SREDNI VASHTAR

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things---such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dulness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.

Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ``for his good'' was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out---an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.

In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.

The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.

After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. ``It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,'' she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it ``gave trouble,'' a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.

``I thought you liked toast,'' she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.

``Sometimes,'' said Conradin.

In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.

``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin's bitter litany went up: ``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.

``What are you keeping in that locked hutch?'' she asked. ``I believe it's guinea-pigs. I'll have them all cleared away.''

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:

Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the pæan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.

``Tea is ready,'' said the sour-faced maid; ``where is the mistress?'' ``She went down to the shed some time ago,'' said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.

``Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!'' exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.

>> ^longde:

General Relativity is simple?
>> ^coolhund:
>> ^GenjiKilpatrick:
Gravity is a theory too, STFU.
kthanksbai.
>> ^coolhund:
It is NOWHERE near being a fact. Its a fucking theory and one that is very wobbly at that if you actually open your eyes objectively.


Yeah, a theory thats easily proven because its very simple.


Trying to be a smartass now, huh? That only helps my cause.
You know exactly what I meant.
Well, I see, ignorance as usual. Im just waiting for you to get out the drawers.

Tags for this video have been changed from 'cat, kitty, kitteh, drawer, security, hidden, paw, cash, money' to 'cat, kitty, kitteh, drawer, security, hidden, paw, cash, money, CLAW' - edited by bareboards2

I's still shit my drawers if a cop acted like that.

I'd love to hear more, but I can't see to overcome the desire to shut all of her drawers and cabinet doors.

I like what Sylvester said about not putting in the stuffing, and using a meat thermometer. Personally, I put the thermometer right in the breast meat, and pull it out somewhere between 161-165 F (72-74 C). And then let it rest. Just like a good steak, don't you dare cut into that juicy sucker until it has sat for at least 15-20 minutes or else all your moisture will just pour out all over your cutting board instead of being absorbed back into the meat.

BUT, the real secret, is to brine your turkey. Check out this recipe by food scientist Alton Brown: Good Eats Roast Turkey Recipe. There's a reason it has 3,750+ reviews and a 5-star rating. Only instead of a 5-Gallon bucket, I just use a brining bag and put it in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Do make sure it's fully submerged. A brine promotes osmosis, which lets your flavorful bath soak through the meat. It's SCIENCE!

The only reason I don't eat turkey more often is because it's just me and my lady here and a weeks worth of food comas would be counter-productive.

@CaptainObvious
Just like rich people won't eat beans and cornbread,
News managers (the persons who run a story, or stick a story in a drawer)
have a bias towards news they think is important to their target audience.

If this "news manager" is trying to get Bill Gates to watch the news, he's going to run a segment on the new Microsoft Zune, going to run
* Cancer survivor gets a new puppy
* Apple sauce day is tommorrow in sticklick county
* Can Ipods cause traffic accidents?

So, the protest doesn't fit on the menu.

another reason is that the definition of impartiality is difficult to understand. If 10K lefties protest, does that mean I give Michelle bachman equal time with the protest?

"...a white plastic spork leaning on a chest with drawers!"

That killed me.

>> ^AdrianBlack:

The drawer full of muppet eyes was my favorite part.


Yeah it's like he's a deranged collector of eyes...pretty cool.

The drawer full of muppet eyes was my favorite part.

Man, that is so cool on so many levels. Leave it just as it is. Your uninspired is top drawer, my friend!

Makes me wish I were bronze again!

In reply to this comment by hpqp:
http://videosift.com/video/Shimmering-Silver-the-Stuff-of-Stars

If you have a better description, do tell (I wasn't feeling very inspired).

at the request of BoneRemake (because my "m night shyalaman is an idiot" rebuttal wasnt long winded enough =P):

sixth sense was "meh" for the following reasons:
"These souls who for whatever reason are not at rest are also not aware that they have passed on. Theyre not part of consciousness as we know it. they linger in a perpetual dream state; a nightmare from which they cannot wake." this may sound familiar. it may sound familiar as the general premise of The Sixth Sense and central to the "twist" (if you could even call it that) ending.

it may also sound familiar as a line from Poltergeist, and also being the central premise of the conflict resolution.
speaking of poltergeist, the open cabinet drawers scene in sixth sense is directly lifted from the moving chairs scene in poltergeist. you may call this an homage, i call it half-assed hackery.

his color reference as hints are just too obvious. theyre vague and ambiguous at first, but once you start noticing em it becomes plainly clear. as for the whole "twist" BRUCE WILLIS IS DEAD OMG YOU FOOLED ME YOU OLD TOSSER i felt it took away from the movie. when i originally went to see the sixth sense with my dad i went to see a tense psychological thriller that would chill me. and for the first 20-30 minutes or so, it did not disappoint..... until my dad and i figured out willis was dead (the "i see dead people" scene gave it away for us). we were dumbfounded at first, wondering what in the hell this had to do with furthering the plot, but we didnt need to wonder anymore once the movie became about bruce willis being all emo about being dead. and the big reveal at the end, considering we already knew, really just made us both scoff. simply put, it was a pretty scare and intense movie when it was about the boy, then it became boring and stupid when it does a 180 and becomes about bruce willis. thats my opinion anyway, tomaytoe-tomawtoe

now having said all of that, there is one, and only one thing, i like about shyalaman: his vision as a director. He's not a genius or anything, but he's pretty damn good. he has a real knack for framing, tone, and pacing. probably the only thing i like about sixth sense was his ability to add tangible tension through masterful pacing and mood setting.
....i take that back. theres two things i liked about sixth sense. the overall directing, and the anniversary dinner scene. that scene really did add an ambiguity to the whole dilemma of willis being dead. on one hand the scene must play out as an emotionally drained wife frustrated (and even pissed off) at her husbands increasing distance. simultaneously she must convey a mournful widow still in grief over her husbands death on their anniversary (and the anniversary of his death if im not mistaken). that scene is legit. but credit must be given to the actress and her portrayal more so than shyalaman because she nailed it beautifully.

whether he makes shitty films or not, sixth sense rocked the boxoffice and gave him some arguably deserved limelight. but his subsequent films proved that he is a one trick pony. his movies became exponentially more and more transparent, more and more boring, and more and more stale, lacking anything of substance. (with the exception of Signs arguably. i personally didnt love it, but i kind of liked it and its a solid enough film if you disregard the shit ending) the fact that his handle of "the twist ending filmmaker" is a passive aggressive insult shows this.

m night shyalaman as a filmmaker just.......sucks. theres really not a better or more concise way to put it. as a director, however, he really does shine......which brings us to devil, a movie in which he wrote and produced but did not direct. so basically the one thing he's actually good at, he didnt fucking do in that movie........and it shows.....its utter shite. at the risk of sounding pretentious, the twist ending (cuz you know theres fucking gonna be one, its a shyalaman movie for christ sake) is so limp and stupid, you can figure it out just from watching the damn trailer (i did).

and as far as the michael bay (barf) comparisons, i think the only difference is this: michael bay knows what he is. he knows exactly what kind of movies he makes. In cinema, motion pictures come in two forms: Films (art form) and movies (entertainment). Michael bay makes the latter, and he knows it, and everyone who watches his movies knows it. shyalaman makes movies masquerading as film. seriously, when your go to device is the plot twist, and you have one in each and every one of your god awful movies, they really lose the "surprise" appeal which utterly defeats the purpose of it in the first place and thus, deserves to be mocked

there, that a thorough enough rebuttal for ya, you crusty bastard? =P

> I won't bother with Google+ since it wants real datas.

wants? it WILL HAVE.... it is spidering through your sock drawer right now

>> ^Sagemind:

Great to see you've got it working. (or did you?)
I don't think I'll EVER install Chrome. I can't stand that Google uses my information on a constant basis. I find it an invasion of privacy. Without going into a rant, by switching to Chrome, you are basically inviting them into your computer and closing your eyes while they install a camera, poke in all the cupboards and rifle through your drawers.
I also understand they do this without me using chrome but Chrome just means I approve - and I don't.
Steps down off soapbox


Yep. I switched to gmail recently -- the other day I was mentioning to a friend in an email how much I hated writing the LSAT. Suddenly I was seeing ads for LSAT courses on several websites. Creepy/invasive.

>> ^Sagemind:

Great to see you've got it working. (or did you?)
I don't think I'll EVER install Chrome. I can't stand that Google uses my information on a constant basis. I find it an invasion of privacy. Without going into a rant, by switching to Chrome, you are basically inviting them into your computer and closing your eyes while they install a camera, poke in all the cupboards and rifle through your drawers.
I also understand they do this without me using chrome but Chrome just means I approve - and I don't.
Steps down off soapbox


Only reason I go it working is because I allowed them to molest my internet activity and installed chrome. My sisters computer has the same problem, she can not go to anything youtube related, just a black screen and nothing loads. Its bullshit I tell ye.