Story

Vor einigen Jahren plante ich einen Fantasy-Blogroman. Eine wütende Whistleblowerin bloggte zu einer dramatischen Verschwörung. Das erste Kapitel gibt es hier zu lesen, auf Englisch.

The Silent War Against Magic

9.5.2016 by Ramona

Today is the end of the world as you know it. Promise.

I’ve kept my mouth shut my whole life, but I decided to speak up now. I can’t bear it any longer. The world has to know about all that shit.

I chose to start blogging. They can take a blog down, but they can’t take the internet down. A blog about writing fiction seems like a good way to hide. Content will spread from here before they can notice. At least I hope so. Maybe they’ll let this blog live far longer than they should—just because they think that a minor blog can’t harm anybody. Haha!

Okay, let’s go. This will be a long post. Be prepared.

Also be prepared to read some bad English. English is not my mother tongue. However, what I got to say concerns the world. The WORLD. Seriously.

So don’t start whining about my bad English. I can assure you that any bad English (bad words included) will be easier to swallow than what I have to tell you. Put your indigestion tablets within reach.

Let me start off by saying that you’ve been lied to.

You know that you’re lied to, of course. You know that accidents in nuclear power plants are downplayed to ensure that people don’t get all panicky. You know that the official “normal values” of human blood sugar levels are lowered every second year so that the pharmaceutical industry gets to sell more diabetes medication. You know all that. Yeah, to hell with it. I don’t mean the usual lies of politicians, or fraud by some shitty industrial branch.

What I do mean is the complete and utter deception of your whole world view. I mean a worldwide conspiracy that is going on for ages. At least since the Middle Ages.

As the saying goes, history is a fable agreed upon. Fuck, yes.

If you knew what I’m about to tell you any second, you would catch the irony that lies in the word fable. Cause that’s kind of the issue here.

I don’t quite know how to spill the truth but … awh, shit, let’s just sing it out loud:

There is magic in the world. There is and always has been. Magic.

No, not the magic of a rising sun in the morning. Not the David Copperfield kind of crap either. And certainly not the magic of a wonderful smelling coffee that’s enjoyed by a romantic couple in a TV commercial.

Real magic.

Real real. Moving things only with your mind. Making people do things you want them to. Flying with no strings attached. Speaking to elves and goblins.

And that’s just the superficial stuff.

Done. I’ve said it. The world didn’t crumble. No alarm sounded. You’re still there, and I’m still here, and nobody got harmed. Everything is in a beautiful state of pause. We’re hovering here with that interesting piece of information and feel as comfortable as before—well, if you feel comfortable, which I hope very much.

So hey, let’s celebrate the good news: There’s magic!

How nice.

How nice and how enticingly wonderful.

What’s not so nice: it’s hidden from your eyes. That is, if you don’t have Elvish genes like I have. You may not have spotted a single bit of magic throughout your whole life. Which is kind of sad, I think. Then again, you’re not alone. Most people haven’t. Everyone keeps this world of magic a goddam secret because that’s how it’s always been, and that’s how law governs these issues.

Yeah, there’s law involved, too. What did you expect? Something as precious as magic can’t escape legal regulation—or capitalism, abuse and perversion. That’s how the world is.

But that’s not the point. The point is: magic is real.

Feel free not to believe me.

Also, feel free to do so. Cause I got a problem that is directly related to this revelation, and I need your help. I’m getting back to that in a minute.

For now, it’s just you who needs help. You grew up being told there is no magic, and no otherworld, and no supernatural whatnot. You were screwed. Magic. Is. Real. I’m here, a living proof, about to change your world. Let’s get some facts straight first, let’s teach you a long overdue lesson:

We—the hidden folks—are called “Fablings” in English or “Fabler” in German. Fabling is not the official term, but it is the word used by most of us. Authorities have much more prosaic names for us. Your secret national authorities call us SWIMs, which is an acronym for SideWorld IMmigrants (which is misleading because nearly no one immigrated lately) or they call us “Others”, which is simply dumb. Biologists who work for the secret authorities gave us complicated latin names (to ensure that we stay “scientific objects”, I guess). Mythologists usually don’t know we exist and call us the Tuatha Dé Danann, elves, leprechauns, the Aos Sí, goblins or just fairies. And those that know of us, but fear that we are a danger to society or to humankind come up with any insult you can think of.

I reckon you’re burning with curiosity concerning all this magic and elvish stuff. But that’s not relevant right now. If I dive into that subject, this blog post will reach the length of a toilet roll. You don’t want that. Buy one if you need one.

I will let you in on all that magic stuff later, I promise.

That is, if they don’t arrest me first. Whistleblowing is not a very reputable activity nowadays. You know what became of Manning, Assange, Snowden, do you?

I’m not part of that list, though, not in the least. They are true martyrs. I’m the opposite of a hero. I’m an ordinary woman with a personal issue. Many Fablings will accuse me of selfishness. Meh. I can live with that.

But I can’t live being robbed of my FAMILY.

My son is missing.

I wish I could write this sentence without crying. I wrote these words on so many websites that list missing persons, and I still can’t stop crying. Fuck.

I lost my only son and I want him back. I—want—him—back.

This is why I need your help. Desperately. And If you are willing to help me, I will be forever grateful.

These are the bare facts:

My son goes by the name of Daniel Meisner. He is eighteen years old, and he is of Spanish-German heritage (with some Elf in the mix). Anyone who knows him calls him Dan. Last time he was seen: April 15th in Munich, right after school. He wore grey trousers, and a dark red hoody. He carried a light brown shoulder bag.

Dan has blue eyes, short dark blond hair, he’s 1,81 meter tall (five foot nine). Judging by his physical appearance he is pretty usual for a boy his Age. But then, he is one of a kind. I know I’m biased, but I am right, too.

Dan loves the US and the American way, that’s probably why he urged everybody to call him Dan some years ago. He believes in freedom of speech, in the power of idealism and being proactive, he watches NBA games (and Dirk Nowitzki) if he has a chance to do so, he digs big vehicles and vast landscapes. He even tried to win a ticket in the green card lottery. Every second weekend he makes his special “Danburger” (a hamburger with peperoncini and varying ingredients, he loves to shake things up). He can do impressions of at least half a dozen famous actors, and he loves to play lacrosse (a sport, that has its roots in traditions of the Native Americans).

Ever since being in this world, Dan had a birthmark on the back of his head, hidden below his hair; a light brown blotch that looks a bit like the fake moustache of Groucho Marx. Are you familiar with Groucho Marx? Because he and Dan share the same kind of subversive humour. They both are incredibly witty and clever. They respond to you with a funny line and make you laugh, and then, while you’re laughing, you notice that your beliefs have been questioned. But too late, you laughed at yourself already … I like that a lot.

Dan is a late riser. He read many hard SF novels, techno-thrillers, and war epics, and he’s able to impress you with intricate knowledge on technical gadgetry and warfare.

I’m rambling, I know. But maybe one of these details is important in the end.

Shortly before his disappearance Dan phoned me saying that he had been approached by an officer of the BSA, the “Bundesamt für Seitenwelt-Angelegenheiten” (national department of sideworld affairs). I think that’s their current name. In former times they also called themselves Bundesbehörde für Seitenwelt-Migranten, Nationales Anderswelt-Referat, Amt für Seitenwelt-Sicherheit and else. They change their darn name every other year. In the US all Fablings just call them sicos (pronounce “psychos”), because the American otherworld agency had the name Sideworld-Control once (SiCo). That name sure backfired.

Imagine the BSA as a kind of a Fabling’s police. They care about our registration, and they are entitled to control every other aspect that is “vital to guarantee public safety”. In essence they are watchmen. Fablings are just tolerated in this world, and they make sure we don’t think otherwise. Twice a year every Fabling has to check in, answer some dumb questions about his or her life and renew our discretion pledge that’s common since the age of enlightenment: a promise not to unveil any Fabling stuff, be it by words or by deeds—or by not denying that Fablings exist.

The antique pledge doesn’t work. But harsh penalties do.

The ultimate penalty for any Fabling is to be locked away in a mental institution. It’s called “the syringe”. You get an injection that makes you go mad—and that’s it.

And just in case you didn’t get it: That’s what awaits me if they choose to proceed against me. I broke the vow of silence with this blog post. But I had no choice.

Why?

Because it’s the only way to undermine this freaking plot. Hear me out.

On the phone told Dan me he had to undergo a random security check by the BSA official and would be home soon. And that was the last thing I heard from him.

When he didn’t show up, I called the BSA. They told me that no German BSA official had seized Dan. Knowing what I know now this is hard to believe.

Of course I informed the police (the ordinary one). To no avail. You see, the police is not in on Fablings. They know about Fablings just as much as you did when you started reading this article. So they don’t have the slightest chance to investigate properly.

So I took matters in my own hands.

We Fablings are not legion, and we are not very well organized. That’s been our weak spot since forever. But we stick together. We are so few and so outcast, we make up for it by being more close to each other than humans, helping our kind in every possible way. We meet a lot, we talk a lot and we hug a lot. We are simply one of the best communities in the world, we’re just hidden.

I blew Dan’s story out into the community, and it didn’t take me long to find out.

DAN IS NOT THE ONLY ONE.

As for now I have information on at least fifteen Fablings who have vanished in the last three months. The story is always the same: A German BSA official (or its respective national equivalent) approaches the Fabling, takes him along, and the Fabling is never seen again. Munich, Berlin, London, Lisbon, Detroit, you name it.

The BSA doesn’t feel any obligation to investigate these cases. They either deny that it makes up a coherent series, or they frown at you for hinting at a worldwide conspiracy.

Which it is.

Fablings are kidnapped. Worldwide. One by one.

Either the government authorities themselves, or someone who disguises as the government authorities is behind this scheme.

Which means … this—is—huge. HUGE.

Anyone who has the capabilities to stage a thing like this is an international threat. A threat to all Fablings.

I warned everybody I know, but few Fablings want to listen to this frightening news.

Some of them call me crazy. Some of them are scared to hell. Some don’t believe there is a plot against us. Even families who miss one of their kin don’t dare to think anything terrible is going on. They don’t want to abandon the illusion of a world in which a coexistence of humans and Fablings is possible. I cannot blame them. It’s a nice illusion. But it’s crumbling. For five years we’ve been surveyed much more than ever before in the history of Fablings. Laws have been made that govern every aspect of our life. We have to supply gene samples. We are not allowed to marry each other, or we have to—depending on the country we live in. We have to work for the BSA and associated institutions if they want us to.

Unfortunately, there are even Fablings who volunteer to work for secret government institutions. Fablings who feel valued if they can partake in government operations. Who like to tell other Fablings what to do and when and where. Who have forgotten what has happened in medieval times. They don’t get where all this is going to lead us. They seek personal gain, and forget we are free beings. That we SHOULD be free, all of us, humans and Fablings. Each of us comes into this world inherently free. Our life is a gift and should be lived unfettered and adventurous.

I can understand any Fabling who fears personal consequences by speaking up. I really can. But I cannot endorse it.

So I made the start. Someone has to.

I have a good reason, and I have nothing to lose. Right now there’s nothing else I care more about than Dan. And if I say nothing, I mean nothing. He is my son. I swear that whoever has kidnapped him, will wish that he had never messed with me. I will not leave a stone unturned until I know what has happened to Dan. And to all the others who have vanished. I will tear down everything and everyone standing in my way.

I’ve already begun. I tore down the thin veil that separated you and anyone who reads this from the truth. Open your eyes:

We are here. The Otherworld is present.

The world has to know about us. Magic shouldn’t be governed as if it were a deadly weapon. Fablings shouldn’t be monitored as if they were possible terrorists. All this has to end. As soon as possible. So that no more people vanish.

I know this means war to well-established conditions. It breaks with every rule that has been followed for ages.

To hell with the rules. I play by my own rules now. I declare war on the vow of secrecy.

I know that Dan fights his own war right now. Against whoever has captured him. He’s a fighter. He likes to win and he’s clever. He proved it in every game of lacrosse he ever played. He often told me that lacrosse originated with the Native Americans and the Mohawk name of the game begadwe means „little brother of war“. I saw him turning around countless games that seemed outright lost. That’s why I still speak in present tense of him. I can’t believe that he’s gone forever. He is not, I know it. He’s out there. Somewhere.

I need you to find him. Help me. Share this post. Report any hints you have on this blog.

And tell the world that the governments suppress Fablings and their magic talents.

Please.

My name is Ramona, and I miss my son.