What Are The Fan Theories About 'Carry On'?

I still get a little thrill whenever I come across an old gemstone or talisman stamped with that strange, squat name — Abraxas. The figure itself, historically shown with a rooster's head, a human torso, serpentine legs and a whip-and-shield motif, feels like someone sketched a whole myth into a single image. In modern occult circles that compact weirdness is read as a kind of visual shorthand for totality: Abraxas unites animal instinct, human consciousness, and chthonic force. Its Greek-letter numeric value adding up to 365 is often pointed to as symbolic of a full year or the circle of time, which makes it an attractive emblem for people thinking about cycles, fate, or a cosmology that refuses tidy binaries. People in occult communities treat Abraxas in several overlapping ways. Some lean into Jungian readings — citing ideas from 'The Red Book' — where Abraxas functions as an archetype that contains both light and dark, forcing integration rather than scapegoating. Others approach it pragmatically: as a working name in ritual, a sigil for shadow-work, or a talisman that represents liberation from strict moral dualities. I've seen it on necklaces, on sketchbook covers, and as a tattoo on friends who wanted a constant reminder to reconcile their contradictions. For me, the modern symbolism is less about worship and more about invitation: an invitation to hold complexity, to accept the ugly and the luminous as parts of one map, and to remember that synthesis can be magnetic, dissonant, and strangely comforting all at once.

Lately I've noticed that Sikandar Cash and Carry treats returns the way a lot of big wholesale outlets do: practical and paperwork-friendly. If an item is faulty or damaged, they tend to want to see the original invoice and the product in the same condition (including packaging) so they can log it back into stock. For perishables there's usually a tighter rule — many stores like this will only take back expired or obviously spoiled goods and they tend to want the issue reported right away. From my experience, exchanges are often the easiest route — they swap like-for-like on the spot if the replacement is in stock. For refunds they typically follow the original payment method: cash refunds at the counter if you paid cash, or a reversal to the card used, which can take a few business days. For bulk or business orders there's sometimes an approvals step with a manager and a slightly longer processing time. Overall, bring your invoice, keep packaging, take photos of damage before you leave, and be ready for a quick inspection — that approach has saved me a headache more than once.

I totally get wanting to read 'Call Us What We Carry' without breaking the bank! From what I've seen, it's tricky to find the full book legally for free online since it's a newer release by Amanda Gorman. Some sites might offer snippets or previews—like Amazon's 'Look Inside' feature or Google Books—but the complete work usually requires purchase. Public libraries often have digital copies through apps like Libby or OverDrive, though, so that’s a great free option if you don’t mind waiting. Honestly, as much as I love free reads, supporting poets like Gorman feels important too. Her work in 'Call Us What We Carry' is so layered and timely; it’s worth savoring a physical or legal digital copy. I borrowed it from my local library first, then ended up buying it because I wanted to annotate my favorite passages. Maybe check if your library has it!

If 'Take What You Can Carry' resonated with you, you might find 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak equally gripping. Both novels explore themes of survival, resilience, and the moral complexities of theft in times of crisis. 'The Book Thief' is set in Nazi Germany and follows a young girl who steals books to preserve stories and knowledge, much like the protagonist in 'Take What You Can Carry' who grapples with the ethics of stealing to survive. The lyrical prose and emotional depth in both books create a hauntingly beautiful reading experience. Another recommendation is 'All the Light We Cannot See' by Anthony Doerr. This Pulitzer Prize-winning novel intertwines the lives of a blind French girl and a German boy during WWII, highlighting how people navigate loss and desperation. The meticulous attention to detail and the way Doerr captures the fragility of human connections remind me of the nuanced storytelling in 'Take What You Can Carry'. Both books leave you pondering the weight of small actions in large-scale tragedies.

If you peek at the tags and warnings most folks paste under fanfiction links, you'll probably see 'Mature' or 'Explicit' next to 'THE ALPHA'S NANNY.' and that’s not an accident. I view it as an 18+ read: explicit sexual content, strong language, and adult themes like intense romantic power dynamics and caregiving boundaries are central to the plot. On many platforms the content warning boxes will flag sexual scenes and adult situations, so the rating is less a numeric code and more a clear adult-only label. I break it down to what actually matters to someone deciding whether to read: if you’re uncomfortable with vivid sex scenes, blunt language, or stories that lean heavily into dominant/submissive tension, this isn’t for younger teens. If you’re into spicy romance with emotional ups and downs, it lands squarely in the mature romance category for me — enjoy it if you’re over 18 and okay with explicit content. I found it messy and oddly satisfying in places, and it definitely isn’t bedtime reading for my younger cousins.

Creepy as it sounds, I once watched a lone rat skitter across a flooded alley and couldn’t help wondering what it might carry with it. Rats can technically carry rabies, but in practice it's extremely rare. Their small bodies often don't survive long enough for rabies to progress to the infectious stage, so documented cases are few. That said, that doesn't mean they're harmless — sewer rats are vectors for a bunch of other nasty things. Leptospirosis is a big one: it's caused by bacteria in rat urine and can get into broken skin or mucous membranes, and it can lead to fever, liver and kidney issues. Rat-bite fever (usually Streptobacillus or Spirillum) is another risk if you get bitten or scratched. Rats also carry fleas and ticks that can spread things indirectly, and historically rats were central to plague transmission via fleas, though that's now rare in most urban areas. Beyond those, rats can harbor Salmonella, various parasites, and in certain regions even hantaviruses — for example, the 'Seoul virus' is associated with rats and can cause serious illness. Practical stuff I follow: never touch a rat, avoid standing water in sewers, keep pets away, and make sure any bite or scratch is washed immediately and medically evaluated. If a rat ever nicks you, I’d go to urgent care — antibiotics are often needed for rat-bite fever and tetanus shots are checked. All in all, rabies is unlikely from a sewer rat, but there are plenty of other reasons to treat them with caution. I still shiver thinking about that night in the alley, but knowledge helps me sleep better.

Severian's sword in 'The Book of the New Sun' isn't just a weapon—it's a symbol of his identity and burden. As a member of the Torturers' Guild, the sword called Terminus Est represents his duty and the inevitability of death. But it’s more than that; it’s almost a character in itself, with its own history and weight. The way he carries it feels like he’s dragging his past with him, a constant reminder of who he is and the path he can’t escape. What fascinates me is how the sword evolves with Severian. Early on, it’s a tool of his trade, cold and unfeeling. But as he journeys through Urth, it becomes something else—a companion, a relic, even a paradox. The blade’s name, 'Terminus Est,' hints at endings, yet Severian’s story is about rebirth. It’s like Gene Wolfe embedded this duality in the weapon itself, sharp enough to cut through the layers of the narrative.

In 'Bud, Not Buddy', Bud's suitcase is more than just luggage—it's his lifeline and a tangible connection to his past. After losing his mother, the suitcase holds her few remaining possessions: flyers of Herman E. Calloway’s band, rocks she collected, and other small treasures. These items symbolize his hope and determination to find his father, whom he believes is Calloway. The suitcase also represents his independence. Despite being a kid navigating the Great Depression, Bud refuses to let go of these fragments of identity, carrying them as proof he belongs somewhere. Beyond sentiment, the suitcase is practical. It carries everything he owns—clothes, a blanket, even a makeshift weapon for survival. Bud’s journey is brutal—orphanages, Hoovervilles, and constant hunger—but the suitcase anchors him. It’s his mobile home, a reminder that even when adults fail him, he can rely on himself. The way he protects it (sleeping with it, hiding it) shows how fiercely he clings to the idea of family, even before he truly finds one.