It rapped tightly around James' neck, resulting in strangling the young boy. Desperately sprinting for aid, his friends were too late. James was dead, leaving behind a trail of mystery and unanswered questions. When the disbelieving boys returned to find answers, they were met with an even greater shock. There was no trace of damage on the tombstone, not even a single scratch, as if Carl Pruitt had never been disturbed.  Armed with a small handaxe, she went to the cemetery. She relentlessly attacked the headstone until it was destroyed into dozens of pieces. Feeling pleased with what she had done, she left the cemetery for her home. But in a bizarre turn of events, the next day, her body was found strangled by a chain clothesline to hang the family's laundry. She stumbled backward and became entangled in it, causing the metal links to hold her in place, choking the life out of her. Many believed it was Pruitt's twisted revenge, as his gravestone appeared untouched once more. The townspeople could only speculate as they mourned the loss of another innocent life taken by the cursed legend of Carl Pruitt. The legend of Carl Pruitt's ghost has been passed down for years, but one farmer was not frightened by the ghost stories. He and his family traveled by horse-drawn carriage near the burial ground. He decided to prove his bravery by firing at the tombstone. Pieces of the marker chipped away as bullets hit their target. However, his daredevil stunt went horribly wrong when the horses panicked because of the revolver's discharge. They took off at a frenzied pace, an uncontrollable wagon bouncing behind them. His family jumped from the wagon in time, but he held on for dear life. His efforts were in vain, as the wagon careened out of control at dangerous speeds. The wagon suddenly lurched around a bend, causing the carriage to overturn, and the farmer to be flung from his seat. As he tumbled forward, he became entangled in the rains, and the force of the horses pulling resulted in causing his neck to snap instantly. Miraculously, as his family approached Pruitt's grave, it remained unscathed with no sign of bullet damage. The bullet holes had vanished entirely. Whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire, fueled by the unexplained occurrences surrounding the gravestone. As the townspeople fear and paranoia grew, they turned to their congressmen for help. After much persuasion and persistence, two officers were dispatched to the cemetery to unveil the truth behind the persistent rumors. Despite the community's concerns, the police officers dismissed the notion of a curse. They joked about it as they arrived at the graveyard. One officer even laughed and mocked the idea of ghosts and curses as they arrived on the scene. They only stayed briefly, taking several pictures of the stone before they moved on to interview witnesses who had been present during the strange events. As they were about to leave, the skeptical officer noticed a light approaching them from the infamous Pruitt tombstone in his rearview mirror. Initially, dismissing it as a mere reflection, his fear intensified as the light grew closer and brighter. Despite increasing their speed, the light seemed to chase after them relentlessly. His partner urged him to slow down, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that the light was chasing them, so he pressed down on the accelerator, watching the light in his mirror with growing panic and still, no matter how fast they drove, the light followed them relentlessly. Suddenly, the car veered off the road, crashing into the posts on either side, causing the passenger to be thrown from his seat. Though injured, he was still alive. The shaken partner quickly got up and rushed to help his colleague. The driver himself wasn't as fortunate. The police vehicle had rolled over multiple times. During its pass between the two posts, a chain hanging between them shattered to the windshield and wrapped around the driver's neck with such force that it almost severed his head from his body. Following the most recent death, locals started to avoid the cemetery entirely. Fearful residents would even go out of their way to avoid passing by it and some went as far as relocating their loved ones to other cemeteries. However, one man remained undaunted by the warnings and ventured into the graveyard in defiance of fate, Arthur Lewis. He was determined to debunk the stories surrounding a supposedly cursed tombstone as mere superstition. Arthur made his intentions known to his wife and grabbed a hammer and chisel before heading out in the dark. Within minutes, he rained down blows with extreme strength, viciously destroying the gravestone. The pounding of metal against stone was enough to terrify everyone near the cemetery until it abruptly stopped. Arthur's blood curdling screams replaced it. People brought lamps and rushed to the graveyard to discover what had happened. When they got there, Arthur Lewis' lifeless body lay slumped on the ground, wrapped in a chain that had been used to close and lock the gate of the cemetery. It seemed he had been startled by something and ran away without noticing the entrance was barred shut. The chain ended up around his neck, killing him by strangulation. Although a crowd of people had witnessed the noise of the man shattering Pruitt's gravestone, there were no visible signs of damage on it. The grave marker for Carl Pruitt remained fully intact, situated next to the lifeless body of the man who broke it. Following the death of Carl Pruitt, the other bodies in the graveyard were eventually exhumed and reburied elsewhere. No one was ever interred there again. People gradually left the area as time passed, and the tiny graveyard was ultimately forgotten. After Pruitt's relatives passed away, his burial plot became overgrown and covered with weeds. It was ignored and eventually destroyed to make way for a strip mining operation in 1958. The five peculiar deaths connected by some mysterious chain remain without explanation. As with most ghost tales, verifying the truth behind the legend of Carl Pruitt's grave is nearly impossible. There are no records in any Kentucky newspapers of a man named Carl Pruitt involved in a murder-suicide, nor can any evidence of Arthur Lewis and James Collins meeting their untimely ends be discovered. Furthermore, the cemetery in town in Pulaski County, Kentucky, have never been identified in any of the legends. This does not necessarily discredit the story, as accurate record keeping in 1930s rural Kentucky was challenging, and people tend to embellish tales and folklore with new details while forgetting others. Is it possible that the ghostly curse of Carl Pruitt is real?  Something to ponder next time you are strolling through a cemetery. I'm Darren Marlar and I'll have more paranormal for you next time. From Paranormality Magazine.


Looking at the income tax formula, we're focused on the itemized deductions, remembering that the first half of the income tax formula is in essence an income statement where we have income minus the equivalent of the expenses, those being the deductions, equals the equivalent of net income, that being taxable income, except everything's topsy-turvy upside down for taxes. We want taxable income, in other words, to be as low as possible as opposed to net income where we normally want it to be as high as possible. In prior presentations, we talked about what needs to be included in income. We talked about the above-the-line deductions as opposed to the below-the-line deductions we're doing now, otherwise called adjustments to income to get to that subtotal, AGI, important subtotal, because that's the one typically used when we have income phaseouts for certain deductions and credits. Now we're on the below-the-line deductions, the greater of the standard or itemized focusing specifically on the itemized deductions. Looking at the first page of the 1040, those are on line 12, standard or itemized deductions. We only take the itemized deductions typically if they're greater than the standard deduction of the 12,950 for single filers, 25,900 for married filing joint. We could have a weird exception of using the Schedule A if there's a qualified disaster type of situation, so remember if there's a qualified disaster you should be able to look that up on the IRS website and you might have a situation where you still are using the Schedule A but in essence possibly get the benefit even though you would be normally taking the standard deduction, so be aware of that. This is the Schedule A, these are the other itemized deductions. As you can see they're a lot lower or there's a lot less activity than you might remember from like a long time ago where you might have more things that would be included in say other itemized deductions. A science of deduction. So now they're much more limited, the example here being the gambling losses to the extent of the winnings, remember that normally these other deductions are not the area that's going to kick people over to taking the itemized deductions unless it's one of those qualified disasters or something like that that took place. So normally you wouldn't be taking something like gambling losses unless you are already itemizing the thing that kicks people over to being able to itemize typically being owning a home because then you have the mortgage interest and the property taxes and then if you can tack on gambling losses on top of that to the extent of gambling winnings then maybe you can get an added benefit. So remember standard deduction you got to clear the threshold usually unless there's an exception for the qualified disaster 12,950 single 25,900 19,400 head of household here's the other other weird circumstances if over 65 that which isn't a weird circumstance but other standard deductions there and or if blind. So other itemized deductions line 16 increase standard deduction reporting if you have a net qualified disaster so here's that net qualified disaster again loss form 4684 we talked about form 4684 in a prior presentation line 15 and you aren't itemizing your deductions you can claim an increased standard deduction using schedule a by doing the following. So we looked at a software example of this in the past we might just recap it again in a future presentation number one list the amount from form 4684 line 15 on the dotted line next to line 16 as quote net qualified disaster loss in quote at attached form 4684 number two list your standard deduction amount on the dotted line next to line 16 as quote standard deduction claimed with qualified disaster loss and three combined the two amounts online 16 and enter on form 1040 or 1040 SR line 12. So in essence you're going to use schedule a but you're going to you're going to add the standard deduction in so that it will help you to clear the standard deduction. And so when you so when you pull it over to the first page it will be increased by the standard deduction. So we looked at an example of that last time we might look at it again in the software just to get an idea that it's a little funny it's a little weird but it works. Do not enter the sign said do not enter. See just one more point on that. If you have a qualified disaster in an area where you are at or you're doing tax returns at then you clearly want to get more information from the IRS website and FEMA website on that particular disaster and drill down on it is it is it a qualified disaster and so on and then and then be ready for that kind of unique situation for that particular disaster because it'll usually have its own code that you can then populate within the tax software which hopefully should also have the code within there for the FEMA code and the disaster code and so on.


It was a beautiful summer afternoon when Owl and Fox encountered each other walking on Mass Ave in East Darlington. They hadn't seen each other in a while. Hey Owl, how you been? Hoot! I was sick for a while. I'm feeling much better now. Hoot! Thank you for asking. How are you? Glad you're feeling better Owl. I've been just great. What do you want to do today? I don't know. Just then, a yellow butterfly passed them. Owl and Fox looked at each other and smiled and followed the butterfly. Butterfly landed on a great big magic book and beat its wings. Hello Owl and Fox. Open me up and come in. I am the book of Azure. Ooh! I don't know. We don't know what is in there. Don't be afraid. There's something special inside. You don't know what you are missing Owl. The Fox opened the book and a great kid's white light shone from it. The Fox dove into the book. Owl hooted and flew in after him. And together they went on a great adventure in the magical kingdom of Azure to defeat the evil wizard, Witherwind.