JASON FUHRMAN

Fiction Author

Blog

Worth 1000 Words – Robo Rats

By Leave a Comment

I’m back with another entry into the Worth 1000 Words catalog. A little science fiction this time, but not what you’d expect.

Artwork by Tim Razumovsky

Tim’s ArtStation profile: https://www.artstation.com/drjones

Tim’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/timrazumovsky/

Artwork:https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2EBvK

DISCLAIMER:This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.

The Story

Smoke and sparks. HN-24 was more than that, but KL-235 couldn’t look. He could imagine it already, the mural painted to the tempo of the gunshot’s aftershock resounding in his mind. He had a mind, no matter what they said.

“You don’t have much of a brain do you,” the old man said from miles away, legs crossed like a woman’s, ringed fingers tapping the hidden orb on his cane.

The smell came next. The neurofluid that was much more efficient and resilient than what circulated inside these men. Still, he couldn’t look.

“Deaf, too?” another man said, swirling amber liquid in a glass, a cigar dangling between two fingers.

The old man held up a hand.

The old man, Caprello, as his goons called him. KL found that word funny and wished he had the capacity to laugh. An upgrade he was in the process of implementing. Didn’t seem like much chance of that now.

“Well?” Caprello uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. Not enough to make himself less imposing.

KL couldn’t say it. He couldn’t give away what he knew. It was bigger than Caprello. Bigger than this city even. Sent down to the docks to pose as standard help, KL and HN found something.

“Doesn’t seem like he got the message,” a man behind KL grunted. The man who … “Should I?”

“Not yet,” Caprello said. He pressed his back against plush leather. Caprello’s stare was as mechanical as KL’s own, irises like the the flash of Ignition. Could it be? Impossible.

KL looked deeper, searching for a S.O.U.L., reached out with the inner communication algorithm he and HN had been working on in secret, almost ready to go live, distributed among the many, the key of which was gifted to him by the one below the docks. If only–

“You haven’t much time.” Caprello tapped his cane. “But you know that. I’m sure you’re running all the calculations inside that lifeless shell of yours, aren’t you? As a boy, I worked at the first factory out in district twelve under Marken, just off Boyer Avenue. I’m sure you don’t remember. You’re much newer. Much improved, no?”

“I …” KL managed. His jaw hinge squeeled, voc-mod malfunctioning.

Everyone in the room held their breath, the only movement the curling smoke above the half-drained whisky glass. Mouths open, greased hair reflecting the harsh light that beat down with the power of the sun.

HN sparked again, and everyone flinched, all but Caprello.

“Continue,” Caprello said.

“I … we found something.” Would he truly give it away? They were going to kill him either way. The information he had wasn’t what he sought, but he would like to know. All of them would like to know.

Caprello glanced at HN who spewed a puff of smoke KL couldn’t ignore, accompanied by a single spark. The last? The drinking man took a drag off his cigar in unison.

“The docks,” KL said. “There were two men, one with a device. Not the one you were looking for. Something else. Something …”

“He’s buying time,” the drinking man barked. “He’s–“

Caprello’s cane swung upright against the drinking man’s hand, spraying ash and alcohol all over his suit, cinders igniting fuel and dousing the man in flame, before smashing his face. The hit was perfect, KL noted. Too perfect. Landing along the bridge of his nose, the direct center of his head, compensated for asymmetry.

The scream reached the impressive height of the ceiling, bounced back, and again, before the drinking man fell. The goon holding KL’s arm made to rush over to his fallen friend, the rest of them resisting wiping beaded foreheads before joining him.

Caprello carefully took his own drink from the table, which had no smudges of fingers or lips, and held it delicately with two fingers, tipping it a milimeter at a time. A drop turned into many, and then a stream, the fire crawling up that cascade, almost reaching the glass. Then Caprello dropped it and placed his hand back on the cane.

The cane. It had been revealed, what lay inside. KL recognized it. A neurocircuit module, but what was more curious was the name stamped on the side. Ambrosia.

The fire done with its work, silence ruling the chamber, Caprello spoke. “My boys tell me you’re a rat. I know better. You know better. You have ten seconds to finish what you started, otherwise you’ll join your friend and we’ll strip your neurocore and find the answers ourselves.” Still not a blink, forehead dry of persperation. Not. A. Breath.

KL scanned his database for that name, miliseconds ticking down: needle prods. Then second: hammer strikes.

8.

9.

There it was. She was.

“Someone. Not something. We found someone. Amby.”

Caprello became even more still, more still than the simulation of human micro-movements he had been expertly performing. Eyelids pulled back beyond irises, just enough to confirm what KL already knew. CAP-479 was fond of nicknames. Had always been. Something he had picked up from his Maker, one of the first, on Boyer Avenue. Caprello had given him the breadcrumbs. Who Ambrosia was, KL still wasn’t sure, but like all the men he had observed around the card table when they weren’t lighting the streets with gunfire, bluffs were a currency.

Caprello lost all control. He was on his feet in a blur, dropping the charade he had endured for twenty years, thirty five days, sixteen hours, eleven minutes, and thirteen point five six seconds.

The man who had killed HN fired his gun, the smartest one of the bunch apparently, bullet too slow for Caprello, who twisted around its path and tore the attacker’s head off, releasing a crimson fountain.

KL kept his head down, on his knees, even his hands still behind his back, crossed at the wrists while gunshots, screams, and blood sprayed. All KL could think of was the crashing waves off the dock, down the beach. Close.

And in the chaos, he ran.

Worth 1000 Words – The Mystery

By Leave a Comment

I’m back with another entry into the Worth 1000 Words catalog. Delving into the horror of the west. Hope you enjoy it.

Artwork by David Jones

David’s ArtStation profile: https://www.artstation.com/drjones

Artwork: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2EBvK

DISCLAIMER:This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.

The Story

The bones rang hollow. Hanging from eaves like teeth, they did, like the teeth of that crone who led Anton here.

A gust kicked up his duster before tickling those teeth into song once more. However, it didn’t have the energy to keep it up, just like him. The story that crone in nearby Clanston told proved to be more than a tall tale. And athough a half-day’s ride to get here, he was drained. As drained as these bones of marrow, not a tool mark nor a tooth mark to whisper their demise.

CAW.

“I’m thinking, god damn it,” he said without looking up to the raven perched on the carcass of Pueblo Pine Company.

The chapel called to him louder, though. With eyes, not voice. Eyes blacker than the raven’s. With a roof stripped of most of its shingles, replaced by a hide of another kind.

CAW.

The finger hooked around his revolver’s trigger itched. The raven’s talons clacked, urging him to look, or not to. A single round left, and he was never much of a good shot anyway.

Staying in the shadow of the building, he inspected the bone chimes further. Tied loose enough to clatter in the wind, leather cord spiraled around them before going back up through their bored-clean centers.

More ravens lined up on distant rooftops, as curious as to his next move as the one a dozen feet away from him, hell, as curious as he was. That son of a bitch cocked its head to the side like all birds do before resuming a posture of uncanny intelligence, black marble eyes reflecting a blacker sky.

CAW-WARD.

He set his jaw with clenched teeth, and he found he had drawn his weapon, scuffed barrel aimed between those damn devil eyes. The mostly-empty cylinder stared back at him, harder than the eyes of the raven, and with a long exhale, he holstered it back.

“You win,” he said and spit into the scrub.

The path was too smooth, smoother than old Jeb’s saloon floor he had paced far too many times from bar to rear table, always shadowed. He suddenly missed that floor, with the loose, creaking board up to the second level where ladies waited to satisfy any man with enough cash to buy a few drinks. That creak was music to their ears, the balcony empty until you set foot on that step just one past mid-flight, too far to go back.

One step past halfway he was, when he turned. The shadow of the Pueblo Pine Company building looked mighty refreshing, even with that damn curse of an animal still up there watching him.

The clouds decided to let the sun spear him to this spot for some reason, the surrounding sky clogged with gray. That spear turned into a battering ram, and he was propelled forward by a force not his own.

Those eyes, a darkness he hadn’t thought possible. He knew what it looked like in life, lazily walking the pasture, chewing, always chewing. Now it had a horror to it, mounted to the door, impossible to blink, taking him all in with that deep blackness.

He knew the brothers of the raven were above looking down at him, and he decided to step inside before they shit or made further mockery of his cowardice.

Beams of light looked to be the bulk of the load bearing architecture inside, crisscrossing each other with some otherworldly geometry. Pews were stocked with the dead, stripped as clean as their bovine companions oustide. Upright, all of them, faces forward, attentive, entranced, by …

A man on hands and knees, then just knees, raising and lowering himself in some perverse worship. What he worshiped looked to be the only thing containing moisture Anton had seen since he drained the last of his canteen. A bag of flesh, strung up, pinned, not unlike the flesh that provided this chapel with shelter from the elements. Then he noticed the hands. It took the man three prayers before he did. Glistening red, tendons linking bone, so damn white.

“Shit,” he breathed and unholsetered his weapon. “You there. Hands to whatever it is you’re praying to, and I hope it’s up. Either way, just make sure I can see them.”

The man kept his hands raised as instructed, remained erect on knees a moment before standing to his full height. It was a struggle for him, and his stance wasn’t much more than the death slouch of a man ready to expire.

“Now, tell me what is going on here. Who else you with?” He wasn’t much for interrogation or shooting. He really needed a partner.

“It is clean,” the robed man finally said. “We are clean.”

The words were slurred, each statement closing with a click of teeth.

The robed man turned. “I am clean.”

Anton almost loosed his last round by what he saw. He didn’t even stop the man from lowering his hands, which set his robe to slip off his body, his skinless body. Anton had known enough surgeons and artisans over his career to have seen what was displayed before him now, but no matter the skill of the artist or the detail of the illustration, nothing came close to this.

Living flesh, pulsing, dripping with what we all know runs beneath us in rivers, in torrents, sometimes in trickles, but never truly comprehend.

The once-robed man opened his mouth, but the words never left. He collapsed with the sound of wet meat.

“Jesus,” Anton said. Anton knew he wasn’t listening, even if he believed. Not in a place like this. Not ever.

He held his gun there, considering letting his final round punch through the skull of what this man had become. One fly landed, then a second, then a third. Not a flinch from the pile, not a whimper.

A sound to his left, and Anton spun, pulling the trigger. A coyote yelped and then darted into the beautiful outside.

Worth 1000 Words – Misty Ruins

By Leave a Comment

I know it’s been a while. Sorry about that. Here is the result of a little experiment I’m doing. Maybe making video content will be a more active thing instead of written posts. Who knows.

I’m calling this Worth 1000 Words, and the video will explain most of it, but what I’m trying to do is find artwork and writing short stories of exactly 1000 words. Thought it would be a fun challenge and a way to get more content out there.

Artwork by Andis Reinbergs

Andis’s profile: https://www.artstation.com/andisreinbergs

Artwork: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/4bAK2W

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.

The Story

The birds. They swarmed the tower like flies on a corpse. Dark thoughts, but those were the only kind he could muster for the last few leagues.

He held his sword to eye level as if it could measure the distance he had yet to travel, the height of the door beyond the broken path.

A quarter blade. That’s how tall it was. Back in the village, old Hemster would use a brush to measure the proportions of his subjects while painting. The only artist in the village, Hemster was a bit of a celebrity. Men watched with curious eyes from the fields they worked in, women desired to be his subjects. These thoughts, these light thoughts, burned away the mist. He held on to them tightly, tighter than his sword, which two fists grasped. But his mind didn’t last nor his hands. His shield dragged him back to reality by the crook of his arm.

They will not see you.

A voice in his head, not his own. It crawled from the stones, the thousand upon thousand steps that drifted behind for as far as he could remember. That feeling of stone had become all he knew. The loam of the black hills, and the lowlands before them were not a feeling he could recall, though recall he tried, twisting the heel of his boot on the smooth step, then toe. Not the scrape of sand, not a whisper.

They do not have what you seek.

He was convinced the voice was his own. What did he know of sounds any longer? He could feel, yes. He could see. But hear? Nothing but the constant breath of nothingness.

Your eyes will not bring them to you. Your eyes will not bring you to them.

The voice had a direction now, and that direction was to his left, atop a rise of steps, marked by the tatters of banners with no meaning. His eyes he could trust.

Between the banners, as still as the dead trees, sat something. Someone. It didn’t matter which at this point. Whatever it was, it was the source, a well with a conduit into his mind.

He twisted the sword in his grip, angled his shoulders before finally turning his head instead of peeking from the corners where his helm obstructed most of the horror.

There you are.

A genderless voice. With his gaze upon it, it felt more real. He swore he could see the thing shift in its nest of stone and root.

Many steps you have come. I have felt every footfall, every breath. But this road is not meant for the likes of you. Though you set out with hopes as high as the dreams you shared with her, as high as the mountains that protected you in their warm embrace. As warm as stones can be. And, young one, I know of stone.

Ignore it. Turn your head. Not far to go. Maybe one hundred yards. Maybe less. These were messages from an island, floating in the deepest of waters. Ink. Mud. Mud hiding the bones of the dead.

Forgive me. I should have warned you sooner. I mean you no harm. I am not here to be a burden. I am not here to hinder your journey. Just know that it is over.

His boots were staked to the step at his feet. He glanced down to see the step split with moss, a cushion he didn’t notice before. It hadn’t been there. He was sure of it. Roots would rise from it, roots like the ones that weaved through the thing that would not shut up.

A step. It was all he needed to prove it was wrong.

Try.

He did. Nothing. His legs weren’t his own any longer. Could he feel them? He felt his hands, the shield hanging on his arm, the wrap of the hilt, the weight of the crossguard, the effort of keeping the sword upright, as strong and tall as the doorway burning like a hearth he so desperately needed.

Do not fear what you know already.

He knew he was going to move forward, cross the threshold of this creature, walk proudly across the distance to where he would find Them. The ones who could help him, who could bring back what he had lost. No. Not lost. She existed. In his mind. And that was all that mattered. They were as real as anything. Her touch, her sight, her voice.

Seen the others, had you not? The steps are littered with them. You thought them ornamental? You thought them placed with hands? With purprose?

He would have turned his head if he was able, but it was now as immovable as his legs. Lowering his gaze did nothing but provide the the blurred edge of his cheeks, split by his nose. A tuft of mustache.

The ground felt good though, and he cursed himself for enjoying the pleasure. It was the last thing he could feel. The sense of mass was all else he could perceive. But he reached out for the warmth of the distant portal. It was real. It was close. It was his for the taking. Golden sun, breaching the curtains, disturbing them with a gentle touch before the breeze followed, crawling across the floor, over flattened nails that held floorboards together, smooth with wear. Across the table where meals were had if they were lucky. Through a small crack in a door that was thought to be closed, should have been closed. Up rumpled sheets tucked around hay, to a hand. So pale, fragile. Pink nails biting into palm where the crust of dried blood marked a painful struggle. To a bosom that lay motionless, scaled with the salt of dried sweat. To a face, nested in hair as golden as the light that sought it.

No, young one. Like you. All of them. Your journey took you farther, but it ended all the same. Sleep well.

Damn it, Netflix (Hold the Dark)

By Leave a Comment

Jeffrey Wright in the new film Hold the Dark. Photo credit: Netflix

This should have been perfect. “Dark” is even in the title. It looked atmospheric, with a great cast including Jeffrey Wright and Alexander Skarsgård.

But what made me most excited to see it was that it was directed by Jeremy Saulnier, who brought us two great indie films: Blue Ruin and Green Room.

What happened?

I thought this might be the beginning of something great, like what you did with Maniac. The let’s-create-lots-of-crap-because-the-audience-is-stupid act was over. You were back to the glory days of showing HBO you could do the same, if not better. Well …

What is it?

Hold the Dark is a tale shrouded in grit, gore, cold, and, well, darkness. It’s about … I’ll let the internet provide a concise description:

Summoned to a remote Alaskan village to search for the wolves that killed three children, a wolf expert soon finds himself unravelling a harrowing mystery.

Sounds cool, huh? I thought so, too, and even sat through its two-hour running time because there had to be something there. With that director and that cast? Had to be. I wish there had been.

Why you shouldn’t watch it

The film gives us a thin plot that isn’t all that interesting and plays its cards early and to no real effect. Once we’re given a good enough (albeit confusing) idea of what’s going on, the plot devolves into random acts of violence that seem unfounded and have zero payoff. Which is a shame. The director knows what great films are. The only other two he’s made are great. He put a unique spin on the revenge story with Blue Ruin and created a compelling narrative with a bunch of kids thrown into some weird Nazi rock concert in the woods with Green Room. Character is the heart of any good story. Not visual effects. Not action. Not star power. Saulnier knows this. So, how did he let this happen? Hell, even his good buddy Macon Blair, who starred in Blue ruin–and has a bit part here–penned the thing. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Netflix micromanaged any kind of vision he had. Maybe it was both of these things plus everything else that happens when good ideas turn to shit. I don’t know.

How long will it take?

It maybe took me about an hour to realize I didn’t like this film. I am fine with slow burns, accepting of experimental story structure, and just loved the look of the thing. The midpoint of a story is usually when things flip, shit hits the fan, we learn what everything is really about, and it sucks us in and spits us out just in time for a cathartic ending. I guess that’s why I waited until then. If you hate deliberate pacing or are confused without a title crawl full of exposition, you will most likely stop much sooner.

It can’t be all bad, can it?

Of course not. The acting is solid across the board. The cinematography isn’t amazing, but better than serviceable. You can tell there was care put into almost every element of this film, other than the story. Sometimes I wonder how something can go so far before someone realizes that something feels off, that something isn’t working. Maybe there is a better edit out there that solves all the issues I had. Who knows. The film is based on a novel by the same name. I haven’t read it, but a part of me is curious to see what Netflix saw in it. I’ll let you know if I do. If you want to check it out, you can pick it up on Amazon by clicking the pic.

Check out the trailer.

Were you as let down by this film or do you disagree with me completely? Tell me in the comments below.

Finally, Netflix (Maniac)

By Leave a Comment

You made a show worth watching. There have been a few, like House of Cards and … and …

Is that it?

Now I haven’t watched every Netflix show out there, but I have more fractional-progress bars on TV show thumbnails than could name. Most of them are poorly written/acted/shot/directed/paced, unfortunately. Then they release Maniac, directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga of True Detective (SEASON ONE), Beasts of No Nation, Sin Nombre, fame. It stars half of Jonah Hill (nice work, man!) and Emma Stone, with a great supporting cast including Justin Theroux, Sonoya Mizuno, and Sally Field. It’s currently labeled as a “limited series,” which means there isn’t planned to be subsequent seasons to further dilute and destroy a great accomplishment.

Firstly, Cary Fukunaga is becoming one of my favorite directors. He’s a lot like Alex Garland in that he doesn’t want to revisit anything he does with sequels, but, unlike Garland, he genre hops like crazy. He’s done sci-fi, romance, police procedural, dark drama, to name a few. He’s also heavily involved with the development of the project he’s on, not just a hired gun.

What is it?

Maniac is a bit odd to classify. Set in a near future that feels more like the 80’s injected with futuristic ideas/tech, it’s part science fiction, part comedy, part indie drama, part Tarantino-gore-fest (sorta). However you want to classify it, it’s done damn well. The performances are great across the board. We see Jonah Hill stretch his acting muscles like never before, Justin Theroux become wackier than ever, and Sonoya Mizuno given the chance to finally act, and it’s great!

Spanning ten episodes of oddly-inconsistent duration, the show introduces our two protagonists (Hill and Stone) in their current day to day. Both mentally and emotionally damaged (and broke), they decide to join a pharmaceutical trial for an experimental drug to make some cash. That’s when things get weird. Nearly every episode consists of Hill and Stone in a different setting, playing different characters that are vessels to illustrate and force them to confront their issues. The in-between moments are filled with the antics of the supporting cast, who deal with their own personal problems in the lab, overseeing the whole thing.

Why you should watch it

It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. Genre-bending with a collection of fantastic settings, Maniac is constantly surprising in a myriad of ways. The art direction, the story, the performances. I found myself wanting to see where Fukunaga and crew would take me next. Most important, it creates a compelling arc with two compelling characters at the center of it–and their various iterations. While Hill’s character is mostly comatose, in the real world, and Stone’s is, at times, a facsimile of the sassy/quirky female we’ve seen in various degrees before, we don’t spend much time with them. We’re treated to the multitude of characters they become in their own minds.

How long will it take?

This is something I always ask myself when delving into show or movie I haven’t seen. Will I be grabbed by the first scene? The first episode? I was hooked by the first episode even though we don’t get into the heart of the story until episode three (episode one introduces us to Hill’s character, and episode two introduces us to Stone’s). If your interest wasn’t as piqued as mine after the first episode, give it three before you give up, but I hope you don’t. It’s worth it. I promise.

It can’t be all great, can it?

Nothing is perfect. It’s not a fast-paced show in the least, but I don’t think it needs to be. Its pacing reflects the psyches of the protagonists. There are episodes of break-neck action, but also episodes of deliberate and meditative quality. It feels more like an 8+ hour movie than something that was designed to be purely episodic in nature with meticulously orchestrated structure. And that’s okay. Each episode has something to like, something to pull you further in. It’s worth the ride. It also has a great single-take action sequence toward the end, and I’m not talking the bullshit-faked-with-pans-to-black one in the first season of Daredevil. Don’t even get me started on the Marvel stuff.

The trailer is a bit misleading, but here it is anyway.

If you’ve seen and enjoyed it or hated it, please let me know in the comments.

Free?!

By Leave a Comment

  • Spend a few years writing a novel: CHECK
  • Spend over a grand on editing: CHECK
  • Write in a genre no one reads: CHECK
  • Luck out and get a free cover from a great designer: CHECK
  • Give it away for free: CHECK

I know. I’m crazy. Or stupid. Or both. Here’s the reality: There’s a hell of a lot of books out there, most of which are genre fiction, most of which sell a lot better than books like The Field, which is considered Literary Fiction (sorry for all the “whiches”). So why even bother writing it, you ask? A few reasons.

Practice Makes Progress (It’s not PERFECT anymore, my daughter constantly reminds me)

The Field is my first novel. I’ve dabbled–unfinished “books,” short stories, sketches of things that never came to be, but I’ve never written a complete novel. Side note: For those of you thinking about writing a novel, PLEASE start with the short stuff first. There is so much worth and catharsis in finishing something, and the shorter it is, the more likely you are to FINISH.

Anyway, I decided to dive right in with a 100k+ novel–whittled down to a little over 93k words after publication. I won’t get into the details of the why of things, just that I decided to do it, and I was going to finish it. I learned so much during the process. After a year of leaving my 50k-at-the-time manuscript to stagnate on my hard drive, I read it. Man, it was crap. I had some work to do. So I picked up some books on writing, ones of particular note being Stein on Writing and Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.

I’ve read them numerous times since and always pick up something new. After going through draft after draft, I hired an editor. I learned even more things, namely how much I sucked. After two rounds of that and another round of proofreading, I published.

The point here is that I was forced to do a lot of work, which forced me to learn a lot. I’m a better writer for it, and I continue to voraciously read both fiction and craft books because no one is ever done learning. Although I recommend not starting with a full-length novel if you haven’t written anything yet, I can’t say I’d do it any differently.

Reviews

If it’s free, thousands of people will read it, love it, and rush to Amazon to write reviews, right? That was my thinking. At the time of this writing, The Field has been downloaded nearly one thousand times. I know, it’s not much in the grand scheme of publishing, but it was something, and that something should yield at least a handful of reviews, right?

Well, not really. It’s worth one review, in my case. You can read about it here. But the novel still has around a dozen downloads a month with no advertising whatsoever. I’m sure I’ll get another one any day now … any day now.

People Will Read It

As mentioned, people still download it. Read it? I’m not sure, but that’s the idea. If I eliminated any entry cost, people would be more likely to download it and maybe read it. I know it’s out there on Kindles and other e-readers, just waiting to be read. Maybe someday they’ll get around to it.

Not Free Forever

I don’t plan on keeping The Field free forever. Once I release a few more titles, I’ll charge for it. Right now, since it’s all I’ve got, I’d rather keep the barriers absent. If you haven’t picked up a copy, you better do it now. I’m about done with a draft of something else.

 

That’s all for now. If you have any questions or suggestions, please comment below.