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Flash: Forget Kindness

Erin Penn

Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash (color adjusted by Erin Penn)

The pastoral setting, complete with sheep and cattle munching the summer grass on the rolling hills in between small wooded areas was completed by children running and tumbling over each other like a pack of puppies, laughing. In the distance, a wall city, no doubt home to the boys stood sentry over their play though they have ranged far from their home.

Between the range and the hills, no bow shot would save them from the two pale ghosts watching them from the forest’s abrupt edge when the pastures and fields ended and the wild woods began. The parents of the children, nobles and commoners both judging by the clothing, did not yet need the woods for their fires and the land for their animals. But later, in the fall, more would be cut back. In the meantime, the forest and its guardians watched.

The watchers’ eyes danced over the double handful of children so far from the safety of the walled city, howling like a pack of wolves, chasing one boy slightly ahead of the rest. The couple was not pleased to see a pack hunting in their territory.

The lead boy was dirtier than the pack members and younger than most of his pursuers. His rough-spun clothes had a slightly different cut indicating maybe one of the lesser religions or an immigrant child, the watchers weren’t familiar with the intricate strata of the city-born but could pick out an outsider easily. After all, those are the best prey as this pack had discovered.

All kinds of boys chased, with clothing from fine to sturdy. In the middle ran a tireless child with long silken hair flowing behind him, the pure white a beacon among the humans. Silks and jeweled colors as well as location in the pack indicate his status. Also among the pack were two golden-tressed children, with hair not quite as inhumanly straight as the pure-bred elf, their skin not as pale and lacking the inner glow of natural magik. Their clothing not quite as fine. One ran toward the front of the group, nearly too old to be part of this hunt, his longer strides leading the way. The other lagged in the back egging on the others, yellow eyes wild with the pleasure of pursuit.

The watchers also had white hair and untannable skin, their slanted yellow eyes noting the three pack members related to their race. All of them were older than the watchers by several years.

The elder of the two asked, “Shall we intervene sister?”

“Yes, let’s,” she answered, lifting the camouflage cloak’s hood over the leaves mingling with her braids. Together they moved quietly, invisibly, using their magiks to dampen their natural glow, appearing little more than branches moving in the wind with an occasional flash of white sunlight dappling the green and brown.

The hounds had ran down the fox and encircled the defeated bloody boy. Several pack members threw small stones with practiced accuracy. Other closed to kick and punch. The mob roared insults as damaging as their fists, laughing as both hit and wounded. They hid their actions in the shadows of the trees out of sight of the city.

Suddenly among them appeared the watchers, now actors.

“Go away.” The noble elf, sneered at his younger woodland cousins. “This has nothing to do with the likes of you. Return to your trees.”

“No.” The woodland-raised boy responded without inflection. He raised his hand, his cloak and linen shirt falling back along his pale arm. Dropping the glamour hiding his glow, the hand flared, freezing the tormentors in place.

He looked at the beaten boy shivering in the center of the lot, unfurling from his fetal position to find out why the kicking had stopped. The youngster held his ribs on the left side. Seeing the two wood elves and his frozen harassers, he scuttled back as best he could until he bumped up against one of the pack. His eyes darted between the blond noble spawn and the barbaric wizard, clearly trying to figure out which was the biggest threat.

The male wood elf, just two years older than the prey, made the decision easier. He showed his teeth, the pointed canines of a meat eater. “Run while you can.”

The lad scrambled, stood, and ran further into the woods, as though those would provide safety from what he left behind.

When the crashing sounds of the panicked animal faded, the wood elf turned his attention to the crowd he held motionless. “Now for those who would hunt in our woods–”

“No brother, let me. I’ve never had a kill.” His younger sister interrupted, her lilting soft voice carrying like a hawk screech through the company.

Her brother shuddered but pulled back the death magik he had been preparing. His sister was stronger and far more dangerous than him, but not yet come fully into her own. Of the two, she would be ruler and he follower. Up until now he had mentored her, but today, it seemed, would be the day she would come into her own.

First blood.

The enemies which chased them aged her quicker than they knew; they would come to regret that when the pair returned to home and reclaimed their birthrights.

“Cover our tracks,” she ordered without a second thought, already the leader. He bowed his head to her will and slipped off as she raised her hand and took over the spell holding the youths as though she cast it herself.

The dethroned elf queen, not yet eight, but the bloodline of dozen queens from Under-the-Hill ran through her veins, walked among the human and the elven children. Offspring of those who had forsaken the traditions. Even the purebred elf, son of the city’s sovereign and half-way through his studies could not displace the magik holding him. Her will held them all.

“You are killers like us. I can see,” her eyes raked like claws over them, “two spirits clinging to you. Their blood never leaving where it had been spilled, biding their time. It has now arrived.”

The second son of the local king and his courtier sycophants struggled harder, sweat beading on their brows. She released the tightness of the bonds so their struggle would be visible to the others. The rest of the pack’s eyes grew white with fear when they realized not even the most powerful among them could escape what was to come.

“The tongue torments, the body attacks, and the fist and feet deliver pain, so it was done to others. So shall it be returned in full to each involved. Let those who suffered pay back the torments, attacks, and pain.” The young girls’ words growled like angry bear and screamed like an eagle half a second before and after her spoken sounds. At the end of the spell, she slashed her hand down releasing the pack from stasis.

Pain and fear dropped them to their knees.

“For your age, a kindness. Not everyone will dies here.” She smiled with her canines showing as the screams started. “Only if you killed, you will die.”

“No, no, I’ve never killed anyone.” The noble with the blond hair who ran in the back of the group twisted in pain, begging.

She glided to where he lay. “Then you are the worst coward of the pack. Killing by using others.” Bruises started forming on his lightly tanned skin, and his screams start in earnest. “If your pack spirit has delivered pain, your fist and tongue remember and so shall it be done.”

She inhaled deeply, then sealed the spell so none could stop it. “By my will.”

The screams ripped the throats of the boys into shreds. None would ever speak again if they managed to survive.

Only one child did not scream, but he stared. How he stared.

The soon-to-be baptized killer slipped among the rolling bodies like a lady at a ball swishing through a crowd. She stood beside the six-year old when he managed to whisper, “What’s happening?”

She glanced down at where he sat, trembling – a year and an eternity stood between them in age. Within her the queens woke, their spirits clinging to their blood centuries after their death. “You should choose your companions more wisely. Today you would have been a killer. Instead a spirit of retribution stole out of the woods; that is all you will remember.”

She touched his forehead. “Now run, and no one but you will ever know you were here.”

The boy ran and ran. Through the gates and to his guildman father’s home to hide in the workroom the rest of the day, week, month, and year. He never left the city walls again.

***

The prey stopped running, listening to the faroff screams. Lost, gulping air against an ancient oak, tears streaming through the blood marring his face.

Behind him a silent ghost stepped out of the shadow and touches his shoulder. The glow of magik flowed over the hand into the boy’s body healing and into his mind to hide the actions of two children who would not be found yet. “Run home child, the woods kept you safe today. Forget its kindness because it may not happen ever again.”

(words 1550; first published 3/29/2020)

Other Cool Blogs: B&N Reads 5/2/2017

Erin Penn

Photo by Nick Rickert on Unsplash

Liquor in Literary

Many characters in books, especially urban fantasy, spend a lot of time in bars. Fantasy characters gather at the pub. Science fiction characters trade exotic liquors, or figure out how to moonshine with extra parts from the ship’s engine. One of the stock mystery characters is the noir detective who never climbs out of the bottle until it is empty. 

Ms. Sarah Gailey wrote an article from Barnes & Noble Reads focusing on Hagrid’s drinking problem in the Harry Potter series. 

Substance abuse, impacting nearly 1/3 of all Americans and even higher in some demographics, is mirrored from reality to literary works where many people problem-solve by creating a thought experiment. What would have happened if someone confronted X sooner? What hints did they give which their friends should have seen?

Have you ever created a character with a substance abuse problem? Did you mean to create the character with a drinking problem or did it evolve? What has driven them to their issue?

Hagrid’s backstory gives insight to why he might need to self-medicate his depression through numbness. Ms. Gailey breaks down a character study for him. Found out more at – The Literary Art of Drunken Secret-Telling by Sarah Gailey (May 2, 2017 at 1:00 pm): (UPDATE: Link broken as of 10/16/2023 – so 6 years later)

Do you think too much drinking is shown in TV, Movies, and Books, or too little, or does it appropriately match rates in reality? Comment below about drinking and/or substance abuse in your present WIP, present read, or present video series binge.

Writing Exercise: Power of POV Part 1

Erin Penn

Image from the Clue Game

The world is a little crazy right now, so I thought a longer writing exercise might be nice as a distraction.

The Point of View (POV) of a narrative has a couple major considerations.

First, what style do you want?

The intimacy of first person (maybe switching the first person between two characters). This style is popular with superheroes, detective stories, young adult (YA), and romances. I’ve seen the switching between heads of the hero and villain and the two romantic leads. Both one head and two can be effective. This format is important when exploring the feelings of individuals (romances) and when exploring the thought process of a person (detective stories). Young adult stories tend to have at least one of the plots focus on coming-of-age and the emotional growth of the focus character.

Second person, used very rarely and seems to be best used in horror stories when does rear its psycho head.

Close third person, which steps away from exploring emotion and thoughts of an individual focus the camera on one person. It lacks a touch of immediacy that the first person has, but allows the character to hide information from the readers. Even so, the journey is step-in-step with the main character so emotional bonds between the reader and the character emerge during the reading.

Multi-person third person is popular with epic fantasy and space opera, to capture the sprawling political action. It’s nearly required for the disaster genre, so characters may be killed without the story stopping. For disaster and war genres to be most effective, there needs to be a chance of some of the POV characters dying. Without the risk, they lose steam and multiple POVs allow for characters the reader is invested in to die.

Omnipresent third person has not been popular in recent times. Back when travel wasn’t easy, a wide camera was used to bring the world home to people. Now-a-days people no long live on top of each other and are more interested in why people do things than where the things happen. A more personal viewpoint is wanted. Even so, omnipresent still is used often in news reporting and professional writing, where the thing being reported is more important than the person reporting it.

Second, which character should be doing the reporting?

For a romance, the POV character is also the person falling in love. This is because the romance genre is about exploring the feelings. It’s why the reader is reading the genre, for the serotonin hit, a wonderful lift to an emotional state.

In YA, the POV character is the one going through the emotional journey.

But in both romance and YA, I have seen them done as close third-person where the best friend is observing. These variations tend to be mash-ups when a lot of humor or a lot of horror thrown into the romance. Another “break the rules” in POV is when the detective of the mystery is too outside the norm for people to really identify with them. Cozy mysteries with their little old ladies or other every-day-joe-joanne thrive in first person. But procedurals with specialized experts or Sherlock Holmes, authors often use a secondary observer, like Dr. Watson, who are a little more human, a little more emotionally involved, to pull a reader in.

In close third-person, do you want an actor or an observer to be the focus of the camera? For the wide-range third-person, which of many characters should be the main POVs and which might need one chapter? Do you want the general, his aide, or a private reporting the matters in a room? Should a Star Fleet Captain or the person crawling in the tubes talk about the battle? When in court, should a noble or a servant be more effective in describing the action and the story to the reader?

POV is important. The person telling the story changes the story. The private might talk about the loss of his buddy where the general may rage about losing the war. Which is more important to the plot? Which becomes the plot?

WRITING EXERCISE: Today is an exploration of multi-viewpoint, third-person. Write a scene with three POV characters – with at least two different genders, two different age brackets, and two different social stratus involved. (Example two men and one women, one child and two adults, one servant and two upper class.) The scene should be at least two hundred words and no more than three thousand.

This writing exercise is the first part in a four-part series on POV. More next month.

***

My Attempt

Flash Title: In the Billard Room with the Lead Pipe

Slamming open the heavy wooden carved doors, Colonel Mustard barged into the lounge where Miss Scarlet and Mrs. White played a game of checkers. “Mrs. White, I’m surprised to find you here.” Accusation shot from his voice.

“Whatever for, sir? Dinner is not needing plating for another hour and the young miss needed a distraction after changing from her horseback lessons with Mr. Green.” Wendy said, looking up from the game. The fifteen year old she was playing against had managed to collect another king, so any distraction, even from the stuck up solider, was a welcome one. And maybe he would take over, since, as much as she liked the girl, Wendy had many other duties with a house full of guests and keeping young ones out of mischief was low on the list. Miss Scarlet’s father barely paid attention to her, and the child already escaped her tutor for a number of escapades several times this week, much to the horror and amusement of the rest of the participants of Lord Boddy’s house party and it wasn’t even Thursday. Yesterday’s transgression ended up ruining the teen’s dinner gown, making her tutor, Mrs. Peacock, burst into tears and retire to her room with a headache, and tied up the staff for hours with special requests to help her recover. “What do you be needing me to do, sir?”

The colonel growled, taking a few more steps into the lounge, “I need you to–”

He stopped speaking when Professor Plum put a hand on his shoulder. Now that was a right one, that one, if a bit on the spooky side. If only he paid more attention to Miss Scarlet. He said he taught at University, but none of the staff had heard where and his daughter laughed when asked, saying they were on sabbatical again. It seemed like he was one of Lord Boddy’s friends from Those Days, the ones the veteran staff never talk about but give each other lingering looks before changing the topic.

The whole lot at the party seemed to be from Those Days. Reverend Green made her skin crawl, even though his son was a delight. Colonel Mustard, rumored had, wasn’t allowed out of the country for the secrets still locked in his head. Sir Black ran a little young for the crowd, but his wife, Dr. Orchid exchanged barbs with the Colonel at every meal. Everyone exchanged barbs with the prickly Colonel, though Dr. Orchid and Prince Azure particularly delighted in it while the Colonel’s wife had drunk herself under the table each night and needed to be poured into bed.

“Now, Martin. Caution is warranted.”

The blustery military man deflated. “But Plum, we must–”

“Wait on the arrival of the police.” Professor Plum’s voice held a cold edge, like a knife freshly pulled out of the snow. “Detective Silver is in route as we speak.”

“Police?” Wendy’s voice squeaked. “Now why would be needing them, and a detective at that.”

“There has been an accident.” Professor Plum eyes slid over the two females, carefully avoiding contact, giving Wendy the impression of heavy mist on the countryside hiding everything.

The Colonel snorted. “If running face first into a lead pipe several times in the billard room could be an accident.”

***

Peter gritted his teeth as the two women screeched. Marty had the subtly of a drunken sailor on shore leave. Having the police investigating this particular group of people will be bad enough, adding hysterics to the proceedings will only make matters worse. He never should have come, even it if had been one last chance of the group getting together. Once Adam’s father passed later this year from the cancer he had been fighting for four years, Prince Azure will become King Azure. Even though he had custody of his daughter for the summer and usually stayed in the states, for Adam, he came to this small house party, a gathering of people whom managed to delay a world war long enough for it to fade into a forgotten nightmare.

The nightmare seemed to be back, with the body of Lord Boddy, the host of the party, dead in his own Billard’s Room. Twenty blows with a lead pipe left behind at the scene of the crime.

Pity the killer hadn’t used poison. Then Peter could have claimed the death and gotten the not-inconsiderable outstanding bounty on his old friend. No one would believe that Professor Plum would use anything as gauche as lead pipe. He already texted his ex to see if anyone was directing the bounty to a Swiss account. Knowing how professional the killer was would narrow the field.

Leaving the Colonel in the doorway, the old spy crossed the deep green carpet to the table with the marble inset checkerboard. Pulling up the appearance of compassion and assurance took little effort after years of practice as he bent down in a crouch, putting a hand on both the women’s knees. “I’m sure Marty,” he chose to use the nickname deliberately knowing how much the Colonel hated having his name shortened, but Peter was miffed, “didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. White, please go and help Monsieur Brunette finish the meal preparations. Detective Silver will be here with Officer Peach in about an hour. We should eat before they get here, otherwise we will be very hungry by the time they finish with all our statements.”

“But, sir, a murder, a body, how can we possibly eat, how can I–”

Peter squeezed her knee through the thick fabric of her uniform, hoping not to have to strike the woman across the face to get her hysterics under control. All they needed is more questions. “Madam, Mrs. White, please. The children.” He nodded towards his daughter whose eyes were as wide as dinner plates seeing an adult fall apart, and ready to fall down the cliff after her as adolescents are want to do.

Being British took over the housemaid, bless her stiff-upper lip control. “Of course, sir. The children will need feeding.” She stood, wobbling a little and knocking the checkerboard table, scattering several pieces, before hurrying out of the room past Colonel Mustard.

“Father, is it …” His daughter gulped, “is it really murder? Right here, in this house?”

Peter knew how broken he was from his actions during the not-war. He could offer is daughter little that a human needs, but he made a promise to offer himself and her one thing without hesitation. The truth in all things. “Yes. It has to be murder.”

And not of passion. Those blows were too precise, though maybe the police might not notice under the sheer number of them. A murder of passion could be framed on one of the servants. An investigation into the motives of a premeditated murder would open too many boxes that needed to stay close among the clique attending the party.

“Come, let’s clean up the game, then wash up for the meal.”

***

Martin stormed out of the room after Plum cut him off and embarrassed him. The Professor was far too full of himself because of all his learning and travels. While he had to stay close to home because of secrets and codes he had memorized, Plum merrily transferred from university to university teaching exotic math classes of the very codes Martin had memorized so diligently. He punch the delicate yellow silk wall covering, gently, so he wouldn’t break his hand again. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as punching through plasterboard, but most rooms in Boddy’s Cluedo manor were solid through and through, able to stand through the centuries.

He growled at his wife as he passed her, telling her he was going to change for dinner. As normal, putting on his uniform calmed him and when the butler, Wadsworth, came by to announce dinner he was fit for company again so long as Orchid kept her trap shut. She wouldn’t and he couldn’t use his old method for keeping her under control, not since she married Black in a weird transformation of giggles and pinks. When they were together, it had been whips and handcuffs.

He missed that. And carefully gather the thought up and locked it into its closet in the backmost part of his mind. His wife had not responded well the two times he attempted something beyond vanilla with her. Divorcing her at this late date wasn’t an option; everything they owned was still in her name even after fifty years of marriage.

Marching down to the main floor across the great hall into the dining room, he arrived to find insanity unleashed and his wife passed out on the floor with an empty bottle beside her.

(words 1,464; first published 3/24/2020)

Flash: Red Knife

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The knife in his hand dripped blood. Not his. Never his. He leaned against the wall heaving for breath after a hard run. A run he didn’t remember. He turned his head listening for pursuit.

Whatever did this. Did this to others, to him. Had kept him safe so far. Bin doubted this will always be the case. Five times since he turned sixteen he found himself in a new place, a new city, weeks passed unexplained. Bloody knife in his hand.

A dead woman appearing in the news the next day from stab wounds. Important women. Rich women. With even more important husbands or fathers. Women he had never met. Never knew. He had learned each of their names since.

Seo-yeon, Ji-yoo, Min-seo, Da-eun, and Chae-won.

He had traced them on the internet. Their too short lives.

Bin wanted to scream for help.

None would come. No help for him.

Maybe for the next person. His next victim. If it was his victim. Or was he her victim? Her unwitting killer.

Six times now. He could stop it at six. The last victim, never have the next victim. Learn the new name, the one whose blood is on the knife, and stop it at six.

He bent down and washed the knife in a puddle. It had rained here last night.

Checking himself for blood, some covered his hand, run down from the knife, some sprayed across his shirt long enough ago to turn from bright red to brown. New clothes would be required to go much further.

Bin set the knife to the side and checked his pockets. A ticket for a train leaving in four hours, a cardkey for a hotel. Based on experience, it would be nearby. He crept to the edge of the alley and looked up and down the street. A glowing neon sign, one of many in the mist of the early morning, matched the name. He picked up the death knife and made for the shelter whatever drove him had arranged.

In the room, a new set of clothes laid on the bed. An empty beat-up suitcase sat beside the bed.

Bin wrapped the knife in his bloody shirt and the bloody shirt in the clean pants before taking a shower. Red ran down the drain for a few moments before coming completely clean.

While dressing, he flipped on the television. In seconds, he had his new name Sa-rang. Wife to a city councilman in Baltimore; he had recently tossed a hat in to run for State Senator. Sa-rang didn’t have any children; mercifully, none of the women did.

They switched to the weather and the date showed. Four months, the longest time so far. He had missed his birthday. Thirty-six years old last month.

He shrugged into the hoodie and pulled the suitcase behind him, exiting the hotel room. At the desk, he turned over the card-key. The clerk reminded him he qualified for the hot breakfast.

Not knowing where the next meal would come from, he took advantage of the food and ate his fill. The train wouldn’t leave for another three hours. After eating, he checked at the desk to see if they had a courtesy bus to the station. They did.

The train took about four hours, including an engine switch in Philadelphia before reaching Palisades Park in New Jersey. Home sweet home.

All he had to do was find a place to lay his head.

That would take money.

Bin walked the four miles to the bank, leaving each piece of questionable clothing in bits along the way, the knife already disposed of in Philadelphia. Only the suitcase remained when he went into the bank.

He waved at his normal bank agent and sat down to wait out the lunch crowd.

“Mr. Jung, how are you doing?” Karen asked after she cleared those waiting. “Need to get into your box again?”

“Yes ma’am.” He stood and followed her, pulling the suitcase. Before entering the vault, she confirmed his identity with the passwords they had set up. He never awoke from his fugue state with any identification. The hotel room had a false ID which got him home, usually on a train, but as identity checks have tightened, the last two trips had been on a bus.

Signing out the box, he saw that he had last opened it on April twentieth, the last day he remembered. Inside the box was his wallet and all his identification like normal. With that in hand, he went to the cashier to find out how much money had appeared in his account this time.

Just the standard $150,000.

Da-eun had been a quarter million, but she had lived in Los Angles, on the other side of the US.

He transferred enough onto his debit card to cover rooms at a flea hotel which charged by the week and some food. No point in getting a real apartment. It will be years before he lost time again, maybe, but it would happen.

He was too weak to confess. Bin knew he couldn’t fight it. He would wake up again with a red knife and a seventh name to learn.

(words 867; first published 3/22/2020)

Geeking Science: Fashion Meets the Surveillance Age

Erin Penn

From the Reflectacles Kickstarter

So after writing the Dark Web Trope Editing Rant in September, my paranoia is running higher. Just a little.

Did you know that there is a whole Fashion subset to avoid the surveillance cameras everywhere?

Here are some Fashion Statements to say something about the person wearing them, either tin-hat-paranoia or they-really-are-out-to-get-you. The accessories could make for some exciting additions to a near future sci-fi or a contemporary thriller.

  1. Makeup and Hair – Asymmetrical is the key. Bright splotches of color hair. Cover or obscure the eye with spikes and decorations. Squares with high differentiation of coloring – black and white. Jewels applied randomly to the face, especially the nose and cheekbones. Gorgeous and disturbing to a species hard-programmed for symmetry. The machines also freak out a little. (See cvdazzle for examples.)
  2. Pattern Recognition Disruption Scarfs – Put on a lacy scarf with dots or mini-faces. For example, the HyperFace scarf has 1,200 facial shapes to blow the surveillance camera software to bits.
  3. Health masks – Those face masks people are wearing to prevent transmission of disease. They may be keeping other transmissions and invasions at bay. Popular among protesters around the world, especially when holding a gathering near suppressive government buildings.
  4. RFID Blocking Wallets – With the credit cards being RFID chipped now, pick up a wallet to keep someone from reading accessing the credit just by talking down the street beside you.
  5. Metallic Fabric Jackets (with or without hoodies) – But the RFID and microchips go beyond just the wallet, dogs are chipped, medical history may be on chips soon, and some medical machines already are microchipped and can be programmed for injections. Pick up a metallic jacket to keep criminals from scanning the microchips … or reprogramming them.
  6. IR Privacy Eyewear – Full infrared (IR) protection on the sunglasses prevent surveillance cameras from getting eyeshape, one of the most important aspects of facial recognition. A bonus is manufacturing the frames to be extra reflective – this makes the wearer more visible at night when crossing the street while also completely screwing with the camera’s ability to see the person’s face.
  7. Antiflash Clothing – Prismatic metallic ink which interferes when paparazzi beat on a celebrity with flashbulbs. Suddenly their greatest tool of humiliation destroys the very picture they are trying to take. Also great for those days when a politician, or ordinary citizens caught up in a mess, takes a walk of shame before proof of innocence or guilt is established. Also useful for the next company party with the open bar; no pictures, no proof.
  8. Infrared Ballcaps – The brim of the cap shines an IR light on the face, making it too bright for surveillance cameras to see. Perfect for those late night run to Walmart, and you don’t want to get dolled up in an anti-surveillance fashion statement.

Bibliography

Bacchi, Umberto and Suliman, Adela. “Face masks to decoy t-shirts: The rise of anti-surveillance fashion”. Reuters. 2019 September 26. https://www.reuters.com/article/us-britain-tech-fashion-feature/face-masks-to-decoy-t-shirts-the-rise-of-anti-surveillance-fashion-idUSKBN1WB0HT – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

CV Dazzle. “Camouflage from face detection.” cvdazzle. 2017 August 22. https://cvdazzle.com/ – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

Dobush, Grace. “Privacy by design: How fashion combats surveillance”. The Christian Science Monitor. 2017 January 27. https://www.csmonitor.com/World/Passcode/Security-culture/2017/0127/Privacy-by-design-How-fashion-combats-surveillance – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

Hern, Alex. “The fashion line designed to trick surveillance cameras”. 2019 August 14. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/aug/13/the-fashion-line-designed-to-trick-surveillance-cameras – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

Hu, Jane C. “When Will TJ Maxx Sell Anti-Surveillance Fashion?” Slate. 2019 August 15. https://slate.com/technology/2019/08/facial-recognition-surveillance-fashion-hong-kong.html – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

Jacobs, Bel. “How what you wear can help you avoid surveillance.” BBC. 2017 March 20. https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20170320-how-what-you-wear-can-help-you-avoid-surveillance – Last viewed 11/13/2019.

Reflectables. “IRpair & Phantom – Privacy Eyewear.” Kickstarter. 2019 November. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/reflectacles/irpair-and-phantom-privacy-eyewear – Last viewed 11/13/2019.