Hi all, I'm a current student at Michigan State University, and looking to finish some of my major requirements over the upcoming summer. Is it okay to take classes in the summer instead of the fall if I intend to apply to med school, or are they more likely to view that differently than someone who took it in the fall/spring?

I remember the experience clearly, beyond just memories it seems like it stayed with me in a psychological level. The haunting details have been engraved deep into my subconscious, and I wish for nothing more than a release from their torment. I'm an educated guy, and I know how it sounds, but it's important you know I'm not insane; aside from run-of-the-mill 20-something teacher burnout with a side of anxiety, I don't have the slightest history of mental illness. I write this now not only as an account of my experience here in West Virginia but also as a warning to anyone who finds themselves unfortunate enough to pass by those woods. I write this also as my final word to my wife, my friends, and my family because I cannot go on living with the constant evocation of terror when the sun fades away. The thought of walking through my day-to-day life with even an inkling of the possibility that someone or something followed me out of that place fills me with dread; it's hard to stomach food and nearly impossible to find enough sanity to drift into sleep for even a moment. I sit now in a vacant room. I'm in a decrepit old motel off of Highway 219, and I can hear things and see things lurking just beyond the parking lot through the hours of the night. The worst part now is that I'm completely unable to decipher wether or not what I'm seeing is reality or a manifestation of my recently developed trepidation. I'm sick now, and my mother has tried to contact me so often that sometimes my phone dies at night when I ignore the constant waterfall of phone calls. She must think I'm dead because I haven't returned one of her calls in quite some time now.
I'm a teacher by trade. I'm not your run-of-the-mill teacher either; I'm a private instructor. Usually the state, or some charity hires me to take on the monumental tasks of spending a semester teaching vastly undereducated kids. Most of the kids I teach can't even read, and they're often poor and disconnected from society; my most common contracts are in far-off towns or hamlets in the middle of whatever the area considers "the boondocks." I've had contracts in the middle of Louisiana's swamps, in mountain communities in Tennessee, and I've even been flown outside of the country to remote tribes just to teach kids how to read and write. Not to lay down a humble brag or anything, but the contracts usually paid really good money compared to your run of the mill teacher's salary, as they were usually funded by someone with a blank check and a mission to put themselves in the limelight for being a philanthropist willing to save the world from the plague of illiteracy. I've always had somewhat of a passion for my job; I got to design my own lesson plans and actually teach these kids something instead of reciting the monotone scripture pasted into an 80-dollar book. My point being, I don't think I've ever directly turned down a contract, and the one that landed me in my current situation wasn't any different.
I was sitting at my desk, rifling through the mountains worth of gigs that so often flooded my emails, scrutinizing the payout on each and every job addressed to me. I would often do this until my eyes grew dry and heavy in an attempt to find the perfect job to take for a semester, but on this rare occasion, just about a fourth of the way into the sea of digital letters, one specific sender jumped out at me. "The Fairhaven Community Church": I had up to this point never received an arrangement from a church, but what left me even more perplexed was not only its direct nature but the exorbitant compensation and contract length. The subject line read, "Private Tutor Needed for 5 Years at 100 Thousand Dollars a Year." I was floored by this statement and immediately wiped my watering eyes for clarity; the offer was too good to be true, and my skeptical nature caused me to audibly scoff when I read it again. I opted to dig further into the inquiry, and I was immediately greeted with a well-written, however poorly formatted, email detailing the needs of the small church community. I had to read the email three times over in order to decode the strange syntax, I came to the conclusion that the church was frequently taking on less fortunate families from around the state and wanted to not only help them and teach the word of God but also wanted to teach the families to read and write at a higher level to allow them to continue their studies. The church had a 5-year plan to rapidly educate a vast amount of families that would come in and out of the church through out the Time in wich the teacher was present.
The job posting brought forth quite a few red flags but the thing that gave me an uneasy feeling was the list of rules posted at the bottom of the email.
"The educator must use official church material to teach the present families"
"The educator is not to leave the premises of the Fairhaven Community"
"The educator must not under any circumstance enter any restricted areas of the Fairhaven Community "
"The educator must not corespond with any media or anyone who may spread word of the project before, during or after their time in fairhaven"
While I admired their aprehension to the press atention unlike most of my other clients who would demand interview after interview so that they would be viewed by the public as a hero crusading against the evil of ignorance and i could also see why the congregation wouldnt want some stranger from the city to poke around their sanctum.i'm not closed minded by any means but the thought of not even being able to leave the property seemed strange to me. Granted in the past when I made my trip to the Congo I was told not to leave the protected area I was in but that wasn't a rule as much as it was a guidline for my own safety. The biggest turn off concerning the listing was the fact that I could only use "official church material", as I mentioned before I enjoy being able to structure the lessons how I please and teach in the way I feel best suits my students interests and learning profile but I couldn't help be further swayed to take the job by the thought of being paid 500 thousand dollars for 5 years of work in a place that would handle my cost of living during the whole excursion. I'm writing all this as a poor attempt at justifying my own poor decisions. Even going back over what I've written I can feel my stumach turn while I read the blatantly obvious signs of danger.
The trip to West Virginia was, for the most part, uneventful and mind-numbing. I've always despised long car rides, despite being on the road so often when going from job to job. After an extended period on the road, my mind spins into an unconscious void and it becomes hard to determine where I've been. There are often times when I completely lose myself in the sea of vehicles in a never-ending stop and go only to find myself becoming aware an hour later. What little entertainment I had on hand usually prevented me from falling asleep or completely disconnecting from the human world on my thousandth 14-hour trip to the middle of nowhere. This trip, however, was different; I didn't find myself dissociating, nor did it feel like the run of the mill from point a to point b. I was nervous and the further I made in to my destination the more I felt as if I had made a grave mistake. Despite being a 28-year-old teacher with very little adult social skills, I couldn't help but feel that a 5-year contract with some pseudo-cult in the heart of West Virginia might have been a bit of an impulsive call even with the paycheck, and every time I thought of cryptic emails, I could feel my stomach constrict and knot at the very premise of meeting the strangers in person.
I found myself in one of my few "coming to reality" moments of the trip when I turned into a small town. I was surprised by the smell I was immediately greeted with; the distinct smell of mildew assaulted my senses at the very moment I passed a pale green and mildly vandalized billboard posted on the side of the road that read "Welcome to Dawson," scrawled in a cheesey font that made all the letters look like logs. The town itself was placed in a valley of some sort, almost completely enveloped by mountains on three sides, as if Mother Nature had left this perfect little alcove in the center just for this hidden civilization. On top of the distant, albeit ever-present, ranges sat hundreds of thousands of trees that wrapped the elevation in a verdant cocoon. The town itself was small compared to Tampa, as all the others were. There weren't any towers climbing towards the sky with an impossible number of floors; the pavement of the underutilized roads was a soft gray color, void of any fresh pavement, but the surface was laid bare of any faults as if it had been used, if only just enough to keep the earth from forcing its way back through the laid concrete. As I pulled up to what I can only imagine was the only stoplight in the town, my hands fumbled for my phone in order to check the status of my journey. 1 minute to destination was plastered at the top of the screen, leaving me in a state of confusion as the only things in sight seemed to be a few stores and what looked to be a small cafe on a road that stretched toward the horizon with no apparent end. The light turned green, and my GPS sent me to an immediate left to a small, run-down store just off the entrance that brought me into the mountain asylum. The store was decrepit; the paint was peeling from its decorative siding, creating a splotchy pattern of dingy blue and an aging off white. One of the large windows looking into the store had a sheet of wood crudely nailed over it, and an awning stretched from the end of the parking lot directly to the roof of the gas station as if whatever contractors built this were trying to deplorably hide the abomination from God himself. The store had no sign or title other than an LED fixture that indicated that the nameless fuel depot was open.
"You have arrived at your destination," the droning voice said through the speakers of my car as I came to a reluctant stop. I looked down at my phone to be certain the GPS wasn't struggling to find a pathway yet to be discovered by anyone except for those who had lived there their whole lives, but according to the directions, this was indeed my "intended" destination. Immediately checking my surroundings, I took note of the road that carved its way through the center of the poor excuse for a town ahead of me, sparsely decorated with various local stores and venues. According to my map the road didn't break off from this central strip for another 5 miles.
I buried my head in my hands after begrudgingly throwing my car into park and let out an exasperated sigh. I frantically flipped through the emails I had passed back and forth to my usual benefactor to find any messages concerning the exact location of my job site aside from the address I had been given.
"A fucking gas station, they gave me the address of a fucking gas station" I groaned as I came apon an email that had been sent...5 minutes ago. The subject line read "Apon Arival."
"When you arrive in Dawson, be sure to contact me at the number posted below so I may provide additional instruction on how to safely make it to Fairhaven. "Zion can be dangerous."
I felt my heart drop when my tired eyes made contact with the message below. My heart once again began to slam against my chest—was I lied to? Up to this point, the mystery man who had been detailing the project had alluded to my final stop being in Dawson. It was common to be sent to offshoots of towns that were far removed from modern commodities and human development, yet it was also common that whoever had hired me would be upfront and rather specific in telling me that my location wasn't so much a town as it was a "community" beyond the confines of city streets, so I wouldn't be surprised when I found myself over an hour away from the nearest comfort. I had also been warned of a place's dangers before; the last time I sat down to write, I mentioned that on a trip to the Congo, I was directly informed of the dangers of leaving my protective shell, but in those cases, safety was often typed in bold so that I knew what to expect from the start.
I was plagued with despondence as I slammed my phone into my pocket before forcing the door of my car open with an angry grunt. My brisk and heavy footfall fell onto the cement with intent, regardless of my clulessness. I pushed my way through the gas station's rusted door, which would have welded itself to the frame of the building if not for the little traffic that passed through it, when I was greeted with a poorly lit convenience store. The hum of aging fluorescent lights sang through the quite store. Web-like cracks formed on the yellowing stone as if the walls themselves were trying to escape from the neglected mess, the white panels on the ceiling were rife with black and brown spots indicating frequent leaks and water damage, and the smell was ungodly. I would have gone insane if I was forced to work in a room that had that pestilential smell glued to it. The shelves laid not quite bear but with just enough product on them that for the place to still be listed as a buisness that caused the aluminum casings to bend downward like they where struggling to hold the weight of a finite amount of light snacks.
I locked eyes with a surly man with ash and gray hair who sat behind the counter with a dejected stare. He wore a stained shirt and wrinkled jeans. His unkind eyes were bloodshot and glazed over with age, which seemed to break him, and his lips sat inward to indicate the lack of teeth in his sunken face.
"I can help you," he mumbled with a thick draw that I would have not understood if I hadn't met plenty of people of his likeness prior.
"Yeah, I'm... looking for Fairhaven?"
The grouchy old cashier scratched at his knife like whiskers and leaned onto the counter. "Fayrehayven?" He said obviously perplexed
I gathered what little skills of human interaction I had beyond lecturing a room full of students as I approached the man "right, I'm a teacher and..."
The old man quickly cut me off with little regard for or interest in my oncoming and admittedly pretentious elevator pitch, which I often gave to anyone who asked. "Yer in Dawson, gottanuff teachers last I heard."
"Yeah, well I'm not supposed to be in Dawson." I'm looking for Fairhaven. I interjected
The man responded with an apparent tone of disdain: "Ain't never heard of no FayreHayven; I've been here fiftee sebn years and ain't never heard of no FayreHayven."
I took a deep breath in an attempt to carry the conversation, but I've learned to count my losses when they make themselves known.
"Well, I suppose I'm lost then," I said, holding my hands up.
He grumbled once again and looked me up and down with his hateful glare before forcing out a slight "mmhmm."
I turned and rolled my eyes a bit before walking out of the store, completely defeated. I contemplated for quite some time before reaching back for my phone to examine the cryptic message that overtook my screen. I faltered only slightly before pressing my finger to the highlighted blue digits pasted at the end of the digital letter. The dial tone chimed for longer than expected, and right before the all-too-common voice mailbox message played, I heard a barely audible click before a voice came over the phone.
"Hello, Mr. Hayes," the man spoke in a scratchy, almost strained voice, as if he were exerting himself even while speaking.
The way the man spoke was just as unsettling as the emails we had passed back and forth previously, and without thinking, I responded with a little more panic in my voice than I care to admit, "How did you know it was me?"
The man retorted immediately. "I don't know many with a Tampa area code, my friend; call it intuition."
I kicked myself for being so skeptical after his truthfully sound logic connected with the bundle of nerves that was my mind before I mustered the confidence to say, "Sorry, I'm a bit on edge." "I think you might have given me the wrong address; I'm at a gas station just off the entrance to Dawson."
I waited for a moment before the man spoke once again. "The address we provided was correct; there are no pathways to Fairhaven, and we have attempted to remain secretive as to avoid the judgment of the individuals that may regard us as an unsavory commune." If you look to your right you will see a small path cut into the trees just beyond the convince store. "If you follow this path by foot, we will see to it that a member of the congregation greets you so that you can arrive safely."
I looked back towards the blue Honda Accord I had arrived in and argued, "All of my equipment is in my vehicle—my notes and laptop, my clothes, and I'm certainly not equipped to be hiking in dress shoes." I.."
The hoarse growl of the man rather shot back with an audatory shot of aggressive air: "We will see to it that your things arrive at the Fairhaven Community." I implore you to make your way onto the trail before nightfall. "The forest can be very dangerous without the sanctum of sunlight."
I glanced over at what I could infer was the overgrown pathway he was referring to with a shaky breath.
"I can understand your hesitancy; fear is a powerful emotion, but do not allow it to cloud your judgment." "The walk shouldn't take longer than a quarter of an hour." He spoke calmly now, but there was no comfort in his voice, rather a malignant vexation, as if it were meant to be a threat.
I gripped My phone white-knuckled at the accuracy of his statement. His perception of me was correct because I was not only terrified of the situation but also beyond frustrated at the thought of taking a hike up a mountain directly after a 14-hour trip with nothing but a 2-hour rest in a motel at the halfway mark.
"Guess I'll be there soon," I said, despite my mind showering him with a barrage of heinous insults. He hung up the phone without saying another word.
I gathered a few small commodities from my vehicle before turning towards the cutout hidden within the expanse of millions of trees that ascended to the summit of the gargantuan elevation ahead of me. It was overstated when the man labeled the cocofany of unkempt foliage a pathway; there was hardly even enough of an opening to make my way into the bramble, let alone not be perpetually scratched by the harsh and apathetic thorns that various plants had developed for occasions such as these. The slope that the natural alleyway was built on very quickly turned from a steady incline to a steep, near-vertical hill void of foothold, and I had to rely on my softened hands, which grasped desperately at the closest trees. It didn't take long for my feet to ache and burn. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've never been an outdoorsman. I was often poked fun at by the locals for being a city dweller when I gave a common toad a look of disgust, so it could automatically be assumed that I'm hardly the hiking type either.
The aforementioned 45-minute walk turned into an hour and then two before My knees buckled from beneath me. I was told that someone was to meet me at the point between the gas station and the community, and I was certain that I had to have made the trek to their standards regardless of my excessive stops. I laid my back against the trunk of a large tree before looking toward the sky. The faint glow of a reddening sky was barely visible through the canopy above before my dismay began to settle in. Nightfall was coming, and in the state I was in, I had no hope of making my way to the destination in the next 6 hours, let alone before nightfall. I closed my eyes tight and buried my head into my blistered hands, I could feel my brisk beating heart in my palms when the deafening roar of an engine rocketed my senses into overdrive. My head shot upward toward the golden beams of light, obscuring their source entirely.
"What in God's name is a fella like you doing way out here?" The voice wasn't the same as the man I had spoken to on the phone. It was just as old and eroded, but it held much more of the thick twang of a local.
"I'm looking for fairhaven." "They said they were sending someone to get me!" I shouted back over the boisterous hum of idling machinery.
"Well then, it's best you hop on." "Ain't a shot in hell in making any further in your condition."
I was in no position to argue, so I clasped my hands on a low-hanging branch and lifted myself upright before closing in on what seemed to be a crude attempt at an ATV. On top of the buggy was a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and an ice white goatee. He was draped in a flannel shirt and blue jeans that have seen their share of hard times. He wore glasses that fell to the tip of his nose in order to examine me further as I approached. I boarded my saviors vessel and caught a whiff of what I knew to be the pungent odor of illicit alcohol. This man wasn't what I expected from the conversations I had prior with the eccentric leader of the religious movement, but the thought was pushed to the back of my mind as the contraption immediately spun its tires against the leaves and dirt of the forest floor, kicking back a blast of woodland scrap backward as it twisted one hundred and eighty degrees to face parrallel with the pathway that I thought to be my demise, only to scream up the hillside with unexpected force.
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If you are looking for the Best Gynecologist for Normal Delivery in Hyderabad, Dr Sarada Mamilla is one of the most experienced and renowned in the city. She has over 20+ years of experience in the field and is known for her patient-centric approach to care. Her state-of-the-art facilities, excellent patient testimonials and comprehensive range of services make her a top choice for women in need of a gynecologist in Hyderabad.

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I've been reading a lot of posts lately about good places in the US to fatFIRE to, including recent and popular examples like Las Vegas, Austin, and Arizona... but I would like to put out there another very viable option that is currently not so mainstream (maybe also a good thing): Southwest Washington (SW WA).
The common goal for people in their search is finding a place that has the right mix of amenities, tax sheltering, cost of living, and scenery. I've spent much of my career traveling literally all over the US and seeing a vast swath of metropolitans. My conclusion after maintaining as much neutrality as possible and factoring in the aforementioned criteria is that Southwest Washington is the best choice. This region consists of a few cities and is part of the Portland, OR metro. There is Vancouver, WA but it doesn't stand out for fatFIRE folks as it's a flat, normal, and dense suburb. To the East is Camas & Washougal, where things get interesting, and I'll explain more below.
Here is why these two cities are worth considering.

1. Again, they are part of the PDX metro and just across the river from the Columbia. This means you're 20-30 minutes away from Downtown Portland and Portland International, which happens to be a great airport that's usually not crowded and highly ranked. From here, you're a 3-hour drive to Seattle and a 1-hour flight to the Bay Area.
2. Included with the obvious amenities of being in the metro of an actual city (i.e., not a pseudo city erected in a desert that is Las Vegas) is great food, from trendy food carts to more gourmet places. Food is competitive here and the bar is set quite high with lots of choices. Media and sensationalists like to exaggerate the homeless problem, which certainly exists, as it does in Austin and most other big metros, but it's not rampant.
3. Cost of Living - albeit it is getting higher like everywhere else, it is comparatively lower, especially on the West Coast. $1M for a house can get you a LOT of house.
4. No Income Tax AND No Sales Tax... this is also why I recommend living across the river in WA versus Portland, OR. WA is one of the 9 states that does not have a state income tax. If you need to buy a big ticket item like a TV and whatnot, just drive over the river to Portland and buy it there with no sales tax. You could even do most of your shopping there if obliged since it's so close. One of the very few, true metro areas that offer this combo.
5. Weather. Yes, the PNW rains and has overcast days and this one will be subjective. Maybe you prefer living in the scorching hot, dry desert of Las Vegas or Phoenix where it averages 100*+ instead, or you prefer the hot, humidity of Austin. I personally prefer the rain and having all 4 seasons in a year. If you consider the effects of global warming, being in this area may not be a bad thing in the years to come. It also isn't pouring ALL the time as some people think. It will drizzle and the winters are definitely wet, but Summer months from the end of May into October are beautiful and largely sunny days. Just look at California and how much rain they got this Winter, for being a "year-round" sunshine state.
6. Scenery... the nature is world-class. Trees, hills, mountains, rivers, lakes, and greenery are all around you. Drive East and you're at the coast and beach. Drive South East and you can go to Bend, OR, which is turning into a resort town for PDX these days. Skiiers/Snowboaders, Mt. Hood's Timberline lodge is open 10 months out of the year. The list goes on and on... but what is almost a SECRET to people is the Columbia River Gorge towards the East... a huge canyon that the river cuts through and hosts over 90 waterfalls. Just look at it: https://i.imgur.com/3QybyLD.jpeg
7. Now, more specifically on Camas & Washougal. Camas is a smaller, hilly, and upscale city with one of the best school districts in the metro. Great if you want to live in a more luxury-type suburb (gated communities, golf courses, etc. available). Washougal is right next door but uniquely features acreage properties if you're interested in having more space and privacy - while still being in easy access to all of the above.

That's my take and summary of why these 2 cities in SW WA stand out or should stand out.

​
Griger Kel-Am watched from his cell in the old town jailhouse as workers busily erected a scaffolding in the courtyard below. It was shaping up nicely, he thought with an appreciative nod; the skeletal beams reminded him of the bones of dead animals in the Karel Desert and that comparison almost disturbed him.
Which was no easy feat. Griger had seen the worst the world had to offer. He fought beasts in the Staygin Mountains, fended off feral bandits in the Jarel Plains, and weathered more attacks, fights, battles, and death than most people even knew existed. Nothing on earth could rattle him. He couldn’t afford to let himself be shaken. Life, he had learned, was like a surging storm tide. You either stand strong against it, or you get knocked down and swept away. Griger refused to be swept away. He refused to wind up like the old bones he stumbled across on the North Road and in the snowy stepps at the top of the world. A man must be hard and stoic to survive, and he must be harder and colder to thrive.
Despite his grizzled face, many scars, dead eyes, and unseemly facial hair, Griger, a sword for hire since before the Great Plague, had always thrived.
Sighing, Griger left the window and walked over to the door; three brisk paces. He threaded his arms through the bars and tried his best to look up the corridor. In the cells across from him, other men, their faces dirty and white, cowered, waiting for their judgement.
Their open fear disgusted Griger.
Cowards.
Griger wasn’t afraid to die. Dying was easy; you closed your eyes and went to sleep. Living...living was hard, every day a knock down, drag out fight for dominance against something. Outlaws, nature, your own inner darkness. He did not seek death, but he welcomed it. The prospect of a noose tightening around his neck, of his body jerking and dancing before many jeering eyes and spitting mouths, however, almost bothered him.
But as a wise old man he once knew had said, This too shall pass.
A sardonic smile touched Griger’s chapped lips and he shook his head like a man who couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Of all the things he’d done in his life to deserve a hanging, self-defense is what did him in. Ha.
Two weeks ago, he was following the river from the North, on foot and alone save for his sword and his rucksack. He stopped at a tide pool to drink, and was beset by a man with a knife. In his frock coat and rubberized boots, he was too well dressed to be a highwayman; he never spoke a word until he lay in the grass, his throat laid open and gushing rich red blood. “Scoundrel,” he gurgled.
Griger relieved him of his boots and pocketbook and carried on. Before dusk, he came across the village and rented a room at the inn. Women in cheap, homespun dresses haunted the halls, knocking at doors to sell their company, and Griger, lying in bed by the flickering light of a lamp, was considering spending the rest of the money on one when three constables broke down the door.
The man he killed, they told him later, was the son of the mayor. At that moment, Griger knew he was in trouble.
They refused to believe that the son attacked first and pointed to the things Griger had taken from his as proof of overland piracy, theft, and murder. He was tried in a packed courtroom and found guilty, standing tall and proud but alone as no lawyer in the land would take his case.
Out in the courtyard, someone shouted, and a team of horses neighed, Griger, sitting on the edge of his cot, looked up at the window. The light was getting weaker as night approached. Shadows, long and black, fell through the slats and made unwholesome shapes across the earthen floor. Down the hall, a man cried out for water, and elsewhere, someone raked a metal cup back and forth across the bars. Would they hang him tonight, Griger wondered, or would they wait for dawn?
“You,” someone spat.
Griger looked up to find the mayor standing at the bars, his bloated face filled with hatred. Another man was with him, this one taller and thinner. They were both clad in the finest garments, but the stranger was undoubtedly better suited. Griger took him for a government official.
“What do you want?” Griger asked, an edge in his voice.
The mayor opened his mouth to speak, but the stranger silenced him. “My name is Urick Farbin. I’m the governor of Ezk Province and I have a proposition for you.”
“What’s that?”
Farbin flashed a tight smile.
It looked to Griger like he wouldn’t be hanged at all.
And that made him smile.
***
Griger watched the countryside pass slowly by, all green hills, trickling brooks, and dense thickets. The occasional straw hut loomed out of the wilderness like an antsy thief, and six miles out of the village, they passed a stately manor house that could only have belonged to the mayor.
It was mid-afternoon and the overcast day wrapped itself around Griger like a wet blanket. The previous night, Governor Farbin sprang Griger from his cell and brought him to the inn, where he was kept under armed guard. Griger spent most of the evening in a straight back chair and whittling. You don’t have to worry, he said to the sentry standing at the door, I’m not going anywhere.
And he wasn’t. He was not an honor bound man by any stretch, but Farbin saved his life, and Griger reckoned that earned him a little loyalty.
The guards didn’t stand down, but Griger didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have either.
In the morning, they set off in a horse drawn carriage, heading northwest along the Western Road. Now, hours later, Griger sat next to the Governor, who wore a dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat befitting his office. Beside him, the driver held the reins and stared ahead with the practiced indifference of a man used to tuning out things he wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Will you explain to me what I’m doing?” Griger asked.
Farbin was quiet for a moment, then he looked up at the sky, the muted light bathing his craggy features. “Your file says that you’ve done work for the Government.”
“Some,” Griger replied.
“You’ve handled things of a singular nature,” the old man continued. “Things that most other men have never dreamed possible.”
Gringer nodded. He had. His only oath was to himself, and he worked for whoever paid him the highest sum. Men like him were called mercenaries but he preferred to think of himself as a businessman.
“There’s a matter in a nearby village that has been ongoing for quite some time,” Farbin said, picking his words carefully. “I have sent my best agents and they’ve done nothing for it. When the paperwork on you came to my office, I checked your name, as I do all condemned men, and knew at once that you were the man for this job.”
Griger was almost touched. “What’s the job?”
The Governor turned to face Griger, his expression bloodless and sober, as though he had something great yet terrible to impart upon him. “Do you believe in werewolves?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do.”
“Have you ever killed one?”
Griger hesitated. “No,” he said, “not personally, but I was with a party that did.”
Five years before, Griger wintered in a village among the steep foothills guarding the forbidding expanse of Mount Grez. In the deepest, darkest days of the freeze, local livestock began to die, ripped asunder and strewn across snowy fields like trash. Wolf tracks larger than any Griger had ever seen led to and from each scene, and at night, high, ghostly howls rose above the shrieking wind, curdling the blood of even the most sturdy men.
After a watchman on patrol was attacked and gutted in the main square, the men of the village banded together and tracked the beast, eventually cornering it in a cave near a frozen river. Even if he lived to be a thousand, Griger would never forget the monster they encountered. Seven feet tall, coated in matted gray fur, its face canine yet human, its eyes blazed with the fires of hell, and as the men approached, it snapped and snarled, the sounds it made so close to words that even now, Griger wondered if it were trying to speak. They beset it with swords and torches, and when the dust settled, five men were dead and three were wounded. The wolf lay crumpled on the ground, decapitated and aflame. Even with no head, even with its heart divorced from its body, it screeched as the fire consumed it, a high, hitching wail that haunted Griger’s dreams for many moons after.
Farbin nodded. “I figured as much. A man as well-travelled as you has to have seen such things.”
He went on to explain that a suspected werewolf was loose in the countryside around the village of Koreth, a tiny fishing port on the sloped and muddy banks of the Rey River. Three weeks before, sheep and horses began to turn up dead, their bodies laid open and their intestines pulled from their stomachs. Before long, travellers along the Western Road started to die in a similar manner. Every time a new victim appeared, officials found large wolf tracks and strands of fur nearby.
Several nights ago, it broke into the home of a land baron and killed him, his wife, and his daughter. His young son survived, but was blinded in one eye.
‘It was a massive beast,’ the boy told the Governor, a personal friend of the baron. ‘It stood seven feet tall, was as wide as it was long, and had the snarling face of a man mixed with a dog.’
“You want me to kill it,” Griger said. It was not a question.
“Yes.”
The carriage jostled as its big wheels splashed through ruts and puddles. “And in return…?”
“You’ll get a full and unconditional pardon.”
Hmm. Griger considered the offer carefully, even though he was in no position to bargain. “Alright,” he said at last, “I’ll do it.”
They arrived at the village three hours later. Perched on the banks of the lazy river, it seemed a single estate rather than a town. A stone wall, roughly a dozen feet high, enclosed it, pitched roofs visible beyond. Two guards in helmets and chainmail, swords on their hips and crossbows in their hands, stood at the gate, their expressions stony and as hardscrabble as the fields sloping away from the walls.
Inside, tiny buildings lined narrow dirt streets and people in plain, homespun clothes went about their business, pushing carts, hawking vegetables, and playing dice. Old men sat in canned chairs before the town pub and a group of boys chased each other back and forth through shadowed warrens, their faces smudged and weatherbeaten beyond their years. Chickens and pigs, both plump and hale, ran free, the former flapping their impotent wings and the latter snorting happily as they wallowed and shat. Griger spotted a blacksmith in his quarters, striking an anvil with a hammer, and wondered idly if he had any interesting items for sale.
“The people here are stubborn and refuse to flee,” Farbin said.
Griger faced forward. “These types usually are.”
“You are not to worry about their safety,” Farbin warned. “They can see to themselves. Your only concern is to be the wolf.”
“Understood.”
The driver parked near the town inn and tied the horse to a hitching post while Griger and Farbin got out. Griger rolled his neck and flexed his shoulders. After so many years of walking wherever he went, he was unaccustomed to sitting for long periods and inevitably ended any long, stationary trek sore.
Past the batwing doors, a shadowy lobby lit by candlelight greeted them. Farbin led Griger directly up the stairs and to a tidy room with a single, neatly made bed and a desk beneath the window. “These are your quarters,” Farbin said.
“Spacious,” Griger said unsarcastically. He sat on the edge of the bed. “What leads do you have on this wolf?”
“None beyond what I’ve told you,” Farbn said. “My men have scoured the countryside but they haven’t found a thing.”
Griger hummed. “No tracks? Droppings? Nothing at all?”
“Not beyond what I’ve told you.”
That was odd. Werewolves rarely strayed far from their den. Unless they were of the rare half-breed that turned upon the cycle of the moon, man at day and beast by night. But those were as common as an honest man in the High Council - not very damned common at all.
“What are you thinking?” Farbin asked.
Griger said what was on his mind.
“But those aren’t real,” the Governor said, a hint of confusion in his voice.
“I tell you they are.”
Farbin’s brow furrowed with incredulity. “A man cannot simply change his form, nor can a wolf, for that matter. It goes against all logic.”
All Griger could do was spread his hands. That a man - even a large one - could transform into a werewolf (and that a werewolf could shrink back to the size of a mere man) did defy logic. Griger could not account for it, but he knew it to be so, and he said as much. Farbin, shaken by the confidence in Griger’s tone, nervously scratched the back of his neck and looked constipated. “Put aside what you think you know and ask yourself. What if it is a wolf-man?”
“But what if it isn’t?” Farbin countered.
Griger ticked his head to the side in acquiescence. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe your men have failed to uncover a den large enough to house a seven foot tall monster. Maybe they’ve been looking up each other’s backsides instead of where they should be.”
A dark shadow flickered across Farbin’s face. “My men are highly trained and highly skilled.”
“That’s why you came to me.”
Farbin fumed. “I came to you because you have experience in such things.”
“Right,” Griger said. “I do. And I’m telling you - in my expert opinion - that if there is no den, the wolf is a changeling. I cannot explain the science behind how and why it is a changeling. I don’t know how it can happen...but it does. You have to consider the possibility that you are looking for a phantom, that your wolf may be out there right this second ploughing a field or herding sheep and not asleep in a cave waiting to be found and made.”
Farbin turned away and put his hands on his hips. No shoulder had ever been colder, and for a second, Griger thought the old man was going to send him back to the gallows. “Alright,” Farbin finally said, “suppose it is a half-breed. What then?”
“I want to see where the latest attack happened.”
A half an hour later, Griger and Farbin stood before a large stone house with a slate roof and wide windows. A dirt drive looped around an ornate fountain and tall trees rustled in the new breeze. Several Provincial Guardsmen accompanied them, all with swords and crossbows and one, the commander, with a rare flintlock on his hip. Farbin led Gringer to the west side of the structure. “The wolf came in through the servants’ entrance,” he explained. A set of paw prints led to the door and Gringer knelt to study them. Roughly half a foot apart, they were slightly larger than any other he had seen.
Inside, the house was dark and cold, shadows clustered in corners like demons waiting for the fall of night to advance their ghoulish aims. Dried blood stained the wooden floors and spackled the bare walls. “Has anyone seen this creature and lived but the boy?”
Farbin shook his head. “No.” His face was white and strained, the somber, funeral atmosphere affecting him.
“You’ve told me everything?”
“Yes.”
Griger nodded to himself. If the wolf were a changeling, someone, somewhere likely would have seen it coming or going. That was a strike against his theory. On the other hand, there were likely dozens of isolated farms and homesteads scattered through the surrounding countryside. The wolf could be anyone from anywhere.
“I want to talk to the locals,” Griger said as he and Farbin walked back to the carriage.
“Right.”
“I’ll also need a team of men at my disposal,” Griger said. “And a sword.”
They were sitting across from each other in the carriage’s enclosed cab. Without, the sky was beginning to cool to purple and evening gloom stealthy crept from the forest. “We’ll get you one.”
“It must be made with silver,” Griger said.
Farbin frowned. “Silver is a poor alloy for sword-making.”
“But it’s the only alloy for werewolf killing,” Griger said. “It shouldn’t be made entirely of silver, but there must be some in it, the more, the better.
Farbin nodded that he understood.
By the time they made it back to the village, full dark had fallen. The streets stood deserted, the animals locked up for the night and most of the people hunkered in their homes. A few guards walked the lanes and dooyards, bows and swords at the ready, and a stray cat with no tail slunk furtively between piles of refuse, its ears laid flat against its skull and its fur matted and crisscrossed with scars from battles past.
The only activity was at the pub attached to the inn, where lights burned in the segmented windows and the chatter of many voices drifted into the street, occasionally flaring in laughter or song. Apparently, those hearty souls refused to let a wolf stand between them and their end-of-day festivities.
Griger’s respect for them increased.
Before entering, Farbin and Griger called on the blacksmith, a burly man with a bald head and a mustache that reminded Griger of walruses he had killed and eaten at the top of the world. Griger explained his need and impressed upon the man a sense of urgency. “I need it as soon as you can possibly have it ready.”
The blacksmith nodded gamely. “I’ll have it by dawn.”
Farbin took out his purse and paid, then they made their way to the inn.
Inside, a roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth and lamps on the walls sent shadows flickering across the floor. A dozen men sat at the bar with stines of beer and a half dozen more occupied the many tables in the middle of the room. A barkeep kept the drinks flowing while a pretty waitress with her blonde hair done up in an elaborate braid like a golden tiara brought trays of beer and pretzels to the tables.
Griger and Farbin sat at an empty table near the fireplace and Farbin removed his gloves. “Men will make merry even while the world burns around them,” he mused.
“Why not,” Griger said, “they can’t do it in the grave.”
The women came over and they ordered a pitcher of beer and a sandwich each. While they waited, Griger went to every man one-by-one and asked them about the wolf. They responded, to a man, with an eye roll or a dismissive laugh. None were worried in the slightest. One man lifted his brow in a pitying sort of way and looked Griger up and down as though he were mad. “Werewolves? Why, those were banished from the Realm centuries ago, it’s all much ado about nothing.”
“It’s a big wolf,” the barkeep said, “and dangerous too, that much is fact. But it’s a lot of hysteria. People today are too goddamn soft. In my time, we had wolves and bears too. If they acted out of line, we hunted them down and cut their heads off.”
The last man Griger came to was a wispy, white-haired oldster with rheumy eyes and three days’ worth of stubble covering his angular chin. Baggy brown clothes, old and wrinkled and caked in the dirt of the field, hung slack from his scrawny frame, and his long, spindly fingers threaded through the handle of his mug like fleshless bone. If Griger had ever seen a man who bore the official title “Town Drunk” he wouldn’t look the part any more than the old man.
Before Griger could ask him a single question, he spoke in a rusty voice that conjured images of graveyard gates in the dark Province of Helem. “I seen it,” he said, “and it weren’t no regular wolf neither.”
The barkeep sniffed. “You see lots of things, Sel. Like them little pink elephants.”
A wave of mean-spirited laughter ran through the bar, and Sel’s jaw clenched. Griger sensed that Sel was often made sport of at the bar.
Ignoring the other, Griger asked, “You’ve seen it?”
Sel nodded and held up three fingers. “Thrice, in fact,” he said with a belch.
“Tell me.”
The old timer looked up at him with a twist of suspicion. “Down by the road leadin’ up,” he said.
“All three times?”
“All three times,” Sel confirmed.
Once a mason, Sel had moved to the village ten years before to try his hand at farming, he explained. His homestead, comprising five acres, a tumbledown barn, and a decomposing shack masquerading as a house, sat below the walls, in a hollow between the hill and the river. Many nights, he sat on the front porch and “communed with the King” (King Rum, Griger assumed). From that perch, he witnessed “The damned beast” loping toward town. “The first time, I seen’t it over in the road,” he said, pronouncing road as rud. “I have good eyesight and I knew right off it weren’t normal, so I jumped outta my chair and ducked down real low so ways he couldn’t see me.”
Sel couldn’t provide a description of the wolf beyond “near eight damn feet tall and built like a mountain” but Griger didn’t need one. The old man’s story supported his supposition that the wolf was coming from somewhere else and not a den in the hills. Why would it come down the middle of the road each time? The only thing to the south was the river and open fields dotted by stands of forest, all of which Farbin’s men had already searched.
Werewolves are nocturnal creatures who sequester themselves somewhere dark and dry during the day. Farbin’s men should have found it by now. That they hadn’t suggested that it was a changeling.
Thanking Sel for his help, Griger went back to the table and sat across from Farbin. “The baron’s house lies in the direction of the river,” he said, more to himself than to the Governor. “What of the other attacks?”
“Mainly in that area,” Farbin said, “why?”
“The changeling - and that’s what it is - comes from across the river. How many homesteads are there beyond the banks?”
“At least two dozen,” Farbin said.
Griger crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “I want your men, tomorrow, out there going door to door with garlic. Make everyone they come across smell it and anyone who sneezes is put under watch.”
The Governor looked stricken. “But...why?”
“Changelings are allergic to garlic,” Griger said.
Farbin pursed his lips in contemplation. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll have them start at first light.”
After dining, they adjourned to their rooms, Farbin on one side of the hall and Griger on the other. A team of six Guardsmen took up position in the empty saloon and kept watch, ready to roll out at a moment’s notice. Griger threw the window open and perched on the ledge, the night breeze washing over him and rustling his graying hair. He rolled a cigarette, lit it with the bedside candle, and looked up at the glowing face of the waxing moon. Tomorrow night it would be full and the changeling would be compelled to turn and hunt as the tide was compelled to crest. It could come tonight still, but unless it was killed, it would return tomorrow for certain, mad with bloodlust.
Well past midnight, Griger blew out the candle and retired. The mattress was far too soft and it took him nearly a half hour of tossing, turning, and muttering curses to himself to find a position he liked. Once he did, he fell into a light sleep from which he was aroused near dawn by a knock at the door. One of the guards informed him that the blacksmith was finished with his sword, and after dressing, he and Farbin went to collect it. Comprising a simple blade with a guard and a grip, it was far from the most opulent weapon Griger had ever wielded, but it was well-suited to his needs and fit comfortably in his hand.
Back at the inn, Farbin gathered every available man under his command, including the constable and his three deputies, and ordered them to sweep the countryside as Griger had suggested the night before. They showed no reaction despite their lord’s strange request, and departed in a single file line.
The saloon opened for breakfast at six and Griger and Farbin each had a plate of eggs, bacon, and beans. People began to drift in as they ate, Sel the Drunkard at the head of the pack. The maiden, who quartered somewhere upstairs, came down in a simple white dress beneath a waist apron, and Griger’s eyes tracked her as she carried out her functions. The dress - loose and high cut - revealed nothing of her bosom, but pulled tight across her bottom when she leaned over to set food and coffee in front of her guests. Their gazes met, and her eyes flicked quickly away like two timid minnows in a fish bowl.
She was beautiful.
She reminded him of someone.
His mind went back to the jagged mountains atop the world, to a little cabin where weary travellers waited out the snowstorms that raged sometimes for weeks in the winter. There, in one of the most isolated outposts of the Realm, lived a woman Griger had known. She was tall and gaunt whereas the barmaid was average and healthy, her hair was black to the maiden’s blonde, but their eyes were the same breathtaking hazel. Now, staring at his plate, his chest stirred in a way that it hadn’t in years.
He didn’t like it.
“...else,” Farbin was saying.
“Yeah,” Griger said, as though he knew what Farbin had said. Now, the woman he loved one winter was on his mind and his mood was verging on foul. He recalled the way her hair brushed the creamy slope of her throat when she turned her head, the sound of her laughter, how her heels dug into his behind, urging him deeper unto her.
He was young, then, and a fool. People, he learned later, come and people go. Loving someone...indeed even hating them...was pointless, for in a breath of summer wind, they’re gone.
After finishing with breakfast, Farbin requested a metal tub be filled with water so that he could bathe. While he did that, Griger threaded his sword through his belt and walked down to the river, keeping his eyes open for wolf tracks. He spotted a few in the dirt edging the road, all pointing in the direction from which he had just come, and squatted down to examine one more closely.
Just before reaching the water, Sel’s farm appeared on the right, the main house seeming to sag in the middle as though under the burden of years and the field out back overgrown and gone to seed. The place looked as though it had died, come back to life, then died again. The screen door, which naturally hung askew, banged open, and Sel himself backed out butt first, a ceramic pot in his hands. He turned, saw Griger, and hesitated, then ducked his head and scurried down the stairs, disappearing around the side of the house Griger lingered a moment, then followed, tangles of grass pulling at his boots. In the back, a clear patch boasted several pots like the one Sel had come out with, each blossoming with an assortment of multicolored flowers. Sel knelt before one and heaped rich soil in with his hands. A gust of wind flipped his lank, white hair back and forth, and a satisfied smile played at the corners of his thin mouth.
“You garden?” Griger asked.
Sel shot him a dirty look. “I do,” he said, a defensive edge in his voice. He stopped, favored the flowers with a sober look, and added, “These plants are the only friends I’ve got.” He chuckled self-consciously.
“Plants seem like they’d make poor friends,” Griger said. “When the first frost comes, they leave you.”
Sel ticked his head to one side in acquiescence. “Tis better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all.”
An image of the girl at the top of the world flashed across Griger’s mind, and for a moment he could feel, feel, her presence. “I don’t believe that,” Griger said. “Loss is hard for a man who’s known love.”
“Still better than never knowing it at all,” Sel said and got stiffly to his feet. He dusted his hands on his pants.
“You’ve never lost someone,” Griger said.
“You’ve never loved someone,” Sel countered.
Griger stiffened. Mouthy old bastard, yes I have.
“What do you want?” Sel asked.
“I wanted to ask you about the werewolf.”
Sel’s face crinkled. “I told you everything I know.” He started walking back to the front of the house, and Griger fell in beside him.
“Is there anywhere around here you think a werewolf might live?” Griger asked. “Caves? Dens? Anything.”
“There’s some caves about,” Sel said, “other than that, I can’t say.”
They were on the porch now, Sel holding the door open.
“Can you tell me your story one more time?” Griger asked. “Maybe it might jog something you forgot.”
Sel sighed. “I don’t have nothin’, okay?”
He started to go inside, but Griger stopped him. “Please?”
The old man looked at him, then sighed. “Fine. Come in.”
They sat in Sel’s tiny and cluttered parlor. The furniture was as old and threadbare as the man who owned it, and the simple walls were crowded with old photos, many of them featuring a smiling woman with dark hair. She looked nothing like the girl at the top of the world, but Griger was reminded of her anyway. “Your wife?” he asked.
Sel, seated in an armchair across from him, busied himself pouring Griger a cup of tea. “Yes,” he said shortly.
From his tone - and the woman’s absence - Griger inferred that she was dead. “I’m sorry.”
Sel’s hand shook as he pushed the cup across the table. “So am I,” he said.
“Children?” Griger asked.
“Three,” Sel said. “Two boys and a girl.” Tears crept into the old man’s faded eyes and he fixed his gaze on a point over Griger’s shoulder. Open displays of emotion made Griger uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat, sorry that he had brought the topic up. “We were married thirty years,” Sel said. His lips trembled and Griger thought he was going to break down crying. Instead, he smiled. “Those were good years.”
Griger nodded to himself. “I bet.”
He must not have sounded convincing, because Sel creased his brow. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Ever loved someone?”
“No.”
Sel looked at him with a frank directness that bordered on mind-reading, and though it wasn’t possible, Griger could almost imagine the old man was seeing into his mind...and his heart. “You’re a liar.”
Griger considered his reply for a long time. “When I was a boy,” he said. “I thought I was in love.”
“What happened?”
Perhaps the old man had cast some kind of pall over him...or maybe he was in a rare mood...but Griger heard himself answer honestly. “I left her.”
A heavy silence lay between them.
“You left her?”
Griger nodded. “I moved on. She had her ways and I had mine. I didn’t see us working.”
“You regret it.”
“Yes,” Griger responded instantly. “I wish I tried.”
Sel nodded understandingly. “All boys make mistakes. Some are just luckier than others, I reckon.” He laughed, his posture relaxing, and Griger realized he was starting to like the old bastard.
“True,” he said. “Now your story…”
Sighing, Sel lifted a hand. “I don’t have much ways else to say.” He ran through his story just as he had before, with no additions or subtractions.
Griger nodded that he was satisfied, and got to his feet. “That’ll be all.”
Sel walked him to the door and stuck out his hand. “That damned thing’s a monster,” he said as they shook, “you watch yourself.”
“I can handle a werewolf,” Griger assured him.
Later on, after returning to the inn, Griger and Farbin rode out to meet the men on the other side of the river, catching up to them at a fork in the road. “No one’s sneezed or broken out, sire,” Farbin’s second-in-command, a tall, rodent-faced man, reported.
“Expand the dragnet,” Griger said.
Rat-face looked at Farbin for confirmation, and the Governor nodded.
They would find the wolf...or the wolf would find them.
Griger wanted the former, but would settle for the latter.
If he had to.

WARNING
(There will be some depiction of violence/murder)
Before we begin I would like to thank my friend/editostory writer ~ u/Apple-pi-1016 ~ for the amazing help in the creation of this short story this wouldn't have been completed without them.
Now I hope you enjoy dear reddit readers.
London's past story (3rd Person POV)
~September 8, 1980, ~
BEEP BEEP BEEP
The sound of an alarm rang through London’s ears at the early hours of the morning. London slammed her alarm clock shut and groaning. She sat up on her bed and rubbed her blue eyes since the sunlight was coming through her window. “London! Are you awake?” London’s mother asked from outside of her room.
“Yeah…,” London answered lowly, her voice hoarse because she just woke up. “Alright, get ready and come down for breakfast. Deidamia will be over in a few,” her mother said and then walked back downstairs to the kitchen. London’s eye was now fully open and she looked at the clock, which hung above her head, and read 7:10 A.M. London got out of her bed and did her usual morning routine, which consisted of brushing her teeth, washing her face, putting on her clothes, and going downstairs to eat the breakfast her mother prepares for her.
“Thanks, mother,” London said as she sat down at the dining room table, where her mother placed a plate of eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice.
“No problem, honey. Today’s on the warmer side so I suggest taking advantage of it since warm weather rarely comes in September,” her mother said, patting her daughter’s beeline-honey hair that she inherited from her.
“Mm, I can already assume Deidamia would want to play today-,” London said after taking a sip of orange juice but was cut off when the doorbell rang.
“Cecile, can you check to see who is it?” London’s mother asked Cecile, the house’s maid, kindly.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Cecile answered with her soft voice. Cecile’s average-sized figure walked over to the door and looked through the peephole and saw the usual 2b type, ginger-haired and hazel-green-eyed girl known as London’s close friend, Deidamia. “It’s Deidamia, Ma’am,” Cecile said.
“Let her on in,” London’s mother said and Cecile opened the door for Deidamia, the girl running inside and engulfing London into a big hug. “Whoa-, what got you so excited?” London asked, looking at Deidamia with a smile. “Nothing, good weather puts me in a good mood. Hey! We should go play later on!” Deidamia yelled excitedly.
“Okay, okay. No need to yell, we can go play after school,” London chuckled and Deidamia let go of her.
“Okay then, let’s go~,” Deidamia said, dragging London out of the chair and to the front door, letting London grab her backpack. “See you, Mrs. Winsley! I’ll bring your daughter back nice and safely~.”
London’s mother giggled at her daughter’s friend and waved at the two 16-year-olds. The two girls then left London’s house and made their way to their school, Winter Bay Academy. It was an above-average school but it’s better than most schools in the neighborhood considering that schools in America for the past two decades have resulted in poor education, so London was grateful to be attending a good school with good friends.
The two girls made it to school by 7:50 and went straight to homeroom, which is where the rest of London’s friend group came in. The second London and Deidamia walked inside their homeroom, her other friends, Melody (theater student), Eden (fashion student), and twins Nina and Zina (music students), all grabbed London and dragged her to her seat, leaving Deidamia to stand in the doorway, a little surprised. London looked back at Deidamia and gave her an apologetic smile which basically said, “Sorry for leaving you, I promise we’ll hang out later.” Deidamia returned the smile and sat down in her seat, which was far from London and her friend group, but once London looked away and focused on her friends, Deidamia’s smile turned into a scowl.
Unbeknownst to London, or anyone else for that matter, Deidamia was actually jealous of her. London easily got along with people and had a positive vibe, which is what attracted people to her. Deidamia, though, happened to be a close friend to London, who was friends with a good amount of people, which often left Deidamia in the shadows whenever London was in the presence of other students. Deidamia didn’t actually hate London, but extreme jealousy can make anyone act without thinking twice. For the rest of the school day, Deidamia got a hold of London since they’re both visual art students so London got to be around her close friend. During their lunch break, London went to the cooking department section in the school and made some delicate sweets for Deidamia as an apology for leaving her alone often. By the time school ended, Nina and Zina invited London and Deidamia to play in the Abelia Forrest, which is to the west of their school. Both girls accepted the offer but London wanted to quickly run to her house and bring her dog, Ruby (who is a Border Collie with a mix of Groenendael).
So as London ran home to grab Ruby, Deidamia waited outside of the forest while the rest of London’s friends were already inside. She knew exactly how this would play out. London and her friends will probably play a game of Hide & Seek, with London completely abandoning the game since she loves nature and will, one-hundred percent, wander off with Ruby. Thus, making this the perfect time for Deidamia’s plan to go into action.
About 15 minutes passed and eventually, London came Deidamia, who waited patiently outside of the forest. She had Ruby with her and the small container of sweets that she made for Deidamia earlier. Deidamia looked at the sweets with an unamused face when London held it out for her. “Sorry for always leaving you alone, I just don’t know what to do when a group of people comes to me,” London apologized with a sweet smile. Unexpectedly, Deidamia smacked the container out of London’s hands, making it drop and all of the sweets pour out all over the ground. This surprised both London and Deidamia, the latter unknowingly let out a little bit of anger. “Oh crap-, I am so sorry! I don’t know what came over me,” Deidamia quickly apologized, dropping onto the ground to clean up the mess. London just smiled and said, “It’s okay. It was an accident.”
She helped Deidamia clean up the sweets and then walked inside the forest to meet the rest of London’s friends.
“Finally! Cute dog,” Melody said, petting Ruby softly and smiling.
“Okay! We’re playing hide & seek, cause, why not,” Eden said and the group of six determined that Deidamia would be the seeker while everyone else hid.
While Deidamia began counting to 20, she paid close attention to the sound of London’s footsteps, which was accompanied by Ruby’s bell on her collar. Once she finished counting, she deduced that London and Ruby ran east, which is the direction of a riverbank and where many Scorpion grasses, Alaska’s state flower, resides. Those will definitely catch London’s eyes considering the flowers are a vibrant, light blue color.
“Okay! Ready or not, here I come~,” Deidamia shouted, assuming everyone heard her. She immediately began heading east and saw London’s footprints, along with Ruby’s, in the dirt. Just as she predicted, London was sat against a tree (which was on a small hill), admiring the riverbank and the many scorpion grasses alongside it. She also had her backpack next to her and Ruby’s head on her lap. The sunlight was beaming on her face, making her bright hair and eyes stand out more. There was a smile on her face and she had a sketchbook and a pencil out, drawing the scenery she was admiring. The sight of London’s beautiful figure almost made Deidamia gasp but she resisted, knowing that she was already too far into the plan to let it backfire now. She was already 10 years into being in London’s shadow and, quite frankly, 10 years is a lot of time to hold in immense amounts of jealousy.
After recollecting her thoughts, and making sure she was out of the others’ sight, Deidamia pulled out a knife from her backpack and slowly crept up on London from behind, ready to strike, but London could hear Deidamia’s footsteps, making her look back at Deidamia and immediately dodge the incoming blow that was supposed to be for her forehead. London rolled down to the riverbank, abandoning Ruby and her art supplies, and stopped herself from going inside the water. “What the-, what are you doing?!” London asked, eyes widened at the sight of Deidamia walking near her with a knife.
Ruby quickly ran in front of London and barked viciously at Deidamia, who chuckled at the dog and kicked it to the side, making London shook. She tried to stand up but quickly realized that when she rolled down the hill to the riverbank, she must’ve sprained her right ankle. So, using the energy she had, she began dragging her body away from Deidamia, who was taking her sweet time with every step she made towards London. London then hit her back some something hard and realized it was a big rock that she knew she wouldn’t be able to get around unless she got up and ran.
Once again, she tried to stand up but it was to no avail. Deidamia finally stood in front of London and looked down on her with a mocking smile. Needless to say, London knew that her time on Earth was over. Deidamia crouched down to London’s level and cocked her head to the left, holding the knife in front of London’s white face. Then, she grabbed a fistful of London’s hair and slammed her head against the rock with full force, making the latter pass out instantly, at least to Deidamia.
Without any more hesitation, and because she wanted this to be done and over with, she plunged the knife into London’s chest, watching as blood began seeping through the knife and only London’s clothes; a light grey and oversized sweater, white skirt, and white converse sneakers. She then took the knife back out, watching more of London’s blood dye her clothes, and her body lay onto the ground, and quickly wiped the knife with a cloth she kept in her backpack. She set the knife down on the rock and smiled at London’s figure.
She then saw Ruby stand back up and run to London’s body, whimpering and whining at her. She was then surprised to see London’s fingers raise when Ruby nudged her head in London’s fingers, meaning London was still alive. Seeing as the blood was still spilling, Deidamia knew that London would bleed to death so she thought to just let the girl have her last moments with her dog that she loved so much. London’s eyes were hardly open but she could see Deidamia looking down on her. With only so much to say, she weakly said, “S-So this is how I end? By my own f-friend.”
Deidamia raised an eyebrow at London and then said, “Yeah, I won’t have to put up with your existence anymore. You’re the past now.” And with that, London’s eyes stopped sparkling and her heart stopped beating. Ruby’s cries became more noticeable and Deidamia knew she had to act fast. She ran back up the hill and past London’s sketchbook. Out of curiosity, she decided to take the sketchbook and place it into her backpack, deciding there might as well be, at least, one piece of London’s existence left on the planet.
After placing the sketchbook inside the backpack, she quickly ran away from the scene and, using her best acting skills, began to scream for London’s friends to come out. She even began to fake cry as London’s friends all came out and ran to her. She quickly explained that London was stabbed by some mysterious person and that she found her lying dead while playing Hide & Seek. She showed them London’s body and while everyone was mourning, she had called the police.
To simply put, Deidamia got away with murder. That night, she went into the police station, explained her side of the story (of course, it was all lies), and the police, stupidly, cleared her from being involved in the murder. She played the part too good.
Before going to bed, she pulled out London’s sketchbook and sat down on her bed. She flipped through it the sketchbook and saw all of London’s drawings/sketches. It mostly consisted of different moments in London’s life that she cherished; such as going to an amusement park with her mother, playing board games with her father, and even when she first met Deidamia. Deidamia then made it to the most recent sketch, which was created moments before London died. It was exactly what she thought it was, the view of the riverbank from where London sat beside the tree. But next to the sketch, there were words that were made with London’s elegant cursive. After reading what it said, Deidamia laughed bitterly to herself. She ripped the page out of the sketchbook and threw it right into the small bin that was next to her desk. She then turned off her light and laid down in bed, letting the words she just read sink in her head.
“Today, Deidamia is actually hanging out with my other friends. I know she's more introverted so it's nice to see her trying to open up to new people. I know it's hard for her but at least she's trying. I'm really happy to have a friend like Deidamia, who puts up with me and hangs around with me even when she's uncomfortable. She must be an angel sent to me after father passed away. I know there's not anything I can do to show my gratitude to Deidamia for always being there for me whenever I needed her so I decided to sketch this picture. She's a simple person and hopefully, she'll be happy with this picture. Anyways, thank goodness for a person like Deidamia, I'm fine with losing all my friends as long as I have Deidamia with me. She may not know it but she truly saved my life :)”

28 y/o white female 5'4 190lb, dx with Bipolar 1, PTSD, narcolepsy, fibromyalgia, hypothyroid, unspecified anxiety, childhood trauma. Been in treatment for BP1/PTSD since 2013 and have been in therapy since I was a child. Many different therapists, doctors, moving from place to place...etc.
Hi, I am desperately seeking a second opinion in what I am missing from my current treatment plan. I don't want to go to the psych hospital as I'm in a sound mind and not going to hurt myself. I just can't deal with this pain anymore and I'm at a loss.
I saw my case manager and her assessment was that I need a higher level of care, but we are once again stopped by my therapist's caseload. She has only been able to meet with me every 2-3 weeks and has been unable to see me more than that. So we only have time to talk about topical issues and coping skills which aren't helping me right now. I have been doing weekly group therapy which has been helping but not enough to keep my symptoms at bay each week. I also just lost my job and I was supposed to meet with the vocational specialist but again the caseload is too high and I still haven't seen them, and my case manager is fed up with it.
I saw my PA recently who handles my meds, along with another professional for a second opinion, and they agreed that I need to keep waiting for the Caplyta to work. I've been on it for probably over 4 months now (increased in Jan). I have been through many different antidepressants, mood stabilizers, SSRIs, SNRIs, you name it, they either have little to no effect on my body/mental state and sometimes make my chronic pain worse. My med history has been reviewed by countless doctors and have told me that my trauma and PTSD-related symptoms need to be addressed more in therapy.
I see my family doctor soon and I don't know what to tell him besides re-testing my thyroid again and reporting my constant nausea and pain. Pain usually follows eating most food and ends up with mild to moderate stomach pain/constipation, sometimes accompanied by vomitting. He has told me over several visits a few times last year that my bipolaPTSD is being mismanaged and needs to be addressed with my psych doctor.
This year the depression has been getting worse again, and this current episode has kept me from performing my daily living functions as well as finding a new job/apartment/friends/etc. Along with my job I have lost many friends this week, and it's gotten bad before, but...usually not like this. I'm sick of pretending to be normal and I'm even more sick of being in limbo with waiting weeks and months to see my provider. I don't want to change my provider again as I've had many issues with the mental health system here. (I live in Michigan) I'm aware there's no magic pill that will help me, but I can't stand living with this mental anguish. I'm already dealing with enough of the physical manifestations from events that have happened years ago and from my childhood. Edit: my motivation and enjoyment from activities in life have also continued to go down. This is a complaint I constantly bring to my providers and it is continuing to get worse. It's like after each medication that my anhedonia gets worse and worse. I barely get manic highs anymore.
Med list: Modafinil 200mg, amitryptaline 50 mg, pepcid 20mg, levothyroxine 150mcg, hydroxyzine 10, Caplyta 21mg, womens multivitamins every day, melotonin

The Telugu Desam Party's (TDP) National General Secretary, N. Lokesh, has unveiled a series of plans to revive Andhra Pradesh's economy and address concerns of the state's Scheduled Caste (SC) communities. Speaking to entrepreneurs and SC families, N. Lokesh highlighted the issues plaguing the state and laid out a roadmap for a TDP-led government, should it come to power in 2024.
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One of Nara Lokesh’s main concerns was the exodus of industries from the state due to fears of extortion from opposition leaders. He revealed that companies worth more than ₹10 lakh crore had moved to other states, resulting in the loss of thousands of jobs. To encourage entrepreneurs and stem the outflow of businesses, He pledged to reintroduce the single-window system and establish micro-clusters in all the districts.
In addition to addressing these concerns, N. Lokesh also promised to reintroduce overseas education benefits for the SCs and rename it after B.R. Ambedkar, an iconic figure in India's SC community. He emphasised the TDP's opposition to lifting the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act and its commitment to safeguarding the rights of the SCs.
While Nara Lokesh’s plans have received a positive response from the state's entrepreneurs and SC communities, the future of his youth-oriented movement, Yuva Galam, remains uncertain. With the election code for the MLC elections now in effect, it is unclear whether there will be any modifications to the current police norms governing the movement. To get Live updates about Yuva Galam visit TDP official website.
Nara Lokesh’s plans reflect the TDP's commitment to revitalising Andhra Pradesh's economy and protecting the rights of marginalised communities. The state has faced several challenges in recent years, including the COVID-19 pandemic, political instability, and economic downturns. As the 2024 elections draw nearer, the TDP's plans will likely play a crucial role in shaping the state's future.
However, implementing these plans will not be without challenges. The TDP will need to address the root causes of the exodus of industries and ensure a conducive environment for entrepreneurs. It will also need to tackle the issue of atrocities against the SCs, which has been a longstanding concern in the state.
Nevertheless, with a clear vision for the future and a commitment to the welfare of the state's citizens, the TDP may be well-positioned to address these challenges and lead Andhra Pradesh to greater prosperity. Only time will tell whether Nara Lokesh’s plans will come to fruition, but his proposals have already sparked discussions and given hope to many in the state. For more information about the developments of TDP and the contribution of TDP visit TDP official website.

Going to try to do the shortest version possible.
Two months ago there was a windstorm of 60+ mph and it took large parts of our roof shingles off. Five sections of 3x3ish and then dozens of smaller sections. Newer house - 8 years old - we are insured to the hilt. Account is in execellent standing. My husband has been with our agent since husband was 16 and he is now 45 - so - this isn’t a new policy, it’s one that’s been built and supplemented with various homes and cars over the decades.
Filed a claim day of storm. They sent out adjuster and once that was completed the secretary to my agent sent a list of roofers to come check it out and give their estimates. I had five roofers come out and climb around and do that whole song and dance. Sent all five of their estimates to insurance company as they asked, as did the roofers. Total of 55 photos and 4 videos .
That took only three days from the day I filed the claim. In those 3 days I also tarped and patched the roof - but knew it wouldn’t hold for long because of continued storms.
Sure enough a week in, water was dripping in the light sockets indoors in the guest bedroom/bathroom/laundry/kitchen - and through the corners of the walls/ceilings. It continues to this day except now I’ve propped towels up on ladders where it’s quite bad and paid an electrician $400+ to replace and cover the electrical connections in the attic that had become corroded because of the water coming in/and to change the circuits so the lights will stop fuzzing out.
By two weeks after submitting my claim I’d placed over 22 calls to my agent, the company in general (aka HELP?!) the claims manager (who I roped in myself because our policy says something has to be documented and attempts at remedies have to be completely by 72 hours after claim) and NOTHING. Sent emails to everyone I could think of with the roofing estimates, photos of damages, repairs out of my own pocket etc etc etc.Still didn’t hear from my agent. Fearing (or perhaps slightly hoping at this point) my agent was potentially deceased or being held hostage, I stopped over to his office in person. What do you know - he’s not there - I am told, because….he has been on vacation. Lovely, hope he enjoyed that.
3 weeks after the initial claim was called in - Still no word from ANYONE at my insurance company. Guess he’s still on vacation (righhht). I began calling other local agents to get their take on the situation and they were all horrified - one being kind enough to send her husband over to throw some shingles up on our roof without charge.
Filed a complaint with our state and county against my insurance company and agent. Filed a police report against agent as I noticed he has no trouble accepting our direct deposits yet I see no reciprocation and his secretary had begun sending me threatening emails - gaslighting me and saying she never said xyz - despite me having it all documented as we communicated via email?
4 weeks until about 8 weeks - I am starting to lose my mind. I feel quite crazy. Having to take time off work to make all of these calls which have become very much like an Alice in wonderland type experience as it’s just word salad and circular un-reasoning and people repeatedly asking me where and what my agent is doing. Finally do hear from my agent- he claims he’s never heard of my issue but he’s on it. Suuure. Of course I have the insurance app and check daily to see if ANYTHING has been posted. It has not. Have begged for another adjuster to come out. Week 7 another adjuster comes out. He changed the dates and times on 6 occasions, then came out high (or drunk? Not sure) as heck on a Sunday and laid down in my front lawn while playing games on his phone. No I am not joking. He did throw chalk onto the roof though. I made like the gen Z kids and took a video tape of it all on my phone as well as me asking him what the heck is going on and could he please at least tell me his name and what company he’s with - that was useless. He ran (literally) into his van and sped off. Really wish I was making this up but sadly am not.
8 weeks - now, two months plus - roof is in the same condition as it was the day of the storm (plus temp repairs) and the interior damage is of course becoming worse. Tonight I decided to just file another claim for the interior damage in hopes of at least getting something going …. But I’m afraid I might lose my mind.
I’ve called local attorneys but none of them seem to want to help me get the repairs completed. The city and county bar association provided me with nobody except one kid who was still in school and wanted to “tag along” on “the case”. Money isn’t an issue for this situation so I emphasized to alllllll of the lawyers that I am fine to compensate them etc. but NOBODY will bite! The last lawyer I talked to told me it’s not worth his time since I’m just wanting my home repaired and my agents fees refunded.
Somebody please please advise. What type of attorney would take this case? What should I even asking for besides home repairs - I guess the days I took off work? Is this hopeless?
My brothers are both lawyers but not the kind I need, nor do they live in the US anymore, - so they suggested to write something up here.
Apologies for rambling or typos - hope this makes some sense.
Any guidance is greatly appreciated .

With the loss to Colorado at home, Duke adds yet another disappointing finish to a season for a team that has a big history of disappointing finishes. Here is a big chunk of their brutal history:

• 1995 - Lost in the second round by one point to Alabama in 4 overtimes (I think this is the longest game in NCAA D1 Women's Tournament history)
  
• 1996 - Second round loss to 12th-seeded San Francisco as a 4 seed
  
• 1998 - Elite 8 loss to 9th-seeded Arkansas as a 2 seed
  
• 1999 - Lost in the national championship game to Purdue
  
• 2001 - Sweet 16 loss to 5th-seeded Southwest Missouri State (now just Missouri State) as a top seed (Jackie Stiles dropped 41 points in that game)
  
• 2004 - Elite 8 loss to 7th-seeded Minnesota as a top seed
  
• 2006 - Heartbreaking loss in the national championship game to Maryland after Kristi Toliver tied the game to send it to overtime
  
• 2007 - Sweet 16 loss to 4th-seeded Rutgers as a top seed
  
• 2009 - Second round loss to 9th-seeded Michigan State on the road as a top seed
  
• 2014 - Second round loss to 7th-seeded DePaul as a 2 seed
  
• 2017 - Second round loss to 10th-seeded Oregon as a 2 seed
  
• 2023 - Second round loss to 6th-seeded Colorado as a 3 seed
  

Just look at that. They had many talented teams throughout their history and most of them either ended their season with an earlier-than-expected exit or were this close to capturing the national title for the first time in program history. Just incredibly brutal.

So I met this girl (23F) 8 months ago. Our parents are friends (and yes I know that’s not a good thing, but it is what it is). She started her PhD in Michigan while I’m finishing my bachelors in Wisconsin. We maintain close contact over text. She stayed at my parents place for thanksgiving and Christmas break and we had a lot of fun and our chemistry seemed to really work. I also want to pursue a a PhD and one of the schools of interest is the one she’s at.
Following the new year, I went to her place on campus and we had a slew of deep conversations. She told me a lot of very personal things. I also opened up and told her some issues that I have with anxiety and stress and she was very understanding and supportive. She then asked me whether I had a girlfriend before and why I didn’t have one. I answered sincerely saying that it just never happened. I didn’t push the subject any further because I didn’t want to know whether she had a boyfriend before, I honestly don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me what happened before.
I went away to start the semester and we frequently (almost daily) texted and spoke over the phone. I began flirting with her and she received it quite well and flirted back. She had an issue with someone stalking her and I was the first one she contacted, I tried to be very supportive and it meant a lot to her. I know this doesn’t sound like a lot but we share Spotify playlists and she adds quite suggestive music.
She has been super excited for the summer and booked a flight to visit me on campus in May when I finish school. She also wants to go on a road trip because my summer internship is very flexible. She is also really eager to meet my friends and has said multiple times that she wants to meet them.
So I recently came home for break and I went to visit her. She was pretty excited about it and planned out the entire night. We first sat at her place and talked for a while. She got kind of embarrassed because I got her a book as a present I found a couple months back. My birthday was a week before and she felt really bad that she didn’t get a me a present but it honestly didn’t bother me at all. I also wrote a nice note in the book that she really liked.
We then went to meet her really good colleague/friend (and her colleague’s boyfriend) at a pub. On the way there I side hugged her while we were waiting for cross walk. She smiled but didn’t say anything. We had a lot of fun with her friend and drank a little bit. Apparently she spoke about me to her friends many times which I found cute. After that we went to her place and we began talking again, but this time about some pretty deep stuff. She started asking me a lot of questions like: if I had a partner how would I deal with disagreements? If I had a partner who’s parent (singular) is disagreeable how would I manage that? And she asked me about when I want to have kids and when I would want to get married? I responded to all of those questions earnestly and she agreed with all of my responses. I then told her directly that I really cared about our relationship. I took her by the hand and looked her in the eye and let her know that she mattered to me. She smiled and responded saying she cares as well. She later told me that she was in a relationship for 6 years and she ended it due to long distance issues and other issues. I believe the other issues have something to do with one of her parents because she confessed to me that one of her parents acts very childish. I think that meant that she wasn’t big into long distance stuff and that there might be some other underlying issue, but I don’t want to overspeculate. Not exactly sure but I don’t think that’s a red flag for her as a person, she’s very honest and forthcoming. I think it also might give context that she said that she only looks for long term relationships, which I am very cool with.
I first slept on the couch to respect her privacy because I don’t want to drastically test boundaries. She then told me to come to her bed and we slept next to each other (no sex). The next morning I followed up on the questions that she asked and asked whether they were allegorical. She said no and was just purely interested in knowing. I then asked about her thoughts on a relationship and she told me that she is currently in a state where she can’t say yes or no. She explicitly said that she was definitely interesting in pursuing this route and really liked me but what wants things to unravel naturally and spontaneously. I appreciated that she was very direct when I asked her and didn’t beat around the bush. I was understanding and didn’t push it any further. She later asked me whether we would still do all the fun stuff over summer, which I said yes to as her response to the prior question doesn’t change my attitude towards her. We ate breakfast and I got ready to leave and she promptly hugged me.
That evening I sent her a text thanking her for a fun night and letting me sleep over at her place. She said that she had a lot of fun and that our deep conversations mean a lot to her and are a good stepping to stone to knowing each other a little bit better.
I’m honestly a bit confused. I’m not really sure how to feel. I think I misaligned my goals with my expectations. I feel pressure to push forward with intimacy but I like taking it slowly. I also don’t want to stagnate the progression of this relationship if that makes sense. I understand that we’ve only been physically together about 10 times (although extended periods of times) which may be the reason as to why she said idk. Am I just overthinking this and being an idiot? Am I being too forward? I would like get advice from the opposite gender on how I should go further and whether I’m being unreasonable. I really care about her and she still wants to continue all of these plans for the future. My plan is to lay it off a little bit and let her take the lead. What do you all think? Thanks.
TLDR: I’ve been intensively talking with this girl and she acknowledges that she really likes me and wants to pursue a relationship further (slowly) but is not currently in a state where she can say yes or no due to perhaps LDR issues and one of her parents.
Edit: for reference, she lives in a graduate dorm. Which is a shared living space.

To the seasoned rider, this will sound like common sense, but many new riders (including my younger self), might not know what to look for, or might be blinded by "Oh sick, it has pod filters!". Feel free to skip to the TL;DR at the end, I was just in a writing mood tonight and this got a little long.
My first bike, a 1981 Honda CB750 Custom, or, what was left of it. When I was looking for my first bike I didn't have a lot of cash, and really wanted a cafe style bike. Saw this one and talked him down to $1,200. I picked it up during winter, and it had been stored in a flimsy bike shed. Didn't even attempt to start it, the owner said the battery was dead from sitting over the winter but assured me it ran great with no issues.
Lesson 1: Don't buy without a test drive, and don't trust the seller to disclose all the issues. Also, always request that the bike be cold when you come to look at it. Feel the exhaust before they start it up. If it's already running, or hot when you get there, chances are there's an issue that takes some fiddling with to get it fired up.
When spring hit I finally had a chance to really get into it. The more I went over the bike, the more of a mess I realized it was. Whoever did the cafe conversion did a real hack job, under the seat was a rats nest of wires, many that had just been clipped and covered with electrical tape. And the battery was just zip tied to the frame. ( I ended up fashioning an ammo can into a battery box )
Lesson 2: Reaaallly inspect the bike. Make sure all the lights work (Headlight, tail light, brake light, turn signals). Check the wiring. Check for any fluid leaks)
I got a new battery in it, and after many times of draining and recharging the battery, it finally fired up. Did a few test drives around the neighborhood (first time ever driving a motorcycle), and it seemed to run well enough. But when I'd try to start it up again, the battery would always die before I got it started the first time. Bought a new battery thinking maybe I got a dud with the last one, and it fired right up. Decided to venture out a little more, and took off to meet a friend at the pub about 4 miles away. It died while pulling into the parking lot. I had to jump start it to leave. Made it home, but the headlights were mighty dim by the time I got there. Turns out it had a bad stator. Then I found oil leaking out of the head, and discovered some stripped head bolts. It sat in my garage for the rest of the summer, then I sold it for a loss. Put maybe 30 miles on it.
You'd think I'd learned my lesson after that, but nope. 2nd bike 1976 Honda CB550
This one was at least modded by someone who at least had an ok understanding of what he was doing. Drove to the other side of the state and picked to pick it up. Test rode this one, but it had already been started and heated up before I got there (See Lesson 1). It seemed to run fine after running it up and down the street, so I took it home. Found out it reaallly didn't like to fire up if the weather was on the cooler side. I could get it there, but it took a lot of coaxing. First time I took it out on a proper run, I learned that once it got warmed up, it liked to idle at 3k rpm when stopped. I could drop the rpm's if I slowly let out the clutch and pulled it in just before it died, but if I even touched the throttle it was back up to 3k. The carbs also seemed out of synch, and was exacerbated by the pod filters (those things are a nightmare unless you rejet the carbs, and even then, you need a miracle to tune it right). Also found out the fork seals were shot and leaking.
So after that, I decided I was going to save up and get a decent running newer bike. I was looking for a KLR or Vstrom, something more reliable and I could also take moto camping. But then this happened.....Saw a facebook listing for a 1975 Honda CB550. 100% stock, so no worries about a hack job, and they're almost impossible to find intact in my area. So I talked the guy down on the price, and went to look at it. He had it 1 mile from my house. Did a quick test drive (was in the city, so just puttering around), came back and handed him the cash. I bought it 3 hours after he listed it. The next day I took it to work to put it through it's paces. Once I got it up to speed I noticed a vertical wobble from the front tire. Then I noticed a fluid spot under the bike when I got out of work. It was leaking from the shift lever. Upon further inspection, I found a few big holes on the frame side walls of the exhaust (on both sides). It also didn't like sitting at idle, I'd have to keep it revved a little at lights to keep from stalling.
I had enough. Sold both of those. At this point I was up to 3 bikes, with maybe 200 miles between the 3 of them (at least 125 were just from bike #2).
I searched around for a while, and took my time looking for a deal (this was during covid, and the crazy markups weren't just limited to cars). I settled on an '09 Kawasaki KLR650 (Pic taken after a few mods I made. Rally Dash, Touring Screen, 2" Dogbone suspension lift, Tusk Boxes). When I looked at it I did a thorough inspection of the bike, started it up cold, and took it out for a longer test drive (Stop and go traffic, Back roads, Highway etc). Questioned the owner about the bikes history, he hadn't ridden it much, he got it so he could ride with his kids on their new dirtbikes, but turns out the kids weren't really into it. But he told me about the previous owner. He maintained it religiously, as proven by the box full of receipts, and a log with every fluid change, and other maintenance. (also proof that the Doo was done, KLR owners know what that means). It had 37k miles on it, but it was solid. This bike served me well, it was my daily driver year round as long as there was no snow/ice on the road, and temps were above 35, along with many 2-300 mile afternoon road trips. Put thousands of miles on it. (I even did the Lake Michigan Saddle Sore run on it, 1k miles in under 24 hours). It finally died on me the day before I was going to take it on a Michigan to Key West round trip. The electrical system fried while I was getting on the highway. No regrets, I got my moneys worth out of it.
After that I went a few years without a bike, dealing with some curveballs life threw at me. I've been saving up to get something newer (5 years or less) and low mileage. Thinking a Triumph Tiger, or a Super Ten. But I couldn't handle not having a bike anymore, I spent the last two years being angry when I'd see other people out cruising around on nice sunny days.
So I picked up a cheap bike just to hold me over until I save up for what I really want. It's a 1986 Kawasaki Concours 1000 She's a bit rough around the edges, old, high mileage, but mechanically sound. Picked it up from a local pastor who put a couple thousand miles on it touring around with friends. If I were to stick with this bike, it'd probably need a little tlc next season to put it in tip top shape, but I plan on upgrading next spring.
Anyway, I feel like that all got a bit off topic.
TL;DR: If you're looking for your first bike, don't pick up a project because it looks cool, and you've got grand plans of whipping it into shape (unless you're already a decent mechanic). Those old bikes are really neat, but there's a good chance you'll spend way more time tinkering with it than actually riding it. Get a decent running bike first, even if it seems boring. Then pick up a project on the side if you must. Don't buy a bike without thoroughly checking it out, and give it a good test drive in different riding conditions, not just a few laps around the block. And always insist that the bike is cold (hasn't been started recently) before you get there
Also, just another bit of advice. Never buy a bike without a title. It varies from state to state, but it can be a nightmare getting a new title as a buyer. They'll tell you "Oh, it's super easy, just bring a bill of sale to the DMV/SOS". But it's not that easy. If it was they would have done it already. Chances are it's either A. Stolen or B. They bought it from someone without a title after hearing the same "just do xyz to get a new title, simple!", then found out it's not so simple, and is attempting to pawn it off to the next sucker.

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