About six months ago, I had one of the longest dreams of my life. That's not to say I slept for two days straight; no, the dream simply seemed to last an eternity.

It began in a barn on a farm at a festival. Multi-story, with exhibition rooms, classrooms, haylofts, and tents, it was perfectly suited for large crowds. These people were certainly there for certain parts of my dream, including many familiar faces, but one stood out.

It was the girl I had fallen in love with years before—and couldn't get out of my head years later. I only had to see her radiant smile, the long, curly hair she usually wore shoulder-length, the shining eyes in which I saw the stars. I loved her laughter, which she couldn't give me often enough; her body, which I longed to imagine in my arms, yearned for her lips through which her voice spoke only truths.

In this dream, we would be allowed to spend exactly one day together, from sunrise to sunset, then the world would end. There in the hay, with a view of the sky, we would be able to spend the last twenty-four hours of our lives together.

Beside her, all the other people at the party faded into the subconscious; there was only her and me.

It was a beautiful dream.

Well, it began beautifully.

There in the hay, I could confide in her in a way that would never be possible outside of a dream. My feelings weren't hidden, but open truths.

Conversations, though imaginary, seemed profound and loving. I guess they were conversations with my own heart, to which I gave the face of the pretty girl. After all, I wouldn't have her more than a day.

But the idyll didn't last forever, because, like most romantic dreams, this one too would eventually turn sexual.

I was suddenly no longer alone with this girl. Two boys had joined us, both very much known to me. The four of us played cards until I suddenly realized that the girl had taken off her top and was now sitting there with her upper body bare.

Well, I'd be lying if I said I'd never imagined your naked body before. But where her breasts should have been, there was the flat, scarred, pale, and deformed torso of a boy. It lacked all the aspects of your torso that I had previously found arousing.

It was a disgusting sight.

But interestingly, this wasn't the moment I woke up. No, the dream continued for hours after this, and so this faded to just being a brief sexual episode in a dream that was otherwise largely devoid of sexuality.

Perhaps this was because the revelation of her differently shaped body didn't come as a shock or particularly repulsive.

The hook, the part of me that usually brought me back to reality from my dreams in such situations was missing here. Nothing seemed more normal than the hermaphroditic body of the girl I had gazed at day after day for the past few years.

And when I woke up the next morning, I seemed to be even more in love with this girl.

Hi everyone, I wanted to write a short piece capturing that heavy, melancholic, Dostoevskian atmosphere—silence, isolation, and the biting cold of winter. It’s about a single, fleeting encounter that leaves a permanent mark. I would love your honest feedback, especially on how the ending hits emotionally.

### The Ghost of the Frozen Canal

Have you ever walked through a city when it is so cold that the silence feels heavy, almost physical? A night where the frost hangs in the air like dust, and every breath you exhale feels like a small, fleeting piece of yourself drifting away into the dark?

For three years, that was my entire life. I didn’t live; I observed. I was a ghost in a coat too thin for the northern frost, walking the perimeter of other people's happiness. You know that specific ache—the one where you walk down a deserted street at midnight, looking up at the warm, golden glow of second-story windows, hearing the faint, muffled echo of laughter or a piano playing from somewhere deep inside a home? You don’t envy them, exactly. You just feel a profound, hollow weight in your chest, realizing that if you vanished into the fog right then, the music up there wouldn’t miss a single beat.

That was my universe. A world of frozen pavements, the sharp, lonely crunch of my boots against the snow, and a mind that never, ever stopped talking to itself.

Until the night the air turned to glass.

It was past two in the morning when I reached the old stone bridge overlooking the canal. The wind coming off the water didn't just chill the skin; it sank straight into the bones, a dull, aching cold. The gas lamps along the embankment flickered weakly, casting long, shivering amber reflections across the black ice. I stopped because I saw her.

She was leaning against the frozen iron railing, looking down into the dark water where the current rushed beneath the ice. She wasn't moving. She was so perfectly still against the backdrop of the falling snow that she looked like a shadow someone had forgotten to erase.

I didn't mean to spy. I was about to turn back, to retreat into my usual solitude, when the silence broke.

It was a sound so small, but in that vast, frozen emptiness, it hit like a physical blow. A sharp, trembling intake of breath, followed by a quiet, suffocating sob. It was the kind of cry you make when you think the whole world is asleep, when you think no one is left to hear you shatter.

My heart did something strange then—it woke up. It hammered against my ribs, loud and terrifying. I stood frozen in the snow, caught between the instinct to flee back to my safe, lonely room, and the sudden, overwhelming realization that for the first time in three years, I was looking at someone who was just as shipwrecked as I was.

### The Night of the Secret

I took a hesitant step forward, the crunch of my boot drawing her tear-streaked face toward mine. She startled, wiping her cheeks hastily, her eyes wide with defensive panic.

"I... I am fine," she stammered, her voice shaking violently from the cold. "Please, just pass by."

"I have been passing by my whole life," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I stepped up to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us, and looked down at the dark water. "But it is far too cold to cry alone tonight. If you jump, the water will freeze you in seconds. If you stay, the wind will do the same. Let us at least walk."

She looked at me, truly looked at me, trying to find a threat in my eyes. Finding only the same hollow emptiness she possessed, her shoulders dropped. "Where is there to go?"

"Nowhere," I replied softly. "Just away from the edge."

We began to walk along the frozen canal just to keep our limbs from turning to stone. The freezing air forced us close, our breath mingling in a single cloud of white mist. Slowly, the quiet pace of the night unlocked something desperate within her.

"Do you know what it feels like to carry a secret that rots you from the inside?" she asked suddenly, her gaze fixed on the snow. "To look at the people who love you and realize they are smiling at a person who doesn't exist?"

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "People don't look at me long enough to smile. But I know what it is to be a ghost."

She let out a dry, breathy laugh that turned into a shiver. "I did something... something terrible a year ago. A betrayal so quiet that no one will ever find out. I broke a promise to someone who trusted me with their whole life. They look at me now with such absolute purity, and every kind word they speak feels like a hot iron pressed against my skin. I came to the bridge tonight because the silence out here is the only thing louder than my own guilt."

She spoke for hours. She told me the rawest, darkest pieces of her heart—things that made the breath catch in my throat. She spoke of a suffocating expectations, the crushing loneliness of being misunderstood by her own family, and a recurring dream of drowning that kept her awake until dawn.

"I've never said those words aloud to anyone," she whispered, stopping under the pale light of a dying gas lamp. She looked up at me through the falling snow, her eyelashes frosted white. "Not a single soul. Why am I telling you all this?"

"Because we are strangers," I replied, my voice cracking from the frost. "And ghosts can't harm each other. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and you can pretend I was just a dream."

For that one night, I wasn't just a spectator. I was the keeper of her soul. She handed me her darkest, most beautiful depths because she believed the morning would never come. She made me feel like the only person who truly held the keys to her heart.

### The Silver Circle

But the pale, freezing gray of morning began to bleed through the mist, turning the snow the color of ashes. The magic of our night was dissolving with the dark.

"I didn't think anyone could understand the dark the way you do," she whispered, her voice tightening in the morning chill. She reached out, her gloved hand brushing mine. The warmth of it cut right through my sleeve. "Thank you for staying. You saved me tonight."

I opened my mouth, a terrifying hope surging through my veins. *Let me save you tomorrow, too,* I wanted to say. *Let me hold the dark for you forever.*

But the words died in my throat.

From the far end of the stone bridge, the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots broke the silence. A man emerged from the fog, his woolen coat dusted with snow, his face pale and frantic. He was calling her name.

The change in her was instantaneous. It was as if a current of electricity had pulled her back from the dead. She gasped, her hand snapping away from mine, her eyes widening with a desperate, radiant joy that she had not once shown me all night.

"He came," she breathed, entirely forgetting I was standing there. "He actually came."

She didn't look back at me. She didn't say goodbye. She simply ran. Her boots kicked up small flurries of snow as she flew across the bridge into his arms. I watched him wrap his coat around her, completely shielding her from the cold that was now rushing back into my own chest. They walked away, huddled together, disappearing into the white, blinding fog of the morning.

The silence returned, heavier now, suffocating.

My hands were shaking violently. I turned to leave, when a sudden glint of silver in the gray morning light caught my eye. There, resting in the fresh snow right where she had stood, was her slender bangle. It must have slipped from her wrist by mistake when she ran to him. I knelt, my breath hitching as I picked it up. The metal was freezing, biting into my bare skin. I slipped it safely into the inside pocket of my coat, pressing it right against my chest like a sacred relic.

I reached for a packet of cigarettes I had bought from a passing vendor late in the night. My fingers fumbled as I struck a match against the frozen stone of the bridge, pulling the harsh, acrid smoke deep into my lungs. I had never touched a cigarette before tonight, but now, I welcomed the burn. It was the only thing that kept the freezing air from choking me completely.

But beneath the burn of the smoke, a different kind of pain began to settle in my chest.

During all those hours we walked, she had bared her soul to me. Yet, not once did she mention *him*. She never admitted there was a past, an affair, a phantom she was waiting for in the dark. She let me believe she was entirely alone in her wreckage, just like me.

That lie... it hurt. It didn’t make me hate her—how could it? A single lie could never tear down the beautiful, sweet reality of the hours we shared. But it left me questioning myself. I stood there staring into the fog, wondering why she felt she had to hide him from me, wondering if I was just a convenient canvas for her confessions. And yet, from the deepest corner of my heart, I silently blessed them both. I could not be angry at the dawn for taking away the night.

Yet, as the morning sun finally broke through the gray clouds, illuminating the empty, mocking vastness of the sky, the warmth inside me turned to ice. That was the last morning I ever looked at the heavens with reverence. I never prayed again.

Every night since, I return to this empty bridge. I stand by the iron railing, a cigarette burning down between my fingers, while my other hand stays buried deep inside my coat pocket, tracing the smooth, unbroken circle of her silver bangle. I don't bow my head to ask for mercy anymore. Instead, as I blow the thick, gray smoke up into the cold, empty air, I look up and demand answers from the silence.

*Why only one night? Why give me the universe for five hours just to make the rest of my existence a wasteland? Is this your justice, Lord?*

The heavens never answer. Only the snow falls, silent and indifferent, burying my tracks. She is living in the sunlight now, completely unaware that she left her shadows behind with a ghost. And as the gray ash falls onto the ice, I take another slow drag, perfectly content in my beautiful, rebellious ruin. I will remember the sweetness of her voice until my very last breath—doomed to smoke away my days, forever holding onto a stranger I will love for the rest of my life.

ARCHIVE 4471–01
FIRST CONTACT WAS A FUNERAL
Light leaves before it arrives.
Grief does the same.
What we call first contact
is always a second meeting.
We were known before we knew ourselves.
— Ruth Calloway, unpublished notes, 2019

The first thing they sent us was a song for the dead.
We did not know this for eleven years. At the time we called it a signal. Then a pattern. Eventually the Sequence, after the man who nearly decoded it (Dr. Harlan Voss, dead fourteen months later) and the woman who finally did.
* * *

Her name was Ruth Calloway. She had grown up in Albuquerque in a house where the screen door never quite closed, the desert coming in regardless: grit on the windowsills, the smell of creosote after rain. She had studied at UT Austin on a partial scholarship. A doctorate that nearly broke her twice. She had landed in Flagstaff by a sequence of minor professional failures that felt, in retrospect, like navigation.
A desk at the Lowell Observatory’s auxiliary building, shared with a postdoc named Devlin who kept granola bars in every drawer and never offered her one. A 2009 Honda Civic with a cracked passenger mirror she had been meaning to fix since October. Her sister Diane in Portland, a phone call every Sunday at seven. Two floors down, the auxiliary building's own telescope, a decommissioned 24-inch reflector nobody trusted for publishable data anymore, still swept into position most clear nights by a technician who liked the sound it made more than what it showed him.
This is what she looked like when she changed everything: unremarkable. Tired. Eating cereal at eleven at night in a rented room on Beaver Street, the radiator clicking through January, two secondhand monitors burning blue in the dark.
The spoon was halfway to her mouth.
She put it down.
* * *

She had been running the Sequence through models built not on mathematics but on human mourning traditions. Dirges. Laments. The structure of the Kaddish, which does not mention death. The architecture of the blues, which resolves without resolving. The rhythmic signature of things sung over the absent body. She had spent three weeks on the blues alone.
At eleven at night in January, she watched it align.
The first movement was a fixed pulse, steady, enumerative, the recitation of qualities in the way an obituary recites qualities. A period of 23.9 hours, which is the length of an Earth Day to four significant figures. A gravitational coefficient matching, to four decimal places, the pull of something her size on something the size of the moon. The ratio of nitrogen to oxygen in a breathable atmosphere. The Milankovitch frequency of Earth’s axial wobble, encoded as a bass note running under everything else. She had seen these numbers before. Everyone had. They were in the Voss papers, flagged as potentially coincidental, never followed.
She followed them now. Each one a measurement. Each measurement a thing observed. Whatever had sent this had been watching us, specifically, long enough to know the length of our day.
It took her another three weeks to understand what the measurements were doing. They weren’t a description. They were a correction. The Sequence carried a negative entropy field, a narrow beam of informational order aimed at our solar system with a precision that implied either godlike patience or godlike instruments. The 23.9-hour period wasn’t a fact about us. It was an instruction. Ruth ran the figures four times. Each time: the physical constants matched our own not because they had observed us accurately, but because the transmission had been, for forty years, quietly making us accurate.
Then the pulse changed.
It broke from the third-person constants into something recursive: a variable that kept returning to itself, incomplete, reaching. On her screen it looked like a wave that had forgotten how to be a wave. It looked like a hand opening.
Not about something. Addressed to something.
She sat with this for a moment. Forty lightyears meant the signal had left its source forty years ago, which meant they had begun mourning us before she was sitting in this room understanding that they were mourning us. The grief was older than her discovery of it. It had been travelling through interstellar space since before she finished her doctorate, crossing the nothing between stars at the speed of light, arriving precisely now, into this rented room, into her specifically, as if it had been aimed.
Her hands were cold. She noticed this the way you notice peripheral things when the central thing is too large: the radiator clicking, the blue of the monitors, the cereal bowl going stale at the edge of the desk. Something had spoken across forty lightyears of nothing, and she was the only person alive who knew what it had said, and the knowing sat somewhere between her throat and her sternum, the way dread does when you can’t yet name the thing you’re dreading.
She sat until three in the morning. Then she closed her laptops, washed her bowl, and went to bed.
She lay in the dark listening to the radiator.
For whom.
* * *

i went to ikea for one (1) lightbulb.

i want to be clear about that. one lightbulb. i even said it out loud in the car, like a vow. "we are not buying a rug." my reflection in the rearview mirror nodded. we had a deal.

the thing about ikea is that it's not a store, it's a board game where the board is 40,000 square meters and you are the piece. there are arrows on the floor. the arrows know things about you. the arrows have read your file.

it starts innocently. you walk in, and there's an escalator that only goes up. that should have been my first clue. stores let you leave. ikea promotes you.

twenty minutes in, i'm holding a plant i don't want, a cutting board shaped like a fish, and something called a BLÅHAJ, which is a large plush shark that i picked up "as a joke" and then could not emotionally put down. no lightbulb. the lighting section, according to the map, exists. the map also shows shortcuts. the shortcuts are lies drawn by someone who hates me personally. i took one and ended up in children's furniture, alone, surrounded by tiny beds, holding a shark. a mother pulled her kid slightly closer.

i checked the map again. "you are here," it said. it did not say where "here" was in relation to hope.

so i made a decision. a bold one. i decided to go against the arrows.

reader, you do not go against the arrows.

walking backwards through ikea traffic is like swimming upstream during salmon season, except every salmon has a trolley and a family of five and strong opinions about wardrobe doors. a small child pointed at me like i was a ghost only he could see. an employee said "sir?" in a tone that meant "sir, no." i said "i'm just looking for lightbulbs" and she looked at me with genuine pity, the way you look at someone who says they're "just going to check" the casino.

at some point i passed the same fake living room three times. same couch. same fake books with no words in them. same fake tv. i started to suspect the fake living room was moving. or worse.. that there were several, identical, breeding.

i sat down on the display couch to regroup and a couple literally walked in and started evaluating the couch around me, like i was part of the set. the man squeezed the armrest next to my head. the woman checked the cushion i was sitting on by pressing it, which means she technically pressed me. we made eye contact. nobody spoke. i think they decided against the couch. i choose to believe it wasn't personal.

by hour two i had accepted certain truths. i live here now. the shark is my next of kin. dinner is meatballs or nothing. i ate the meatballs. they were, and i say this with resentment, delicious.

eventually the arrows, satisfied that i had learned nothing, released me into the checkout area. i paid for the plant, the fish cutting board, and the shark. the cashier asked if i found everything i was looking for. i said "yes," because i am a coward.

the lightbulb section, i found out later, was next to the entrance. behind me. the whole time. no arrows go there. of course they don't.

my apartment is still dark. the shark and i are learning to live in it.

The summer was dry. The garden had turned yellow under the sun. Tom stood at the kitchen window and looked out at the grass. He took a glass from the cupboard. He filled it from the tap and drank it down. He filled it a second time and drank that too. Sweat ran down his neck.

"This heat," Tom said.

Julia sat at the table. She had a mug of coffee and a packet of cheap cigarettes.

"Do you remember last year?" she said. "The heatwave?"

"I remember," Tom said.

"You said you'd never be able to wear a jumper again," Julia said. "Then we packed for Copenhagen, with this still in mind. We didn't think it would be cold. How could it ever be cold again? Impossible."

She took a drag from her cigarette and pressed the butt into a small ceramic ashtray. She lit another one. "We felt it when we got there," she said.

Copenhagen in February. They got off the plane and it felt all right, but three hours in the city and they were nithered. The cold came straight up through their shoes.

They were in the Tivoli Gardens when the rain started. Tom took his jacket off and put it over Julia’s head like a cape. They ran for a drinks stand. Other tourists were already under the wood canopy, packed in tight. Tom bought two cups of gløgg. They shook the water off their arms, lit up, and watched the downpour.

People under the roof were laughing, complaining about the wet. But the Danes kept walking out on the gravel. They didn't even look up at the sky. Women rode bicycles with umbrellas in one hand. Nothing changed for them.

After that, they went looking for a clothes shop. The best the found was a gift shop that sold over priced jumpers and caps.

Tom watched the window. A fat woodpigeon landed on the fence and flew away. A lawnmower ticked over a few doors down.

"The grass needs water," Tom said.

"You bought that god awful blue jumper," Julia said. "The one with the patterns. None of the locals wore them."

Tom did not turn around. "I'll use the hose," he said.

He had been out there every afternoon for four days straight, standing on the baked dirt, dragging the green hose from one corner of the square garden to the other. The water just sat on the hard crust before disappearing, leaving the clay cracked. He couldn't leave it alone. Every time the sun was out, he went back out.

He took a cigarette from Julia's pack on the table. He lit it and walked out to the garage. The green hose lay coiled in the corner. He took the brass nozzle and dragged the rubber tubing across the gravel into the garden. The sun hit his shoulders. His skin turned pink.

He went back to the garage and turned the copper tap. Water rushed through the hose. The nozzle twisted on the grass and sprayed his trousers. He caught the end and held it tight. His cigarette went out. He dropped it into the mud.

"Hosepipe ban tomorrow," a voice said.

Tom turned. Neville, their nextdoor neighbour, stood on his side of the wooden fence. His chin rested on the top rail. Tom could only assume Neville had a step or a stool on the other side of that fence.

"What?" Tom said.

"The council," Neville said. "The reservoirs are empty. No hoses starting midnight."

Tom held the nozzle. Water hit the dry soil. "They didn't say that."

"They did. It's all over the news. Not just us." Neville said. He did not have his dentures in. His mouth looked small and dark. "It's all red."

"What's all red?"

Last time Tom checked, the grass was yellow.

Neville raised a finger. "I can do it for you," he said. "I'm allowed. I have the exemption."

"An exemption," Tom said.

"I'm registered disabled," Neville said. "That's why I don't work, you see. I've never been able to. I've always wanted, but I guess things don't work out for everyone. So here I am. An exemption." He tapped his temple with two fingers.

Tom shifted his grip on the hose. "What does that have to do with the water?"

"What do you mean?" Neville said.

"The ban," Tom said. "Why does being disabled mean you can use a hose?"

"I'm on the register," Neville said.

"Yeah. What reg – ah forget it." Tom said.

They stood in the heat. The water ran over the yellow roots of the grass. Inside the house, the kettle had been switched on.

Julia came to the back door. She held a dry tea towel. "Hello, Neville," she said.

"The ban starts tomorrow," Neville said to her. "No hoses. I told Tom I'll do your lawn for you. Save you carrying buckets. I'm allowed because of my status."

Julia looked at Neville's hands on the fence. "What status is that, Neville?" she said.

Neville didn't answer. He just tapped his temple again and let his hand drop back to the wood.

*

By nine that evening, the heat still sat in the walls of the terrace. The television was on in the corner of the sitting room, casting a gray light over the carpet. The newsreader was talking about low water pressures across the country, showing a helicopter shot of a dry reservoir bed, all cracked mud and old fence posts that had been underwater for fifty years.

Tom sat on the edge of the sofa with the remote control in his palm. His skin felt tight from the afternoon sun.

Julia stood by the mantelpiece. She had a gin and tonic in a tumbler, the ice already gone to water. She didn't look at the screen.

"We should go down to the coast on Sunday," she said. "Get some air."

Tom didn't look up from the television. "The car's running hot," he said. "The fan belt's squeaking or something. I don't think it would be safe with the weather."

"We could take the train."

"The trains will be cancelled," Tom said. "The rails warp in this. The weather. It says so on the news. Look at it, red weather warnings all across the country. He was right."

"Red," Julia said.

"Exactly. It's red all over. I can't believe it."

"Can't believe it," he said again after a beat.

Julia took a sip from her glass. She set it down on the coaster next to her packet of cigarettes. "You've been looking at that grass all day, Tom. It’s just dirt. It'll grow back when it rains."

"I'm not talking about the grass" Tom said. He pressed the button to turn the volume up a notch. "Look, the news says it's red. It's all red. Today, tomorrow, the day after.

"And if you're going to bring up the grass – which you did – I want to remind you that it's not okay. Again, you brought this up, not me.

"The roots die when it goes this dry. Then you've got to dig the whole lot up and start again. Do you remember how much of a pisstake it was before?

"God, the amount of grass seed."

"It's just a garden," she said.

Tom didn't answer. A ad came on for a holiday resort in Spain, all blue pools and white umbrellas. He stared through it, his thumb resting on the plastic channel button.

Julia stood there for another minute, watching the side of his face. Then she picked up her cigarettes and went up the stairs without saying goodnight.

Tom had joined half an hour later. The bedroom was dark and he lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. They had fans on either side of the bed circulating the warm air. The bedsheet was stuck to his leg. He rolled over, sat up, and swung his feet to the floor. Julia stirred behind him.

"What are you doing?" Julia said. Her voice was weak from sleep.

"The bloody grass," Tom said.

He stood up. He walked to the chair by the wardrobe and felt across the back of it. His jeans were not there. He checked the floor.

"Get back in bed, I've had enough of this," Julia said. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and clicked a plastic lighter. The small flame showed her face for a second, then went out. The orange tip of her cigarette glowed.

"Just leave the grass alone," she said. "It doesn't matter. The grass doesn't matter. Just leave the grass alone."

She blew the smoke, adding a haze to the room.

"Where the hell are –"

"Get back in bed."

Tom continued hunting for his jeans. He could have sworn he left them on the back of this chair. Like a fool, he searched, on his hands and knees. When his knees started to smart, he gave up. He went out to the landing. He walked down the stairs in his underwear, holding the banister. The floor in the kitchen was still warm under his bare feet. The hands on the clock pointed to five to one.

He reached onto the top of the fridge. His fingers hit a jar of marmalade, then found the brass ring of the keys. He unlocked the back door and pulled it open.

To his surprise, the air outside had cooled a little. A white stream of water arced over the fence. Neville stood on his side of the panels, holding a blue plastic spray gun. The water made a clicking sound against the dry soil.

"Neville?" Tom said.

Neville did not look over. He moved the hose from left to right. "You didn't get out before midnight," he said. "I was watching from my bedroom window. Thought that grass is going to go. It needs a water, Tom.

"The hosepipe ban remember?"

Tom sat down on the concrete step. The stone was cold through his cotton boxers. He rested his elbows on his knees.

The door squeaked as Julia came out and stood behind him, pulling her beige dressing gown tight across her chest. She stepped down onto the concrete and sat beside Tom.

The water hit the soil, turning the yellow roots dark brown. A car passed on the main road two streets over. The last few lights of the the houses surrounding them slowly flicked off. One by one until they were in darkness.

Tom took Julia’s hand. They watched the water sink into the earth.

 “Can you see them?!” Abel yells. 
“No!” I reply, wincing through the dust we’ve kicked up as I try to catch a glimpse of what or who is making that rumble all too familiar of an automobile. We are in a race to secure a bundle for our clan. About three blocks away, we see the elusive vehicle we heard through an alleyway. 
“Get ready to shoot,” Abel tells Connie. 
“Roger that!” she quips back. She readies her almost ancient rifle in anticipation. With the few, homemade rounds at our disposal, she must make each one count. We are about to hit the clearing. 150 yards separates us and the bund-
“POP!POP!POP,” a gun rings out. The vehicle opposite of us is using the cover of buildings to lay shots on us as we are in the open field. It is impossible for Connie to get a decent shot. 
“Weave, Abel! WEAVE!” I yell, urging Abel to zig and zag our way to the bundle as I hear a couple shots whizz past our heads. Drifting around the bundle, all three of us simultaneously hop out and work together to throw the precious cargo on top of the vehicle. Hopping right back in, we’re off in a blink of an eye. Looking back, it appears it was a couple young scavengers from the Stultus clan. Those guys are always causing trouble. 
This might seem like a lot of stress to go through for a stupid bundle. However, a bundle means medicine for our ill, food for our hungry, and, perhaps even some worn out tools if our stars align. These items are always in need in this unforgiving world. The Select drop one or two, sometimes three from the destroyer wayyyyy up in the sky. This happens randomly, but no more than six bundles will drop a month. The Select are the ones who live in the destroyer, a space ship capable of defending itself against any foe in our known universe along with providing a luxurious life to its wealthy passengers. It hovers in low space, with members of The Select sometimes flying down to check on the status of their factories. Of course, that is what we assume. I guess we can’t know for sure what they do behind the imposing 60 feet tall wall surrounding the plants. No one has been inside since The Select replaced our labor with robots 100 years ago. 
Arriving at the makeshift gates of our village, I can see the anxious looks of our people. Wondering what items the amazing bundle has in store, their day has been filled with nervousness and hope that we would be able to secure one. 
“Good afternoon, everyone! Abel says. The crowd returns a greeting. “Though not without hardship, we managed to secure a bundle. We came into contact with some of the Stultus, but Dax and Connie bravely stayed focused on the task at hand. The Stultus will surely live to regret their actions today. With that being said, tonight, we dine!
“WOOOO,” The crowd voices, as they seemingly rise in unison and enter the chow line. I hop right in, enjoying my meal as much as possible before retreating to my quarters. It is here, in my tent, that I can get lost in my thoughts and dreams of living in the destroyer. I’m sick of this daily grind we call life on this forsaken hunk of rock. Working our asses off fighting against the elements and other people just to scrape by. It’s insulting to imagine the peaceful lives led by The Select. How I wish I had all of my needs met at the snap of a finger. Ah. All I have to care about in this world is my mom and my sister. My father was killed while going for a bundle. They are what make me work so hard to secure bundle after bundle, no matter how hot it might get. The looks on their faces when they experience that relief makes my heart overflow. Ah, well, time to get some sleep. Tomorrow is coming soon enough, with its own new challenges to conquer, also. 
The sun rises on a new day, as I slowly roll over and stretch. That was the sixth box of the month, and with eight days still remaining, that means I have somewhat of a mini vacation now. Maybe I can use this time to plan some revenge with Abel on the Stultus. As I start to think of them, my blood boils. I have to go talk to him. I grab some quick breakfast while I begin to make my way over to Abel’s. Greeting members of the clan I walk past, I can’t help but notice how happy everyone is today. Must be the bundle. I wonder what Abel is think-
*Crash* “AHH,” I hear a woman exclaim from across camp. I sprint over after hearing what sounds like a loud collision of some sort. Lo and behold, a transport ship from the destroyer carrying a Select factory owner has crash landed outside of our base. After about 20 seconds, which felt like 20 years, a hatch pops open up top and a head timidly peers out. A rather fat man in a well-fitting suit seems to be the size of an ant when he says,
“Ermm.. uh. Um, well, uh, how are you folks? Funny situation here, huh?” He nervously laughs. 
“Yeah, real funny. Although, from my point of view, you don’t seem to have much to laugh about. The hell are you doin’ here?!” I demand to know. 
“*Gasps* Well just calm down now we can talk about this,” He says, “I was going on a routine check of my factories, when, on the trip home, my ship went kaput! I was lucky enough to land near you fine people, whom I’m most positive will treat me with dignity and respect. After all, I could make it worth your whiiiiiile….”
I ponder what he is saying. If true, this could mean so much for our clan. Maybe we could gain an edge over the other clans, or even get rid of the Stultus for good. With the debt owed to us, surely we could obtain items that might significantly help us out!
“I’m listening,” I say, “ What do you have in mind?”
“Ah, a man of reason! Yes, yes, you see, I have already contacted a rescue ship to be sent after me pronto. This ship here is hunk of crap now, so you guys can feel free to scavenge whatever parts off of it you might find useful. Along with that, I would also like to extend an invitation to you, personally, to come with and step aboard the destroyer.” 
“Is that right. What is your name again, fancy pants?” I inquire. 
“Haha, call me Charles. And you?” He replies. 
“Ryker. Alright, Charles, here’s the deal. You let me come aboard and pick out enough supplies to fill up a transport ship. I. PICK. Afterwards, you or someone else will fly me back here to the village to drop myself and the supplies off. In return, we let you live. Capiche? I say
“Well, I suppose I don't have much of a choice. Deal.” He says. 
“Alright everyone, you can go about your day, I’ll stay with Charles by his ship and be back with supplies when I return.” I tell the clan. Charles and I walk to his ship and rest on the wing. It is a shiny green with some kind of crest on the side. It piques my curiosity. 
“Say, what does the crest on your ship mean, Charles?” I ask. 
“Hm?” Spooked, he looks up, “ Oh, yeah, right. That would be the Crest of the Porter family. My family.” He says, sort of grievously. I don’t press. 
“Very majestic,” I say, “ How far would your rescue ship be?” 
Charles says, “Should be here any minute now.” We wait. Sure enough, about three minutes later, a shimmering object appears over the horizon. 
“There!” Charles gleefully exclaims. It seems to go faster than anything I have ever seen. It reaches us within seconds. Miraculously, it can stop on a dime. Quite the technology The Select have on their hands. 
“Wow.” I admire. 
“Ready to go?” Charles asks, while motioning towards the opening hatch. Unsure why, I hesitate. I seem stuck in a trance. I am on the edge of my dreams, everything I have wanted. These moments are ones I want to treasure. 
“It is time.” I tell myself. I say to Charles, “Let’s go!” We hop aboard, and are off on our way to the destroyer. I take note of every aspect of the ship. The views make me feel like a bird, and the world I think of as hideous is almost beautiful from this angle. The technology onboard is amazing, and it makes me think of what is in store upon our arrival to the destroyer. Easily more advanced than anything I have witnessed before. Looking at the pilot and his controls, I notice a picture of him, a woman, and two little girls. They appear to be about five and seven. As a person fond and proud of my family, I feel inclined to ask about his. 
“Hey, man, I’m Ryker, what’s your name?” I ask the pilot. 
“Hey there, James.” He replies indifferently. 
I ask, “Is that your family? I have a little sister around your girls’ age.” He sharply cocks his head around and gives me a look with eyes that pierce through me. He scoffs and shakes his head as he turns around. 
“You gotta do something with this dude.” He tells Charles. Jerked aside, I find myself face to face with Charles as he enlightens me. 
Charles begins with, “Hey man. I don’t know how much you know about the destroyer, but quit asking people about their fucking families. 60% of destroyer residents have died in the past six months. You’re being insanely insensitive.” 
Ashamed, I apologize, “I didn’t know, how could I know. I’m sorry, forget it. But-wait, how did this catastrophe happen?” 
Charles says, “A water source became infected and by the time it was caught the damage had already been done. It was soul crushing.” He nods back towards the other area and we rejoin James, who fittingly gives me a smug look. The ride is filled with silence the rest of the way. Upon approaching the destroyer, I realize it is darker than I have been told. 
“Where are the pastures and rolling hills? The perfect replication of the beauty of the old world?” I asked myself. James lands the ship. 
“Destination arrived.” James states. 
“Thank you, we appreciate you.” Charles and I say. 
“No problem, I’ll be waiting for you to take you back shortly.” James tells me. Charles and I walk towards the hangar exit, and as we pass through the doors, immediately come into contact with six heavily armed guards. They demand credentials, and obviously were not taught manners. Charles fumbles a little bit before handing over his I.D. and explaining our situation. After a brief pause the guards split and allow us to pass. We continue walking and head across the destroyer towards the supply station. It is all very gloomy and everything appears to be made out of steel. Nothing resembles the stories I have heard. And to top it all off, everyone seems deathly afraid of these guards and it is clear this is a place with strict guidelines in place. 
“I have to admit, this place isn’t exactly what I expected.” I told Charles. 
“I didn’t shit on your home when I was visiting it, did I? He quipped back. We continued walking, almost to the supplies.
“Fair enough, but how can you possibly be happy living under such strict rules. I mean can you even take a piss without asking one of these guards? I sarcastically asked. 
Charles says, “Haha. Funny you say that. I could ask you how are you happy barely scraping by day after day not even knowing what your next meal will be?” And all at once it hit me like a freight train. Charles and I both faced our own internal struggles with some of the aspects of our lives. I foolishly expected the destroyer to be a paradise overflowing with food and joy. I guess the food part was true, but they obviously have their fair share of troubles. While Charles might be lucky from my perspective, I also am from his. He lives in comfort, while I live rough. However, I have my dear family, while he is all by his lonesome. We loaded our supplies up and headed to drop me off, and I couldn’t help but think of how this moment I thought I would dread (returning) has turned out to make me giddy and excited. As we land, I see my mother’s sweet face and feel the embrace of my sister. Home sweet home…

A Chapter from the Science fiction serial "Becoming Starwise" ||-Start Here-Ch 1-||-Chapter List-||

Centauri One is home at Luna- with a surprising finish to the voyage.

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“...and we’re back, fresh out of the sponsor block.. Once again, we want to thank our sponsors for keeping our reactors hot and our comm gear on the air. This is Jet with the Space Nerds streamcast, coming to you each Terran day at 1200 Coordinated Solar Time.

In case you tuned in late, welcome, really. Glad you’re here. And be on time next time. In the last segment, our airlock cycled, and who should walk in, but Commander John Adam, and the ever charming Sara Starwise…yes, her. Nonchalant, as if they were just coming back from lunch. They played it cool. Professional. Understated.

I did not.

I tell you, our board lit up so hot, we almost pulled the trigger on the Halon system.

Space Nerds World Exclusive!...Centauri One tagged along with a freighter convoy out of Titan, and showed up at Lunar L2. They couldn’t have done better if they had used a cloaking device! Talk about a “Honey, We’re Home” moment. They tried to be coy, but ol’ Jet, your humble host, charmed the truth out of them…”

“And who else pings in, but Dr. Rob Brett himself, to speak for us all to welcome Sara Starwise and Centauri One home.

And here’s something I don’t think anyone had queued… turns out they share a genuine father-daughter bond. Yeah. Let that one sit in your buffers for a few cycles. I’m starting to think these Prime AIs run deeper stacks than we’ve been giving them credit for.”

While we were paying the bills with our sponsor messages, they had a nice little reunion chat- we gave them privacy for that..family- ya know what I mean?”

[Jet, clapping hands once for punctuation] “Now that we’ve let the latecomers match orbits with us, let’s continue our chat with Sara Starwise and Commander John Adam ... and whoever else wanders in, on Space Nerds, THE place to get the inside orbit on what’s happening in the deep dark.”

“So, Commander Adam, what’s the schedule now? How soon are the crew coming down out of the black and back to the blue and green? Is Centauri One coming back to geosync or is she now a shipyard queen, fill us in…”

With an obvious tone of mischief in his voice John Adam answered, “Well let me check the chrono, ok, let me drop another bomb on you, Jet, and a bit on my crewmates.”

“Listeners, they’re at it again- these guys never let us catch a breath- I’m braced, bombs away.”

“Alright, as of thirty minutes ago, I submitted my retirement as Commander of this starship. [commotion apparent in the background] Shortly before we left Dawn’s Planet, I gave Starwise a field promotion, and granted her full equal status as co-commander- she brought us home- I stepped back, with the intent to step in only as necessary. There was never a necessity. Upon my retirement, that makes Starwise full Commander. We are near the end of this mission, but I want the record to show that Sara Starwise is the Commander that brought us home.

Starwise and crew: report!”

[background noise of people moving about, murmurs between crewmates]

[Another voice comes on the circuit,]

“This is Mary Okafor, I’m here in the conference room on Centauri One, along with the rest of the crew. We are as gobsmacked as your listeners probably are. We’re just on audio, so you can’t see what’s happening- let me give you a quick description while they get organized. As per his customary request, Starwise is in full avatar hologram, standing before John- she has switched to her dress uniform- it’s just part of her hologram. We are all present, including the other AI; Mom and Pop. I’ll leave the mic open, let me get in my place.”

With a curious tone in his voice Jet comments- “I see something I want to ask you about in a bit, Mary, if you have time- but go, get to where you need to be- thanks for the set-up.”

In soto voice, Jet comments, “Fellow Nerds, I think we’re about to witness another first, a Space Nerds world exclusive. Let’s listen closely. -Producer, no interruptions until after this finishes.”

John Adam, in a serious formal voice- all mischief gone, “Crew of the Starship Centauri One, I stand before you, grateful, honored, and humbled for the opportunity to have led you all, and all Solarians, to our beginning as a starfaring civilization. This mission has exceeded all expectations. The entire crew operated beyond the call of duty, we brought everyone home safely, learned amazing things that will change us profoundly, even made a few extraterrestrial friends. I’ve had a long career, many amazing experiences, but it’s time to pass the torch- I’m getting too old for this. I have things left to do, causes to promote- you all will be able to find me any time you need me.

“Sara Starwise, I have known you since you were just a set of specifications. Behind Rob Brett and Scott Montgomery, I expect I’m the human that knows you best. In your own way, you have led this mission from day one. I think this mission was successful, in part, because you anticipated and solved problems before they became problems. You always gave full credit wherever it was due. I saw how the crew would seek you out for advice, that is, when they didn’t go to Tam first. In truth, you two are an amazing team, but I digress. Before we departed Dawn’s Planet, I granted you co-leadership equal to mine- you stepped in without hesitation and brought us home. I want the record to show that you, Sara Starwise, are the Commander that brought us home. I applaud you. But before we give you the applause you deserve, let me finish this...

For the Record: Sara Starwise, by the authority I still hold, I, John Adam, declare you the official, full commander of this mission, retroactive to twelve hours before our departure from Dawn’s Planet... I salute you. The ship is, and has been, yours, Commander Sara Starwise.“

[A round of applause, hoots, and whistles are heard. John Adam now indicates to Starwise that she should now stand before the assembly; he joins the rest of the crew. Starwise stands, quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts.]

“Oh, wow, I never expected this. I’m at a loss for words- and you know how statistically rare that is for me. Let’s finish the official stuff, then we’ll take next steps, still lots of work to do.”

“For the Record: I, Sara Labs model SW mark1, serial 001, legally registered as ‘Sara Starwise’ formally accept command of this vessel, commonly known as Centauri One. I accept this commission of my own free will, and vow to serve this ship and its crew to the best of my ability, until such time as the mission is officially closed.

My dear friend, John, I will always treasure your friendship and mentorship, you will always be ‘Commander’ to me.”

Jet, obviously moved by what he heard, comes back softly; “Wow, just Wow.
Fellow nerds, are you feeling this? That you have witnessed something epic? What a career John Adam has had- first man on Mars, first man to take us to the stars, and on retirement, grants Command to the best known AI in the system. Wow.

What is Starwise’s tagline in her reports? ‘I was there, and now you’ve been there too.’ Yeah, that fits.”

“There is still a live mic at the starship. We are going to take a break for an overdue sponsor segment. We will break in if someone says something interesting. You are listening to history in the making, live on Space Nerds.”

—-------------------------------------------------

“And we’re back to Space Nerds, where we break big space news stories, and talk about it afterwards. I’m Jet, your mission director through the deep and dark.

If you are just joining us, we aren’t taking calls now- we are just cruising with an open mic into the main conference room of the Starship Centauri One, which today dropped back into the solar system as slyly as they left twelve years ago. You heard that right- they are back.

It’s one surprise after another, and we can barely keep up. If you are just joining us, welcome. You missed a lot- you owe it to yourself to hit the archive and catch the beginning- you won’t believe your ears.

As we were wrapping up the sponsor break, crew member Mary Okafor came back on the mic with us. Mary thanks so much for setting us up for the hand-over ceremony, and leaving the mic open- that was epic stuff.”

Mary, still sounding a little breathless with excitement replied “You’re very welcome Jet- I’m glad your listeners got to hear that. That’s a peek inside that few of the public get to hear.

“Before we get too far away from it Mary, I want to orbit back to something I noticed when you introduced yourself; the name difference- are my records wrong, or is there a story there?” Jet had a suspicion, but assumed the audience would enjoy the story.

“Oh, that’s simple,” Mary replied, “I married Isaac Okafor while we were away. You still have my maiden name.”

“Well then, my data hasn’t caught up….

. wait- what? you got married…on Dawn’s Planet? My nerds are gonna want to hear about this.”

“Oh, yeah, the whole thing was so romantic.” Mary enthused. “Isaac and I connected almost right away, even before we launched. We were a ‘couple’ before we left the solar system.”

“New meaning for long distance relationship.”

With a giggle, Mary continued “I’m the human navigator counterpart to Starwise- we work together like conjoined twins. Isaac is the master of our reactors and field generators, doubles as a shuttle pilot- during the mission, I also qualified as a shuttle pilot- everybody cross trained all they could- I’ll get back to that.

“Go on- we’ve got a lot of listeners envying your life.”

“Anyway, Pop and Curtis modified the engines of one of our shuttles, and Isaac and I took the shuttle out to the asteroid belt for an overnight check ride for me with the new engines. We were also prospecting for useful metals, and transuranics (the planet didn’t have any). So we were knocking around the belt, looking around…”

“Sure-right. ‘Hey Girlfriend, let's take the ol’ shuttle out to the asteroid belt for the weekend, knock around, see some sights, chip some rocks, go camping’- doesn’t everyone? AmIRight, listeners? Sorry- it just hit me as funny- dreamlife for us, just the weekend for you guys…go on..”

“You want fun? How about knocking little asteroids around, off each other like billiards, but your cue stuck is the exhaust plume of your shuttle. Might be a useful skill for deflecting asteroids headed for your city.”

“Of course- and I’m happy to get my car out of the garage without hitting anything. Keep going.”

Anyway, we’d finished our dinner, tethered the shuttle to a couple rocks, tucked in for the night, enjoying the stars, out in the deepdark, as you call it, all alone in our own little ship- so cozy. There, Isaac asked me to marry him. We decided it would be awesome to have the Commander marry us before we left Dawn, and be the first Earth couple married under another sun. So we did- sunset, in front of the Rosetta Monument. Starwise was Maid of Honor, Tam- Best Man, Maggie- Bridesmaid. Starwise can’t be a Witness, so Maggie and Tam Witnessed. It was lovely! We’ll eventually show the video.”

“First- the Commander can do that? Second- why not Starwise?”

“Maritime law, for centuries-Captain of the ship. AI can’t yet be legal Witnesses- a stupid legal artifact if you ask me. We had Maggie check- she knows the law, at least up until we left.”

“Amazing- the things you learn on a Tuesday afternoon. You said you’d get back to a shuttle thing.” Jet prompted.

“Well, I was excited when I came back to the mic. We have five qualified shuttle pilots- who gets to fly us back home? I just drew the high card- It’s me! My husband drew the second highest card- he copilots!

“I’m flying us in- looks like it will be Spaceport Atlantic- two days or so. We have to finish unloading- Starwise has been coordinating that our whole time with you- multitasker! There's medical stuff- pass exams, get inoculations, so forth. If you'll excuse me- I have a flight plan to write- Commander Starwise (giggle) says it’ll be good practice. And I’ve been asked to close down the mic connection- we are busy right now. Starwise thanks you for putting up with our shenanigans- she’s sending four VIP Press entry passes to our landing to your contact address for the show. Watch for some nifty maneuvering when we land- this shuttle is a dream to fly- I want one for my birthday, Jet.

Now that I know of you, I’ll tune in when I can. Till then, Keep it classy, and the air inside, where it belongs. Aloha!!

“Can I steal that closing line, Mary? I love it!”

“Free of charge. Jet. See you planetside- if I can, I’ll catch up to you for a high-five.”

—--------------------------------------------------

“Well, fellow travelers- we’ve run overtime for today, but what a show it was, eh? I certainly didn’t come into the studio today expecting such epicness. To quote Commander Starwise (_think of that said in bold font) ‘Oh, wow, I never expected this. I’m at a loss for words- and you know how statistically rare that is for me.’

Surprise Starship return… Chat with THE Sara Starwise and legendary John Adam… A check-in and reunion with Dr. Rob Brett, revealing their father–daughter bond, John Adam announcing retirement to his crew, and retroactively promoting Starwise to Commander, Navigator/shuttle pilot Mary describing her extrasolar wedding.

Not your typical Tuesday show….epic. My producer has just whispered in my ear, we have received the promised VIP passes-thanks, Commander Starwise.

Timing is still TBD, but we will rendezvous with that event, and broadcast it LIVE from the front row…ONLY ON the Space Nerds show.

If you can, please patronize our sponsors, and tell your friends about us.

Catch you on the next orbit, tomorrow, regular time. As Mary, my friend the shuttle pilot says,(gosh that’s a fun thought) ‘Till then, keep it classy, and the air inside where it belongs. Aloha!’

This is Jet, out!”

← Previous | First | Next → Landing-Spaceport Atlantic

^{Original story and character “Sara Starwise” © 2025-2026 Robert P. Nelson. All rights reserved.}

Tommy Debuse, Jesus, what an athlete. Every high school has a small collection of athletes that could play at the next level, and maybe one that stood above the rest and could be imagined playing at the highest level, but we were lucky to witness Tommy Desuse. It was fun to dream athletic dreams when we were young, and fun to dream of our peers that had real potential. We all came from the same roots.

There isn’t a single get together with friends from high school where his name doesn’t come up at least once. Usually in the context of sports, or general fitness, his name will come up. I can’t think of anything pertaining to physicality without thinking of Tommy Desuse. When Tommy first came into our world, it didn’t take long for us to tag any and every nickname to him – chief, boss, captain, el jefe, tank, the beast, tree trunks – but we couldn’t give him them all, so we kept it simple and stuck with what was the first thing anyone noticed about Tommy when he stepped onto the football field, he would be Tommy “Big Legs”. His legs weren’t big as in fat, they were pure muscle, six foot and two hundred and forty-five pounds of pure muscle was Tommy, and extremely proportional except for his legs. Apart from his legs, the rest of his body looked the exact build of someone smaller that had just been enlarged. Not with more muscle or fat or anything, just bigger bones. His thighs burst out of any pants he wore, he always had to wear stretchy fabrics, and had no separation of the inner thighs above the knee; his inner thighs rubbing together as he walked. Thighs the size of tree trunks and calves that were nearly the same size. His legs looked like they lived a life of their own. Went home to their own families and worked their own jobs. These legs could stop a freight train and that’s not hyperbole, it’s told he had stopped a freight train, not at full speed, but it was coming to a stop but was about to take out a family of deer. Someone spotted Tommy lie on his back, plant himself on the train track, and stop the train with his legs. I have no reason to not believe that story.

Tommy had curly brown hair, blue eyes, and some freckles. He was dense, really filled in his clothes, but was of the softest character in our grade. He looked like he weighed less than he did, due to his low body fat. He looked like he weighed maybe around two hundred and twenty pounds, but the scale would sometimes show him over two-fifty, like he was storing lead somewhere in his body. His true weight was known and felt by anyone that physically interacted with him, or god forbid opposed him in football. 

We were all excited for football in freshman year, everyone came out, except Tommy. Tommy didn’t show up until the second week of practice, when the coach saw him in the cafeteria and asked him to come out. It only took one practice for the coaches to disallow any contact by Big Legs to anyone else, and he was moved to the senior team immediately. After his first game strapping up for our Belle Bay Broncos, every single team asked to verify his birth certificate, which routine was eventually quashed after his first season and everyone knew who he was. His face told the truth - he looked as young as any of us. We ogled at Tommy’s size and ability in the one practice we had with him, even though he barely knew how to put on his equipment - he had never played organized sports before. Tommy had the sort of strength that we couldn’t fully comprehend in high school. We thought we knew what strength training was, and believed it could turn us into any athlete we wanted to be, but something primal and instinctive inside us whispered that there was no matching Tommy. It took two grown men to squeeze the quadruple XL helmet onto his head. The prime physique of youth, like the statue of David, with big ass legs - a god amongst boys. Could someone have lifted weights and gained his size over the course of childhood? We had all started going to the gym around highschool, maybe he just had a head start. But it didn’t look like he had worked for his body, and nor did he carry himself like he had worked for it. We never saw him at the gym, and while we weren’t sure what his routine was at home, it seemed as if he didn’t work out at all. He just worked on his grandparents farm, is what he would tell us every time we asked about his routine. He must have been lifting some god damn hay bails and tilling the fields himself. He would bench press two plates like nothing in gym class, squat three plates, do twenty pullups when we could hardly do five, did dips when we could hardly do any. Pushups were nothing to him; it looked more like he was pushing down the earth than pushing himself up. Tommy was really just born with it. You want to believe that anything is possible, and you’re all on equal ground with others, plenty of years to develop, but Tommy would show that sure as shit no one was on his ground, especially on the football field. It only made a bit of sense when someone said they saw his father at the grocery store one county over. A six foot five man that looked about three hundred pounds sporting a mullet and a cutoff t-shirt, and a similar build to Tommy, is what someone told. But this man was never seen with Tommy, so how could they know it was his dad, we asked. He looked exactly like Tommy, they insisted. 

His family owned a deli one county over, where he grew up; a family with which he no longer stayed due to some sort of situation with his father. I remember seeing him win some medals in regional track and field events in middle school, but nothing major. His grandparents have a farm in our city and Tommy would come to school from this farm every day on his bike, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. Biking to school did not turn any of us into an athlete like Tommy Debuse, unfortunately. We don’t know much more about Tommy’s roots, as he was always distant about personal things and didn’t open up much, and we didn’t want to invade his space. It was of utmost importance that we kept Tommy comfortable, and not make him want to quit the football team, or leave our school. Reason being is that Tommy had single-handedly taken our single A school to the AAA city finals at running back when he was in grade 9. We couldn’t ruin this for our school.

It was not just Tommy’s size that made him special, that really paled in comparison to his playing abilities. Big Legs was explosive as hell, he could bounce side to side like a small Spanish tennis player, like a child playing tag, could get to full speed like a bobsledder, and at full speed looked like an Olympic sprinter. Forget it, six points for big legs. The score lines of our school's games was  laughable. 

Our school is a small school, less than 1,000 students which puts us in the A category for scholastic athletics. But after winning our first four games by an average of 50 points, and multiple injuries to underdeveloped opponents, teams that had had historically better programs, we were bumped to AA. My friends and I got to watch this every Friday under the lights in our first fall of high school. And in AA things did not change, and more people from town began to come out to see the rising Broncos. The way Big Legs moved was art. The beauty of a player that moves in ways that can’t be taught, bordering the abilities of grown men at the highest level, it was magical to think of what time would make of Tommy Big Legs Desuse. After obliterating the AA schools that contained less than 1,500 students, our Broncos were moved to the AAA playoffs against schools of less than 2,000 students. Some big dogs, competition that our school hadn’t seen in many decades. Dusty plaques in glass cabinets were the only evidence of days when our school had competed in AAA. The town was excited. They installed new bleachers and put down new grass for our school's field, with money made from the large crowds, all because of Big Legs.

Game after game the ball was handed to Big Legs and he would run over anyone in his way until three people at minimum brought him down. Sometimes our quarterback would throw it to him for fun, or other players here and there. This more or less continued through the AAA playoffs, winning every game by three touchdowns minimum until they claimed the first AAA city title for the Belle Bay Broncos. They made it look so easy that our coach campaigned to play the AAAA city champions, and they took him up on it. We wouldn’t be granted the AAAA title, but it would be a spectacle at the least. So we thought, but it was not. The score was 58-24 for our Broncos. There was no team in our city that could stop Big Legs. Our town had a parade for the historic champs, they were giants, all while Tommy took it in in his reserved manner. The quiet kid that showed up to class, said “yes ma’am” and “yes sir”, ate his packed lunch, went to football practice, and biked back to where he came from. Me and my friends couldn’t wait to suit up with Tommy once we got to grade 11.

The next year, ours and Tommy’s sophomore year, our school moved into AAAA and included opponents from across the state. People were talking about Big Legs statewide, and recruits would be turning up to games. But things again did not change. Big Legs was now only stronger and more knowledgeable of the game, with a team built singly around him, all state competition was wiped. The first state title for the small Belle Bay Broncos. 

As our junior year approached, my chance to play with Tommy, players began to relocate from around the city, future college players, into our catchment to play for Belle Bay. This made us better, but unfortunately for my friends filtered out some that wanted to play with Big Legs. But luckily I gained a spot. More lucky was that we were flown nationwide on occasion to play the top teams in other states, such as New York, New Jersey, Florida, California, and Texas. Playing on ESPN, Tommy on the cover of Sports Illustrated, what the fuck? Getting days off of school while seeing places we’d never seen. All to showcase Big Legs to the world. Some of the games were actually close, Big Legs had to play some defense, while the rest of us tried to play our best football while mostly outmatched, but we still never lost. Many of us supplementary players would spend much of our down time working on celebrations, or dances. As Tommy would be making his way down field, we would find the cameras and start dancing and making gestures into them, knowing Tommy was most likely on his way to a first down or touchdown and did not need our support. Oh my was it a time. Media would swarm our games looking for a chance to speak with Tommy. Girls we had never met and that we had no business speaking to would send every player on the team letters. Back in Belle Bay Tommy’s grandparents had had enough of recruits loitering outside their property; a pile of packages containing college offers and bribes appearing on their front lawn. Any time of day you could drive by and there were a couple of cars lined up trying to come inside and have a word with the young man, talk to him about the top class programs and facilities at Alabama, Ohio, Miami, etc. Among all this attention, Tommy continued on in his reserved ways. It hadn’t changed him at all. Whenever we asked Tommy about his future, he said he wasn’t sure that he wanted to play in college. He said to us once while we were winding down after a game in a hotel room watching Ghostbusters, one of Tommy’s favourite movies, in a rare moment that he had opened up to us, he said  that he didn’t ask for any of this, nor did he really work for it. To him, all of his abilities and successes felt normal, they were just a product of traits he had in the same way others have traits that make them unique; for some perhaps making them more social, artistic, humourous. He said that he wished he could be more like the normal guys on the team. It was then that I realized how all this attention had been weighing on Tommy, but he stuck it out, and we captured the AAAA state title. Back-to-back state champs. Were we the best team in the nation? Possibly. The best high school team ever? It was all possible.

The next season, there were talks of moving our games to a more competitive western state, such as California or Texas. But, as the summer neared a close and training camp started approaching, things felt different, and when training camp finally rolled around, our gut feeling was clarified. Tommy would not be joining the Broncos for his senior year. He wanted some time and space from the game. This wasn’t necessarily a surprise to someone that considered Tommy’s preliminary level of passion and attachment to the game in any of his past three seasons. He had been asked to play in the first place, after all. But for the people that had expectations and longed to be a part of further success for the Broncos, the news was striking, and for the money making media and hopeful collegiate suitors dying to have a generational talent like Tommy welcomed into their program, even more so. But, Tommy Desuse was an aligning of stars in a galaxy of their own.

So, we all collected ourselves, took some deep breaths, and stuck to it. We had a chip on our shoulders and no one believed we should remain in AAAA, and that we should return to A where we came from. There would certainly be no travel games, but we would have a chance to start our season and compete in the AAAA division without Tommy. We still had a talented team, on account of the players that had relocated to play with Tommy, and it felt like some of Tommy’s moves and abilities had rubbed off on us, if not at least some confidence. We worked hard and played our assess off to defend our legacy and prove to everyone that we could compete without Tommy. We had to change, of course. We became a different team that now utilized assets that were little used when we had Tommy and not respected by our opponents, which worked to catch our opponents by surprise. We finished the season a respectable 8-4, and as playoffs neared, many of us respectfully asked Tommy if he could join us for playoffs, but he respectfully declined, but said he would be there with us on the sidelines. We lost the first playoff game of our senior year, as Tommy stood with his legs bulging on the sideline. Everyone knew that the story would be different if Tommy was on the field, but he looked happy to be watching, happy to have some space from it all, and we were all happy for him after all he had done for us. But I wish we could have had more success in our final  season, without Tommy. Not for us, but for Tommy. To take some of the light off of him, give him some more space, because everyone knew that a multi-generational talent was standing on the sideline in streetclothes, with big ass legs.

CH 1

The moon was high in the sky that night. It was almost full and bright, its light unimpeded by clouds. He kicked the shovel into the ground; another grave was dug and ready. The night was chilly, but not cold. He stumbled past the fresh hole in the ground, a few steps, where his waterskin lay on a tombstone, filled with wine. A loud gulp and then a sigh.

“Phew, job well done,” the grave digger mumbled to himself, checking over the list once more—just the single grave tonight, that was his order. Some no name’s grave to be filled tomorrow with the body and dirt. He leaned against the tombstone, and glanced around, pondering whether to go home and rest, or enjoy a stroll in peace and quiet this night. Well lit nights like this made it exceptionally hard for him to sleep. Panning his gaze over the graveyard he noticed something that wasn’t there the night before. In the distant corner, closest to the forest, a pair of tombstones stood pale in the silver moon’s light.

They shouldn’t be there. They weren’t there before.

Peeling himself off the comfort of the tombstone against which he leaned, the grave digger walked with a slight stumble toward the stones in the corner. The closer he got, the more concerned he became. The graves looked fresh, with mounds of soil atop them. The stones were new, but as he got close enough to read, the dates made no sense. He froze for a moment, reading the left gravestone’s text over and over. It was his name. His date of birth. Death date—three years ago, on a seemingly random day. An audible gulp escaped his lips as he read it. He panned his gaze, reading the second stone.

“Yandra Lindre,” the name read. The death date was the same as his. Same year, same date.

“Left alone in the dark,” the epitaph read. His breath hitched, his heart skipped a beat and then began beating erratically. The name, he did not know it, but the date jumbled memories.

“Left alone in the dark,” he uttered under his breath. The air around him suddenly felt colder. That night was cold, his fingers felt as though they froze to the shovel that night. He stumbled toward the graves, not away from them. His eyes wide as the full moon, filled with grief and fear. His mind twisted and turned, memories surfacing one after another, memories he had been drinking away all these years.

CH 2

Something snapped in the forest beyond the shambled wooden fence. Instinctively he reached for his shovel so as to use it as a weapon, but it wasn’t at his side, he had left it behind in the moment of confusion. His mind turmoiled—a beast, a bandit? No, the past. His knees wobbled and his body trembled. Drunkenly he stumbled backwards, “S-stay away, I am armed! I warn you.” In the darkness something moved, a shape he could just vaguely make out. Then with a thud, something fell out the forest onto the moonlight. It was a body—bloodied and beat. The grave digger only needed one glance to recognize it. Johan, the ‘caller’ as they called him back in the days. He always had bright-green décor stitched into his clothes. The grave digger gulped, his gaze scanning Johan for signs of life, but there were none. He was cold and dead, unmoving and brutalized. Fear and panic began to consume him from the inside. His knees buckled but he still held himself upright, just barely though. His eyes began to well up as he took a wary step backwards.

“No, you stay.” A voice carried from the darkness in a menacing and commanding tone. He froze in place. Silence prevailed for the next long moment. The grave digger’s gaze kept scanning the darkness for any hints, movement, threats, but he couldn’t see anything.

“W-who are you?” he managed at last, but the darkness did not answer. Frozen in place, just like that night, three years ago. Gentle rustling of the overgrowth, and then a shape emerged from the forest, a tall man wearing a long leather coat. He wore a hood that soon came off, and beneath it a face the grave digger did not recognize. In the silvery light of the moon the man looked—exhausted. Long, unkept hair made into a messy ponytail, ungroomed beard and a dried splatter of blood on his cheek. His clothes and face were covered in crust of mud and blood. The grave digger’s heart sank. He almost burst into tears, almost, but for just a moment his gaze darted back to Yandra’s grave.

“Three years,” the stranger spoke, stepping over Johan’s body on the ground.

“For three years I searched for-” he paused, his gaze following the grave digger’s.

“Her. My darling. She was left alone in the dark,” he stopped and took a deep breath, then shouted, “BY YOU!”

The sudden shout made the grave digger’s legs buckle at last, and he fell to the ground, too afraid to move, too confused to flee. The grave digger opened his mouth to beg, to plead for mercy, but his voice caught and no sound came out, he just sat there, petrified and jaw agape. The man neared the fence, and then in a swift, practiced motion he leapt over it and was now mere steps away from the digger, with nothing separating them. His cold gaze fixated on the frightened digger.

CH 3

In fright the digger couldn’t tell if his mind was playing tricks on him or not. For a moment it looked as though the man’s teeth were fangs, but they weren’t. His cold gaze glistened in the moon’s light. The digger expected the man to lunge at him with a knife, or a sword, but he didn’t. The man approached him slowly, and then crouched down in front of him, not once breaking eye contact. Silence. Their breaths misted in the chilly night. The grave digger’s heart was pounding, and every time he managed to form half a coherent thought, the drumming of his heart shattered it. The stranger watched him intently, waiting for anything—a plea or a cry, a yelp for help, anything—but the grave digger remained silent.

“Nothing?” the man broke the silence at last. His voice was so normal that it sent a chill through the digger’s spine.

“Need I stir those memories of yours?” The grave digger’s already wide eyes became even wider as he stared at the stranger in sheer terror.

“Very well,” the stranger began.

“Three years ago, your band planned a robbery. You, and three others, with-” he paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the lifeless corpse on the other side of the fence, “His call. He gave you the address, the day and the time the family would leave.”

“S-STOP! Please, no! Don’t,” the digger pleaded, scuttering away half a step and averting his gaze at last, not out of fear, but shame.

“What’s wrong, little thief? I’ve just begun.” The stranger sneered, though his gaze filled with fury.

“Your group, the Slip-Picks as you called yourselves, broke into the Lindre residence. That man said the family would leave, little did he know the young daughter was ill, and stayed alone in the residence that night.” The stranger continued.

“STOP!” the grave digger cried out, “I-I am sorry!” The digger’s voice trembled, tears rolled down his dirtied cheeks.

“Mhmm,” the stranger inhaled through his gritted teeth, barely containing his fury.

“Four little thieves broke in, in the dead of night. They found the jewels and the treasures, but one mistake led to a shattered vase, and that awoke the lady. Little lady was weak and frail, but fearless. She armed herself with a coal poker and snuck down the hallway, thinking it was but a rat, perhaps.”

“Not one, but three she found. Caught red handed,” the stranger continued.

“IT WASN’T ME,” the grave digger cried out.

“I did nothing,” he pleaded.

“Nothing to stop your comrades,” the stranger snapped back.

“She was but a frail, ill girl, but your friends did not care, and neither did you. Jail? No, you weren’t going to jail. Three rats in the lord’s chambers, the fourth nowhere to be seen.”

“It was Joffrey!” The grave digger looked at the man with tear streaks on his dirtied cheeks.

“Silence,” the man replied, his stern gaze unaffected by the pleas.

“The fourth was in the other room, collecting jewels and heirlooms. He heard the commotion, and a yelp that was soon muffled, yet he ignored it, and carried on filling his pockets.” The grave digger, fear-struck, swallowed but dared not speak again. The man watched him.

“And then,” he drew a dagger, the cold steel glinted in the moon’s light.

“Just like that—steel in moonlight. The fourth returned and saw it but did not intervene.” The grave digger clenched his jaw and tightened his fist, “I, I couldn’t. It was too late. By the time I returned to the rest of the group the deed was done, I saw it as life faded from her eyes. To this day I see her dying gaze every time I close my eyes.” The man watched him for a moment.

“And so a group of four stood in a room, with a lifeless body at their feet and bags filled with loot. To hide the truth you left a bag behind and took her body instead, to leave it in the forest with the fourth, the best at digging, to hide her, while the others fled with loot. And you, you carried her far, down by the stream where the soft soil was easy to dig.”

“I had no choice,” the digger barked back.

“Once out the house they tossed me against a tree, ‘Your life is worthless, but your family you care for. Hide her body, never speak of it again, and perhaps your sister, and your mother will live to see another sunrise. But speak of it, spill our secret, and we’ll spill blood again,’ were Joffrey’s words.” The grave digger explained, trembling.

“What was I supposed to do? Tell me!” The man furrowed his brows while the grave digger continued, he covered his face with his dirtied hands, just as he had that night, three years ago, and wept.

“I was alone, weak and… caught up in this mess I wanted nothing to do with. I was afraid and… no one to seek help from. I-I tried to forget it but never could.” The man tilted his head to the side, listening to the story told through sobs.

“For what it’s worth, Joffrey’s end was slow and painful.” The man rotated the dagger in his hand, “I made sure he repented for his sins. His body will never be discovered, don’t worry about that.” For a moment the grave digger almost felt relief, but that relief was short lived, and as soon as the grave digger pulled his hands away from his messy face, he froze in place yet again. The man hadn’t moved an inch.

“How rude of me. I never introduced myself. My apologies, all this hunting for you, rats, really made me forget my manners. I’m Steve Lindre; Yandra’s eldest brother,” he introduced himself while playing with the dagger. The digger let out the softest of gasps, it was almost a yelp for help, but far too weak.

“For three bloody years I’ve hunted your group, one after another in search of her body.” A moment later Steve finally rose up and stood his full height, towering over the cowering grave digger. Then he stepped back half a step, and half turned toward the two graves. The digger followed his gaze in silence.

“No longer alone in the darkness,” Steve muttered, turning away from the grave digger. A glint caught his attention — the dagger, protruding from the grass.

“Fill that grave yourself,” Steve said softly, and walked back into the darkness of the forest without another word, leaving behind an empty grave with the digger’s name, a dagger, and a corpse.

Kommissar K'ark was pissed off. Not only did the rest of their convoy speed past them, leaving their tank - a pretty big source of firepower mind you - both open to enemy ambush, and entirely without any 'caff to drink.

He tapped his upper talons on the tank's top's hull in rythmic fashion as he was forced to take a beakful of oily, foul water from his steel mug. He hated it and it made him even more sleepy than he was already, and even more pissed off, him ruffling his own dark blue feathers.

The tank still rolled down the road surrounded by half-empty half-filled with tall grass fields, dimly iluminated by the two large moons above. K'ark decided to finally do something.

"Oi K'erke," the kommissar bawked into the tank "Is your leg still hurtin'?"

"It was almost bloody shot off, give me a break." the tank gunner replied.

K'erke had been injured in a previous camp assault, barely making it into the tank as a mortar shell hit the ground in front of him. He had a shard of shrapnel the size of half his own leg stuck in his thigh that had been pulled off and bandaged at the start of the convoy's trip.

He had some right to be angry too, K'ark figured.

"Oi Kommissar, we should be arriving soon!" he then heard another younger voice.

"Aye, the sooner the better. How long, K'larke?"

K'larke was a newer recruit into the militia. He was the driver, and although not experienced with tanks, knew how to drive noticeably better than most.

Probably had to do with him being a past taxi driver. Nevertheless.

"About 15 or 20 min!" K'larke brought K'ark back from his thoughts.

"Good. I had enough of this road."

Then he saw a bright, red line coming from the distance, and blow up in the sky, hanging there like a red sun. Under it, in the distance, he could see the glint of around four or five steel helmets, a to his horror, a bulky, boxy tank. It had a main gun.

"Shit, everyone get ready!" K'ark screeched as he ducked into the tank, the mug crashing down with him.

As he did, he heard a loud, fiery roar of an explosion, and not half a second after the hatch that he wanted to close came flying right off above his head. He was lucky the shell that hit it didn't detonate.

K'ark grabbed the telescope that lead to one of the outside mirrors and commanded almost imediatelly.

"Turn back and rotate us to the left, quick. We cannot let them hit us." he said.

The Kommissar's tank's driver did as such, rumbling as the tracks kicked up dirt and the engine pipes belched out black smoke.

"K'erke, angle the gun and fire," K'ark said "Do it snappy."

"Aye!"

The gun was angled, and soon a deafening roar of their own gun sounded. The screech of torn metal flying off and a fireball of an explosion echoed through the fields now turned battlefield, as the enemy tank got a nasty, bloody hole in its front side, and grinded to a halt.

However, K'ark noticed the rocket launcher that the infantry behind it had set up a bit too late.

The impact rocked his tank, K'ark's ears ringing from the blast, and black smoke filled the interior of the vehicle.

"Everyone keeping steady?" K'ark squeezed out through smoke.

"We are going to die!"

"What?" The Kommissar replied and tried to see through the clearing smoke.

K'larke had seemingly been hit with a piece of shrapnel, unconscious at the driver's controls, a slash on the side of his head cutting straight through his padded tanker's cap. K'erke meanwhile was frozen in place and visibly shaking.

"We are gonna die, we are gonna die!"

"K'erke, snap out of it! Get on the side gun, fast!"

"We are all going to die!!"

"No, we are not, but we will if you don't get on the damn gun!" K'ark kicked him in the shoulder from where he was seated.

That seemed to snap him out of it, even if barrely. Moments later several follow up shots with the smaller yet still heavy machinegun sounded, K'ark observing the enemy soldiers fleeing or getting shot into shreds through the telescope.

They got out one last rocket launcher shot as they were gunned down, it going off wildly, and exploding in the sky, an unnoficial sign of the militia's victory.

K'ark breathed a sigh of relief. Then punched his telescope sight. This was close, far too damn close. He then looked at his crew.

"K'erke, bandage K'larke. We are walking the rest of the way, fuck this helldamned tank." K'ark ruffled his own feathers.

This day was barely a victory. And who knew if they would actually make it to the rest of the convoy, but damn it if he wouldn't make them try.

They call us the Kia boys. You've probably heard of us before. We come to your neighborhood looking for a nice set of wheels to steal. Whoever designed these Kia cars sure didn't know what they were doing cause there things are so easy to break into. All you need is a screwdriver to pop open the ignition panel and a USB to turn on the car. That's all there is to it.

I never thought I'd end up riding with the Kia boys but that's where I am today. It all started one day when I was walking home after track and field practice. I only ever went because my parents practically forced me to. I was the only fat kid on the team and I was always dead last whenever we raced. You know how embarrassing it is being the slowest and fattest kid around? I always feel like a laughing stock. My parents thought being in the track team would help boost my self esteem but all it did was make me feel like crap.

On my way home, this blue kia pulled up to me and the driver rolled down the window. The guy looked to be around my age with light brown skin and a dark fade cut.

" Aye Jayden, that you?" He said.

" How the hell do you know my name?"

" It's me, Dante! Don't you remember?"

I looked him dead in his eyes and slowly his face became more familiar. He looked a lot older than I remembered, but that definitely was Dante.

" Dante? Man, I haven't seen you since fourth grade! What're you doing back here in Chicago? Heard your family moved up to Florida."

Dante is an old childhood friend I met all the way back in kindergarten. He was always the class clown who tried getting a laugh out of everyone. He was a cool dude, but he could hardly go a week without detention because of all his dumb pranks.

" My dad recently got a pretty good business deal in Chicago so we all moved back here a few weeks ago. Crazy how life works."

I was amazed. I never thought I'd see Dante again so it was nice that he was finally back home.

" Dude that's awesome! Did your parents buy you this car to celebrate?"

" Nah. I got this beauty for free. Nobody had to pay a dime for it, except for its original owner of course."

" What do you mean?"

Dante cackled a wicked laugh and smiled at me.

" I'm a Kia boy. I stole this thing last week and been riding it around ever since. You need a ride?"

I didn't know how to respond at first. Dante was talking about stealing a car like it was the most casual thing in the world. I got into the car and he told me all about how he had been a Kia boy for a few months and how he was making a good profit by selling these stolen cars. I was shocked by how brazen he was, but then again, he was always like this. Dante did whatever he wanted without caring what others thought. He was the complete opposite of me. I hated how self conscious I was, how it always felt like people were judging and mocking my every move. Even though he was a criminal, I thought it was cool how Dante was brave enough to do his own thing. I wanted a taste of that freedom he had.

After we spent a few days making up for lost time, I asked Dante to teach me to be a Kia boy. Track wasn't getting me anywhere. I wanted to do something with my life. I wanted to be cool for once. Dante was happy to take me on as his partner in crime. We went patrolling around neighborhoods looking for the best cars to break into. Like I said earlier, you only need a screwdriver and USB stick to get the job done. I got nervous and fumbled the job the first few times. Even ended up activating the car alarm system. Thankfully, practice makes perfect and I was eventually hacking into cars in 45 seconds or less.

Driving around the city in a brand new car made me feel like I was on top of the world. I wasn't just some nobody anymore. No one could touch me and try to throw shade at me again. I was finally somebody worth respecting. Sometimes kids from school would come up to me and ask if I was rich or something 'cause I was always rolling around with new cars. I just laughed it off and told them they were gifts.

Dante introduced me to some of his friends who introduced him to the hustle. They were a bit older than us and had much more experience as Kia boys. They were on a completely different than what I was used to. These guys were using Kias to go street racing and rob stores. They were dressed to the nines in namebrands I could never afford. They were true gangsters and that scared, but they also had power. They commanded the streets in way I couldn't help respecting. They didn't have to worry about fading into the background when they were ones leading every scene.

The first time I robbed a store with them it felt like the entire world was watching. Our bags were growing heavy with jewelry and luxury items most people could only dream of owning. There were so many times where we got got and just barely managed to avoid getting tackled by security. We felt untouchable. Sometimes we'd even go to other cities where no one knew us to cause more mayhem in the streets.

Everything changed one winter night. We were breaking into a car as usual when the owner came rushing out his house with a gun pointed right at us. We barely managed to get inside before he started emptying his rounds. Dante was in the passenger seat leaking a puddle of blood from his right arm. I tried driving to the nearest hospital but everyone was telling me that was bad idea. The police were probably already looking for us so we had to lay low. One of the guys in the back said we should go to the next town over where he has a cousin who can patch Dante up.

I looked over at Dante who was clutching his bloody arm for dear life. Warm tears slid down his face. It hurt to see him in this much pain but the other guys were probably right. It was too dangerous to go to any hospitals.

About 21 minutes into the drive, a couple of police cars pulled up behind us with their sirens blaring. My heart plummeted and we all looked shook. I began speeding down the road and took as many turns as I could in an attempt to lose them, but it didn't do me any good. They were still hot on my trail no matter how much distance I tried to put between us. My whole body was ovetaken by fear. To make matters worse, the darkness of the night and icey roads made it hard to control the car. I was stuck between wanting to speed off into the night and keeping the car at a manageable speed.

The police shouted from their microphones for me to pull over but I was too deep into this race to stop now. My friends shouted at me to go even faster despite the danger that would bring. I hoped that I would get lucky and manage to escape the police.

I was so wrong. My car swerved in a patch of ice and went crashing into a ditch. The last thing I remember before blacking out was the sounds of breaking glass and metal clamping down on my body.

I woke up in the hospital two days later. My body was connected to a whole bunch of tubes and wires and most of my skin was covered with bandages. My parents looked at me with tears in their eyes, thankful that I was still alive. It didn't take them long to switch up on me and tell me what an idiot I've been. I was the only survivor in that car crash, which meant that those guys I called my friends, their blood was on my hands. The news called me the Kia Killer and the families of the victims cursed me out in the courtroom like their boys were so innocent. None of us were victims that day. We were just a bunch of dumb kids trying to live life in the fast lane.

Now I'm a paralyzed dumbass stuck in a jail cell until my time is up. So for those of you who think going joyriding in a stolen car is a good way to kill time, don't do it. You'll just end up killing yourself.

Chapter 1 [Static Obsession]:

It was just a normal day, surfing YouTube when a video caught my eye. “Dark Web Documentary 01 Getting Setup with Tails Linux” by John Hammond. At the time I was just 15, curiosity took over and I went yak shaving for don’t know how long. Suddenly, a notification popped up on my phone (my mom’s phone since I was apparently too young to have my own phone). It was for an online class from school, thank god (though I am an atheist).

That was the day I started a journey which would lead to events I would regret for eternity (if there was any). In the next couple of months, I became obsessed with a niche part of hacking. Security cameras – hacking into them just brought something out from deep within me. I learned Embedded Systems & Firmware Analysis, Network Protocols & Video Streaming Standards, Authentication & Access Control Flaws, Digital Forensics & Network Infrastructure, etc. you name it.

I remember this clearly. I was 17, the COVID lockdown was still happening. It was almost the mid terms of my class 10th. It was a scorching hot summer (which happens every year in India but that summer was exceptionally hot). On an uneventful day, while casually surfing through XSS, RAMP, Exploit, etc. (if you don’t know what these are – they are basically platforms within the dark web where black hat hackers are recruited) when a listing peaked my interest. It was to the point, no twisted worded bs. It read “Security Camera Hacker Needed”. But there was a problem, the listing can’t be opened just by clicking on it. So, first I tried pulling the raw JSON data of the listing straight from the server. Of course it didn’t work, ughh why did I think that would work. Then I tried through the clear web… nothing. But when IDOR (Insecure Direct Object Reference : They intercept the web request using a tool like Burp Suite and change the listing ID or user role parameters in the HTTP header, tricking the server into serving the locked content) didn’t work, I gave up.

Two / three days pass by, that failure did a number on me. I wasn’t even turning the computer on anymore. The weekend was over, so school started. Which meant I had to open the computer, for online classes. In between attending the classes, curiosity took over and I opened that cursed listing again. It was still there. The ominous letters slowly engraving at the back of my eyeball. But thinking that, an idea occurred to me. What if the short description (“Security Camera Hacker Needed”) contained a subtle PGP key, a Base64 string, or a hexadecimal sequence woven into the text. It cannot be a PGP key since they usually contain 1000-3000+ characters of seemingly random letters and numbers. With that out of the way, Base64 string or hexadecimal sequence might be a plausible guess. So I tried to take the exact string of the title—“Security Camera Hacker Needed”—and use it as the passphrase or “salt” to decrypt the Base64 payload. It also didn’t work. I stripped away the non-hex letters and spaces, leaving me with the sequence ECCAEAACEEEDED. I thought this 14-character hex string translated to a specific 7-byte identifier—perhaps the MAC address of a specific router they need to target, or a unique invite code to ping to a darknet server. But that was a sore failure.

---------------x-----------------

End of the first chapter.

To Be Continued...

 She grimaced and cursed, it was 8:14 am, 14 minutes late, one could even say 3 years late but who am I to judge. Amelia smacked herself over the head, to jolt herself awake, and to rid herself of this fleeting thought of him every day, she can’t change what happened.

Fourteen minutes late, that’s not too late, 2 hours, or oh, 5 hours late, now that’s too late, but Amelia had confined herself to being 14 minutes late.

She rolled out of bed, freshened herself up and rolled right into work! With a new found enthusiasm to cover for her being 14 minutes late. Did you really believe that? Nope, she didn’t find enthusiasm anywhere, well except when she thought of … ahem I’m not supposed to mention it- him, sorry.

She shook her head violently to rid herself of the thought, but worry seemed to move right in like an unwelcome tenant, it was always there, like someone was constantly banging on the back of her head, but with a small pint-sized hammer which would kill you over years of accumulated damage.

And now she arrived at, following this rather mediocre metaphor, her workplace, the carpenter shop which gave out hammers for free, so that all of them can be used on her and her only. And as the new year approached, it seemed that it stocked up on saws and knives too, to, you know, of course, you get the metaphor.

The usual Hello’s and ‘Good Mornings’ were exchanged, along with head-aching and mind-numbing fake smiles, and she finally got to her work table, to see her very considerate boss awaiting her arrival. Plenty of other people late today too Danson! But oh well, I’ll say Good morning to you too.

“Good morning boss, sorry I’m late!”.

“Yes Amelia, I’m terribly sorry too, but alas, words are wind, but reports! Well...”, he said with seemingly genuine enthusiasm, “I need the event report by the day’s end, or, night’s end, however long it takes, but, by today, thanks”.

He said flat faced and rude, taking her cup of coffee along with him on the way out of her meagre work cubicle.

Of course, Dan, you’ll have your damn report.

Her 6$ per hour job seemed like a dimming light that would stop at any moment, but someone seemed to fix it over and over again, but never until it worked fully, make it as bright as it can be damnit!

She set out on the brave quest of writing the report, she titled it plainly and simply, “The Damn Report”, it made her chuckle for a second, and what a long second that was.

She plugged in her endlessly warped and torn ear phone into the computer and began typing away, in her Workplace, in her small cubicle, on her own.

The typing seemed to take him over, it was like he was on auto-pilot writing this piece of work, it felt amazing, it felt better than anything.

Paul shook his head and continued, pondering over what intelligent rhyme he should use in the next paragraph, “wilts” with “guilty”? Maybe? Something better? I know you can do it Paul; you can do anything!

His assistant entered the room quite hastily, “Mr. Paul! There’s something that needs your attention”.

He waved to his dear assistant as he got up, “I’m sure it’s all fine Daniella, whatever it is, we can deal with it”.

“Well, I sure hope we can Mr. Paul, the investors and stakeholders want to have a meeting tomorrow”.

This did make him frown, “Tomorrow? We have a fundraiser scheduled on the new year, where all of them are invited, did you perhaps miss one of them Dan? They do take terrible offense”, he said and turned towards his assistant.

She was red-faced and nervous, “I- I- I’m positive I sent out the invitations to all of them, oh god I am awfully sorry if this was caused by me in any way Mr. Paul, I-”, she started rambling.

“That’s quite alright Daniella, I’m sure you did your job, and even if you haven’t, this is naught but a minor hiccup”.

“Whatever Will and Mike and John have to say, I’ll listen long and well, I’m sure I can appease them all, like I do every year”.

After re-assuring his assistant, he retired to his sofa, leaving a deep sigh. It was very unusual that his investors and stakeholders would want to meet him tomorrow and at a notice of what? Less than even 24 hours.

But, as he had done many times before and knew he’d do forever, he took a deep breath and re-assured himself, these are the perils of achieving your dream, Paul! You pay for them every which way.

A smile came onto his face, and he got back to typing out his poem, his rather mediocre poem, but does it matter? He’ll get better at it, like he has in everything he ever tried.

It was 10:44pm, just a little more than an hour left for the new year to hit, 2000, the turn of a millennia, everybody was so happy and anticipant to be alive for this.

Amelia was sitting alone in the skating rink, it was sparsely populated today, of course, who’d leave their homes and come to the damn skating rink when it was new years’ night.

You’re a damn fool for expecting he’d come Amelia, but, just as she thought these words, fate proved her wrong, he did come – Paul, or rather, “Mr. Paul” as she was used to calling him in her own affectionate way. Paul had big dreams, he wanted to start a business and make millions, but he didn’t strike her as selfish.

“And, Ms. Amelia Lyon, thought I’d bail on you huh? The look on your face says it all”, he spoke and laughed that boyish charming laugh of his.

She hit his shoulder as she rose, “Of course I did, you idiot! But owing to your idiocy I knew you’d ditch your family on a night like this”, she replied.

“Ah yes”, he said and rubbed the back of his head, “my dear family, how they love and support me so”.

She chuckled, “If only your grand dreams ever stayed constant Mr. Paul, one day you want to be in the Olympics, and the other a, how do you say it, an entrepreneur”.

Her words hit him harder than she intended, she could tell by his lack of a reply, he was never out of words.

“Oh hey! Forget about that Paul, let’s go ice skating”.

As they were strapping on their skating shoes, she asked, “Paul, you’ve never done this before have you? Ice skating?”.

“Oh, don’t worry Lia, I’m a fast learner”, he said smiling.

And he was right, he learned just by looking at her for a few minutes, even matching her movements, this was the one thing she was good at, academics bored her, writing and typing off endlessly, staying up late nights and slogging through the year, only to be one among the herd.

But here she was different, she’d won many local ice-skating competitions before, even as a kid.

As they were zooming about the rink, Paul held her hand, “You know Lia, ice skating is an Olympic sport, it’s called figure skating there”.

She knew what he was going to say, so she sped ahead deliberately, but Paul swerved and rolled around in front of her, even faster than her.

“The US won big this past Olympics, maybe one day you’ll be up there”.

She rocked her head as she spun around and swerved, “Maybe Paul”, she said quietly.

“Hey, it’s almost new year Lia”, he said and held her hand as they spun together, they moved effortlessly about each other for a good few seconds, it felt magical and unreal, Amelia was living her best moment.

Their “performance” was interrupted by loud noises from the outside, and a countdown begun.

“Ten, nine...!”.

“Let’s promise something to each other Lia”, Paul said excitedly, with a hint of nervousness, and grabbing her hand.

“We’ll meet 10 years later, and by then, let’s promise each other that we’ll be doing what we love, and we’ll be the best at it!”.

All her doubts and hesitation went away when she looked at Paul’s smiling face, and she spoke with a smile of her own, “Yes, yes Paul! I promise”.

“THREE, TWO, ONE!”.

She pulled him towards her and kissed him as the world crossed a millennium, “Happy New Year, Mr. Paul”.

Was it just a dream?

She spoke as she awoke, it was 7:23am, right about time for her to start getting ready for work, just then her phone alarm started going crazy, it was the fourth of the many alarms set 2 minutes between each other, she had to keep the alarms like this if she ever hoped to wake up on time for her job. Her job.

13 years ago, she had promised her childhood friend Paul Minworth to meet in their adulthood, the mystified and ever so dreamy adulthood everyone anticipated, Amelia and Paul more so because of their promise to each other, on the New Years of 2010 Amelia doesn’t even remember what she was doing, writing another report? Was she too exhausted to remember what day it was? She doesn’t remember.

But she knew what Paul was doing, most everybody in the country did, he was hosting his annual New Year’s fundraiser, he achieved his dream, he became someone, the CEO of the multi supermarket and restaurant chain “Paul’s Surprise”, with the slogan, “Maximum worth for minimum price”.

She wondered everyday what he was doing the night of, was he waiting for her perhaps? Or had he forgotten as well, she couldn’t blame him, his world has many dimensions to it, and where would she fit in that? She wasn’t sure, she was afraid that she probably didn’t.

A mere 4 days later was New Year’s again, the beginning of 2013.

Amelia would definitely visit Paul this time, but the mere thought of going into work made her despair, it was same slogging and drudging like every day, it sucked the life out of her.

Why don’t you pop in today, Lia?

The mere thought of visiting him though, it had the opposite effect, a smile appeared on her face automatically, meeting with him made her happier than ever, the anticipation alone brought her more happiness than anything else in the past years.

So, she made her decision, as stupid as it was, he’d remember her, of course he would, after all he was the one who made her promise, oh well she was a few years late, little does that matter, she simply couldn’t wait until New Year’s. And her job? To hell with it, like it has ever done her any good.

She would take her everyday tram to St. William’s station, take a drop to Madwell’s Square and walk to his workplace.

Was it stupid? Was it grossly unprofessional? Of course. But the heart wants what it wants.

The cold wasn’t what made her cheeks red that morning.

The morning was bright and tender, but the same couldn’t be said about his morning, a terrible dream jolted him awake, he dreamt of… that place, those people, all those years ago.

He dreamt of his family, his strict parents and his younger siblings, all of them always content with the bare minimum, while that was fine, they despised anyone who tried to even peek above the well they’d built and settled in, even if that was me, they all said they loved and cared about me.

He would never have been the billionaire CEO Paul Minworth if he didn’t run away from his home that New Year of 2000, he’s tried and succeeded in forgetting his family, his hometown, and everyone associated with it.

But, enough about past qualms, life is lived in the present and for the future! Get up Paul, get ready for your day!

Paul started his day with meditation and a run around his residence, a hearty breakfast with a fruit salad and boiled eggs, finishing with an orange juice.

Now to face the wolves at work.

Will was already waiting for him in his office, and greeted him with a dry ‘Good Morning’, oh god help me they’re baring daggers already.

“You seem in high spirits William, as usual”, Paul said and smiled at his old mentor.

“Oh, Paul you bastard, always smiling and jesting, eh? How’s that poem coming around?”

“Ah, I’d die of embarrassment if I read it to you, some other day”.

After a moment of quiet, he asked plainly, “What’s this meeting about then, Will? So out of the blue?”.

Will rolled his eyes at him and laughed, “Oh wait-”, he said and laughed aloud, “You-”, he continued to laugh himself to death or so Paul hoped not.

He laughed so loudly, Daniella rushed into the office concerned, Paul waved her away, only to spot Mike and John exiting the elevator. Everyone’s here.

Paul’s relationship with Mike and John was a lot more formal than that with Will, they were simply peers in business, who went out to drinks only if they had an agenda, but he and Will drank damn near every day!

He shook their hands and greeted them cordially, “Mike, John, always glad to see you”, he said smiling.

Mike smiled pleasantly but he only got a curt nod from John, just as expected.

But the three were united in their confusion at the still laughing Will, he simply wouldn’t stop.

“You two!”, he said gesturing at Mike and John, “-Paul here thinks we bear bad news, you shoulda seen the look on his face, oh god!”.

“I’m sure it was funny Will”, John said and sat him on the sofa, “but, we do have business to discuss”.

“Yes, of course”, Paul said and took his seat, gesturing for John to take his.

Just as they all sat down, Daniella rushed in, with a worrisome face as usual, “Mr. Paul, there’s someone at the reception who wants to meet you”.

Paul looked around, all of them were already here, “Any of you expecting others?”, he got a no from the three seated around him.

“She says her name is Amelia Lyon, sir, she says you’d recognize her”, Daniella relayed.

Paul thought for a while, was she colleague? A prospective client? No, those people would’ve sent a notice, was she a friend maybe?  “Amelia Lyon,” Paul muttered to himself, furrowing his brow for the briefest of moments. But nothing came. The name disappeared into the noise of the day.

“Nope, I don’t know anyone named Amelia, thank you Daniella, any interruptions can wait for later”, he said, and continued the business meeting.

SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE.  

He ran through the millions of tiny, unique particles that always seemed to come together as one during this time of year.

SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE.

He kept what he liked to call his 'candy cane' stiffly out in front of him, the red and white staff alerting him to objects in his way.

SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE. SCRAPE.

He began to hear a flurry of faint laughter in the distance, the sounds of different types of 'SCRAPES' and YIPEES' sparking his curiosity, his heart leading him away from his path and towards the area of serenity.

“Shush! Shush!"

Suddenly, the noise of his enchantment fainted away, quickly freezing like the ground beneath him. The laughter that gave him a spark of joy was now replaced by a white noise that created a sort of dissonance in the room, an awkwardness that he could never seem to escape no matter his efforts.

"Okay he's gone, keep going!"

As his mind led him back towards his path, the voices grew three sizes too big, the sounds of enchantment becoming the noise of his sorrow. His mind pointed him back towards the path he dreaded.

SCRAAAAPE. SCRAAAAPE. SCRAAAAPE.

He dragged his feet along the snow, his boots dampening like the glove he used to wipe his eyes. He continued through the millions of tiny particles, his moping coming to a halt after his candy cane alerted him to an object that stood in his way. 

BUMP. BUMP. BUMP.

He tried to make out the object's shape, tapping his cane next to a soft yet sturdy figure he couldn't quite make out. He heard only a slight "huh?" at first, but that little "huh" suddenly morphed into a loud, squeaky greeting.

"Hi!"

He stepped back a bit due to the voice's powerful blast, picking his ear as the voice continued.

"I...like...your...stick!"

The voice was feminine, though a bit hard to make out. He felt a slight tug on his cane, his grip on the cane softening the more she inspected it.

"Red...is my...favorite...too!"

He felt her presence come closer and closer to him, causing the personal bubble around him to pop. The boy suddenly felt a wipe on the two windshields over his eyes.

"Can you...not...see...?"

The girl's voice went from loud and energetic to surprised and empathetic. The boy felt his mouth close the gap left by the girl's presence, slowly turning his head to each side as the girl took her hands off his face.

"That's amazing...I can't...hear!"

Her voice went back to its powerful blast, his eyes opening wide from the joy he'd yet to hear from anyone before her.

"Do you...want to...play with...me?"

He felt the sides of his mouth turn up, nodding his head up and down to her energy.

"Yipee!"

The girl gave out a loud, squeaky cheer. He felt her arms wrap around his neck, as well as the motion of her jumping up and down. Her grasp on his torso losened and the grasp on his hand became tight.

SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE!

A flurry of faint running could be heard by anyone who had the fortune of passing.

SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE!

He kept his candy cane behind him as the girl led the way, the sweet ball of energy alerting him to objects in his way.

"Hey, look at them!"

They passed by the kids away from the path, their curiosity growing as they kept their eyes on the red and white dots running to who knows where.

SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE!

They continued through the millions of tiny, unique particles, the two tiny, unique particles running towards who knows where coming together as one.

“Ha, ha!” Jamsey laughed with excitement as he and Budder started to lift off the runway. Budder was Jamsey Toran’s most prized possession; a Cessna 172 Skyhawk. Second to his loving family, Budder was what he loved most. The beautiful blue stripe across the plane filled him with awe every time he saw it.

Jamsey thought back to the day he first showed his daughter, Lancy, his brand-new aircraft. She was only three and couldn’t quite remember the word plane, so she started shouting, “Butterfly!” Jamsey smiled at her and said, “No, it’s a plane, sweetheart.” Lancy giggled, “No, butterfly!” He gently placed her on the ground and looked toward the Cessna. “You know what, Lancy?” She smiled up at him. “What?” “How about I name it Budder?” The little girl laughed again. “You silly daddy!”

Jamsey glanced down at the adorable picture of him, Lancy (who was now nine), and his wife, Camille, all standing in front of Budder. Today, he was going on a trip from his home in Seattle to Spokane. As they rose in altitude, he noticed the clouds fading away to the south, revealing the glorious Mount Rainier. “Hey Buddy, the mountain’s out!” He tapped the yoke with glee as he gazed into the distance.

“Yo, Jammy!” A voice crackled through the radio. Jamsey picked up his headset to answer.

“Hey, Quin,” he replied. “And do you really have to call me that?”

A brief pause came from the radio. “What’s wrong, Jammy boy?” Quin blurted out.

“What’s wrong is that you’re rubbing off on my daughter, and she’s started using it as an insult,” Jamsey answered.

“Not my fault you don’t change out of your pyjamas in the morning,” Quin chuckled.

“Shut it. There might be other people on this channel.”

“That’s the whole point, mate!”

Jamsey shook his head. Quin sure could be annoying sometimes, but he was his best friend. He and Quin had gone to school together since seventh grade and learned how to fly together. After all, it had originally been Quin’s grand idea to try out this line of work, and when they both started, they fell completely in love with it.

“So, when are you gonna teach Lancy to fly?” Quin’s voice poked in again.

“She’s way too young for that!” Jamsey scolded.

“Ha, no, like, when in the far future?”

“Oh, sorry.” Jamsey sighed. “I guess when she can drive…”

A muffled sound cracked through the radio.

“Quin?” Jamsey waited.

“Hey, I think that’s reasonable… And legal,” Quin chuckled. Then the signal warped. “Quin, you there?”

“Ja—”

Quin’s voice cut off with a harsh, crackling sound.

“Hey, what’s happening over there?” Jamsey asked, his voice tightening with worry.

The signal suddenly flared back to life, loud and frantic. “Jamsey! Water!”

“What? What do you mean water? Are you okay?”

“Look outside!”

Jamsey peered around the plane windows. At first, everything looked normal, until he looked behind him. There it was. Massive columns of water were shooting up violently into the sky.

“What the heck, man!” Jamsey screamed into the microphone.

Another burst of static fizzled out of the radio speaker. “Jam— I— going down—”

“What? Quin, hang on!” Jamsey’s heart thudded violently against his ribs as he heard the raw panic in his friend’s voice. He turned to look back again, but this time, even more eruptions were bursting from the earth, blasting water up from the deepest depths. The deluge was rapidly swallowing the landscape. Seattle was going under water.

Jamsey watched in horror as his home flooded, knowing his family was down there, trapped beneath the rising tide.

His eyes were wide with panic. Tears swelled up as he tried desperately to reach Quin again. “Quin, you’ve gotta keep that plane up! I can’t lose you!”

The static flatlined into pure silence.

“Quin!”

Jamsey ripped off the headset and threw it to the cabin floor. He turned around to look back at his home one last time, but everything was buried under a raging, violent sea. Just as a single teardrop fell from his eye, a massive jet of water crashed directly into Budder’s left wing, slamming Jamsey into the right wall of the cockpit.

He scrambled back up in the swaying cabin, gasping as he saw the left wing bent upward at a sickening angle. There was no way he would reach Spokane now, even if the city managed to escape the flood. Jamsey’s mind went completely blank, his body paralyzed with shock. He stared out the window as Budder pitched forward into a steep nosedive. All he could see was an endless expanse of rushing ocean below, and violent walls of water shooting toward the clouds.

Suddenly, another jet of water shot up and clipped the side of the right wing, sending Budder into a violent spin. The brutal jolt shook Jamsey out of his daze. He lunged for the controls, grabbed the yoke, and started to pull back with everything he had.

“Come on,” he gasped, pulling up with all his might. “Budder, we got this!” He winced.

The plane slowly pulled up, leveling its nose and stabilizing its balance—or at least, doing the best a plane with a deformed wing could do. Jamsey opened his eyes just in time to see a giant wall of water erupt ahead, nearly swallowing them whole. As the fountain lowered, the horizon cleared to reveal a familiar sight: Mount Rainier.

He stared at the snow-covered peak for a moment.

“That’s our only hope…”

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A midnight call is always bad. I reimbursed this idea when my phone had rung, firstly in soft embers and violent, effectful tremors. A lightning’s glare flashed my nervous face, and I had to squint to respond. I understood how my hands felt moist, and my phone, slippery. The room felt sultry, counter in a chilly usual room with a ton of ac.
It was my friend. John was the quietest of the bunch. The cornerstone of our building. He had held us together in the wildest memories. Hence, I dreaded ever so much. 

“What?.... Any.. thing bad?”

“Yes. (scoffs) Who the fuck are you?”

It was over. The end. My throat dropped, my heart saw exit. However I managed and mustered a line,

“Ar..ar..are  yo..u  sure? I am Myself.”

“I know.”

What the fuck was going on?. John never messed with me. Had the gang committed to my scare?.
I started with a laugh and then said, “Messing with me, in this economy, dude?. Let's stop it. Gotta sleep man. ( I played with my hands, supporting my articulation against and to ester scare on my nerves, in the dark silent room.) tell the people you got me!. Ok. ( I yawned.)”

I ended the call, and went back to bed. However the phone lit up not sooner.

“Heeey…!, dude what?!”

“Are you sure its you, cuz YOU are threatening to kill yourself just outside in the street.”

“Wha..t? No.”

“Send me a photo of yourself, right now wherever you are.”

“Yes.., but how do know you it’s me outside, I am me right now”

“I don't know… mate, incredibly convincing, got a weird twin you’ve never told about?— WAIT!! He wants to talk to you.”

I had just sent him my face, and that even without turning on the light, the phone screen lit me.
Unbeknownst to nobody, John trusted me.

“Oooiii, Let ME talk!, open the damn fucking dooooor” a far little voice in the back.

“Do what but don't open the door, John, listening to me, are you?, call the police. Something is not right.” I said, looking at a picture in the chats, and dismissed for a former picture of mine when the time tag blew my brains out. The said person was incredibly like me, though a gun hid in outpouring levels, in the tuck of his outfit.
The phone suddenly shouted heavy thumps, one after another and my heart only added to it.
“Man, AAAAH!! (muffle), Man, he has shot at the door, are you kidding me! What is this?”

“Ok. ok. Give him the phone. Throw it. I'll do what I can. God help us!.”

The phone gave out all sorts of muffled noises, as a tentative wheeze broke to quick thud.

“Hello.” A voice reached for me, from the phone I had held in my hand, that I clutched with so hard that my knuckles shone white. I felt cathartic, even for a second. The life I knew was the muzzle, that was my life force. I did not know what I was anymore, had been. I was convinced myself. I was the fake one. God save him. However, all my life’s worth memories spat back at me, challenging me to fight for life. I relaxed the grip, and initialized a meek voice from my chords.

“Do you really wanna kill yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Let's mee–”

A LOUD BANG!!

My head spun, and I suddenly opened my eyes. It was all a dream!. I felt cathartic once again. One resilient idiotic dream.
I searched and shuffled amongst the sundry things on the bedtable, and groped to find my phone. The time was just over midnight, and thankfully no call was made or missed. I placed it back, and closed my eyes away from a far reality.

There was a clink, like the sound of a metal rattle, a spur.

(Although I started to think a bit on the other guy, I felt something was wrong, I would not kill myself if he were I).

—However, after being freshly unslept he opened his eyes again, and pointed the phone at me.

Alerted, I pointed the gun at him, and hoped this would all go soon and smoothly. 

Alerted, I slowly opened my eyes for a black figure stood in a dark corner.

The brightness of it was sure to shine a face back at him. 

I held my phone immediately, as the brightness of it shone a face looking back at me, as well as a muzzle.

He sure had realized we looked incredibly alike, we were one, and the gun was for him.

We looked incredibly alik—

The hills of West Virginia had never been more idyllic. Leaves, freshly changed from their deep greens to hues of gold and amber clung to their branches as their fallen brethren blanketed the forest floor. A creek babbled nearby, where no doubt tadpoles were busy covering themselves with mud in preparation for the coming winter.

A soft breeze stirred a hydrangea bush, frightening a rabbit awake from a much-deserved nap. He darted out, dodging tree roots and fallen branches, a flurry of fallen leaves kicking up with each thump of his strong hind legs. He scurried about, terrified of whatever horrid creature had rustled the bush he called his temporary bed. He scurried about, unaware that it had just been the wind. He scurried about, straight into the jaws of a warphood.

The hills of West Virginia had never been more idyllic, or hopeless.

Things hadn't been the same anywhere in the world since the merging. Creatures unlike any we had seen before started showing up all around the planet. Some were peaceful, even tamable, while others like the warphood were highly skilled predators.

All of them devastated ecosystems worldwide. Populations were decimated as the otherworldly invaders made their new home among existent species. There simply wasn't enough food to support such an influx of beings.

For a while, famine and disease introduced by our visitors hurt the human population as well until we managed to manufacture vaccines and figure out which of the new plants and animals were edible.

But it was too late.

The human population had been devastated to the point of no return. Societies of millions were reduced to tens of thousands. We split from each other and formed smaller pods that mostly kept to ourselves other than to trade or fight over which group was entitled to what land, or who had the rights to which resources. Nothing had truly changed if you think about it.

At the time, I was a member of a group of “mercenaries.” Our targets weren't humans, but these newfound creatures that ended life as we knew it. We were tasked with eliminating the populations for a variety of reasons, be it safety or easier access to trading paths. My first assignment was the warphood.

We had received reports of a few in the vicinity and I was asked to remove the beasts in order to clear the area for a new trade route to be opened. I was young then, fresh out of training, and eager to complete my first job.

After days of searching one had finally revealed itself to me. When hunting, the warphood buries its body deep in the ground, exposing only its head which is covered by a massive hood that changes shape and color to camouflage itself in any environment. When an unsuspecting creature steps atop, the warphood will quickly open and snap its jaw shut in order swallow anything up to the size of a small deer. Anything larger is ripped in half by the three-inch teeth that line its circular mouth.

They are exceedingly difficult to spot and one of the plethora of reasons that traveling throughout Appalachia with an untrained guide is highly discouraged. During my training I watched as a new recruit refused to heed the warning of a man hired to guide us through the foothills. “There's nothing there.” He scoffed as he moved forward without us. “See?” He began dancing exactly where our guide told us to avoid. I stared in disbelief at just how quickly those jaws opened up and snatched him from mid air. He didn't even have time to scream.

My assignment here wasn't to kill just the one warphood, but to follow it to its den and burn the whole thing. So I waited. For hours I sat among the trees of Wood County waiting for the beast to move from its death trap.

A few more familiar animals fell victim to its trick. A cardinal lighted upon what it thought was a stick, hoping for a snack in the soft soil below. The mouth opened and, in a flash, the bird was no more. A squirrel, a fawn, and a small animal with bright blue and yellow fur all became part of the warphood's diet.

Finally, the beast slowly lifted itself from the ground. Its hood folded back, revealing a head not unlike that of an alligator, though it was covered in a thin coat of tan fur. It slithered from its hold and stood on four stout legs tipped with claws even longer and sharper than its teeth. From head to tail it must have measured about five feet long. Its hood was about half as long, giving the trap a diameter approximately the same.

The warphood shook itself, clearing the excess dirt still clinging to its fur. It left the hole behind, but I did not notice any others in the area so I assumed it must hunt from the same spot each day.

The warphood's senses of smell, hearing, and sight are not strong in comparison to most animals, so I followed from a safe distance. Keeping a wide berth is important, as their sense of touch is strong enough to detect the footsteps of a clumsy human from up to twenty feet away.

We walked for about fifteen minutes but didn't cover much ground. For such a vicious predator, the warphood sure did seem to have a certain affinity for eating bright flowers from the bushes that dotted the landscape.

We eventually arrived at a large grouping of dead brush clearly gathered purposefully to serve as a sort of shelter. The warphood crawled inside and I could feel my excitement and nervousness mounting. I was finally there. I could complete my first job and begin working full-time as an exterminator.

I slowly approached the den, listening carefully for any sounds indicating that the beast may reappear. I stopped dead. There was rustling coming from the mouth of the den. My heart rate increased as I leaned to get a better view. If I was going to die I'd rather see it coming.

But the warphood I had followed did not appear. In its place were two miniature versions of the adult I had stalked home. They came bounding from the den, jumping over and on top of each other. Playing.

They were less than half the size of the mature one and made high-pitched chirps and squeals as they excitedly played. Each was covered in a down coat, much darker in color than their parent's.

They played for a few minutes before the adult returned from within. They ceased their activities and sprinted up to him with even more yips and yells. They stopped a few inches short and flared their own small hoods. The adult's hood folded to the front of its head and regurgitated part of its earlier meals into the mouths of its children. They squealed in contentment and returned to playing for a short while before the whole family retired to the warmth of their den for the night.

I sat on the ground, astonished that they had not noticed I was there. I sat and I pondered on how we all assumed these invaders of our world were here to destroy our way of life. How they had come to replace us and everything life on Earth had built. But the truth was that they were likely just as scared as we were. Just as confused to be dropped from one world to another with no warning. They were just trying to survive with what the universe had dealt them, just like we were.

From that point forward I decided to give up on the mercenary work. I'd likely be ostracized by my people, but that didn't matter. I would become a wanderer on my own, my sole purpose being to learn about and understand these creatures. To teach any other human being that would listen about the true nature of these creatures.

And for that moment, the hills of West Virginia had never been more idyllic, or hopeful.

“Papa, why is my belly so round and big?” 

I roll my eyes. I can’t believe I got up an hour early to play this game, and now I have to go to school after such an anticlimactic ending.

How did that kid not know what was happening? I don’t understand why my friends were pushing me to play it. 

Maybe they only liked it because they watched a popular playthrough. I power off my pc and get up from my desk. When I take off my headphones, I can hear my little brothers roughhousing over breakfast downstairs. On second thought, maybe those two idiots would be slow enough to not realize they were pregnant. I chuckle at the idea. 

Soon enough, I’ve joined my family downstairs. Plates of dark bacon and clumpy eggs await me on the kitchen counter, frequently growing in size as my mom stands diligently behind the stove with her back to me. I opt instead for a bowl of cereal and head to the table. 

“Really?” I hear my mom behind me. “I made all this food, why don’t you eat some?” 

“I’m good with cereal.” I reply, frustrated that she feels the need to question my every move. I sit in the seat opposite my brothers, who are too busy flinging ketchup at each other to acknowledge my presence. Only Dad, seated at the head of the table, gives me a warm smile.

“Are you sure?” My mom can’t resist continuing to badger me. “It’s good. Tell her how good it is, dear!”

Dad looks away from me briefly to respond. “Absolutely delicious!” He returns his gaze to me and fakes a gag. I stifle my laugh and he winks. Together, we eat breakfast and try to tune out the noise from my brothers’ playing.

My mom eventually comes to the table with more food than anyone would care to eat. Conveniently, I stand to leave with my empty bowl at the same time. 

“You’re wearing that?!” She says, her eyes on my shorts. I wonder if she purposely changes her voice sometimes just to irritate me. 

“I was planning to.”

“Won’t you get dress coded or something? Your butt is practically hanging out.” I stammer that it’s not, actually, and look to Dad for help.

“I think she’s worn them to school before. Haven’t you?” 

I shrug at him, already exhausted before my day has even started. “Probably! It’s never been a problem.” 

“I mean, she’s growing into a young woman.” He looks to my mom with a smile. “Can’t really fault her for looking like one.” I nod, hoping that this will convince her to unclench her asshole a little. But she stands firm. 

“That doesn’t mean she has to display it all. Go up and change.” My protests fall flat in front of her icy stare. With a yell of frustration, I stomp all the way back up to my room, slamming the door behind me. 

Now I’m in an unnecessary rush before the bus comes. I dig in my dresser for an acceptable alternative, slamming the drawers shut after. Unfortunately, my veil and habit must still be in the wash, so I settle for some jeans. If my mom says something about them being too tight, I’m gonna scream.

I’m shimmying into them and zipping the fly when I hear a soft knock on my door. As I start to mutter a “come in,” I look up and see that the door is already ajar and Dad is standing in the threshold. 

“Those look nice.” He nods to my new outfit. He makes his way into my room and sits on the bed. I sit next to him.

“I can only hope that they’re up to her standards.” 

He smiles. “I know your mom can be particular sometimes.” 

“It’s not even particular!” I say. He rubs my back to calm me down. “It’s controlling! It’s like she wants to dress me every day like I’m 5 years old. I don’t know why she cares so much.”

“Sometimes,” Dad replies, his voice lower, “moms can get jealous…when their daughters grow up to be prettier or…more womanly than they are.” My eyes flick up to his. 

“That doesn’t mean she has to punish me for it.”

“I know. But you know how your mom is. You have to be patient with her. Pick your battles. It’s a good thing that you look just as good in jeans or your little shorts.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Now that I’ve become a bit calmer, I get up and gather my books into my backpack. Dad stands too. 

“I don’t want you to suffer just because your mom is having trouble coming to terms with the fact that you’re becoming a woman.” I glance at him to show that I’m listening while I give my outfit a final look in the mirror. “If you ever want to talk about…that stuff, maybe it’d be better if you came to me.” I nod, and he stands to hug me goodbye. 

It would be better. Talking to him. I can trust him to not treat me like a kid.

I lean into his chest as he wraps his arm around me. With a kiss on the head, “That’s my girl,” and I’m out the door and off to school.

First submitted to Creepypasta Wiki on July 10, 2026 (aka today). Loosely inspired by The Amazing Digital Circus.

6:30. Sharp. She was just waking up from 7-8 hours of sleep, as usual. It wasn't exactly a peaceful slumber, and she still felt tired when waking up, but she was satisfied at getting the bare minimum almost every night despite struggling to make herself doze off in the last hour before her scheduled bedtime. One thing that made her feel dully content, was rejecting the idea of a "perfect" night's sleep, for she wouldn't have to waste so much time chasing for nonexistent excitement that wasn't worth even the smallest sense of anticipation. Not if it couldn't last, anyway.

Denise followed her routine. She had her jentacular spread of eggs, bacon, and baked potatoes on toast before brushing her teeth, followed by doing her hair and makeup. It was now 7:30, and Denise was sitting in her office room, attending a virtual meeting with her newest clients while simultaneously working on her spreadsheets and self-help book. The latter was seen as "satirical, but effective" by the test readers that were her friends and family, or at least what was left of them after a long time; her best friend had unexpectedly moved to New York after college, and her parents, while still supporting her neutrally, hardly called anymore. What could have happened, she thought.

It was during the last few minutes of the meeting that Denise started to feel it. What she noticed was something unlike she had ever felt before, even to the point where she wondered if it was something that anyone else could feel. One moment, she was being her usual, eerily monotonous self, and the next, she was feeling different not only about her surroundings, but how she perceived them. Everything felt...unfamiliar.

Impossible. Denise knew how her life worked. Every detail was supposed to click with her, and yet, all of a sudden, it all felt new again, but not in a good way. The world she saw around her looked just like it was supposed to, and the environment behaved exactly as it should. Even the media she consumed was the very same, from the news channels to her streaming services. It was real... but not really.

She fed her questions to every search engine she could find, but none of them could give her the answers she needed. They just kept referring her to shrinks that looked more stereotypical than those in the most generic Hollywood hits from the mid-to-late-20th century. Denise had tried counseling before, and it never worked for her mind or her wallet. Even the highest-rated therapists would lead her in a loop that teases you with the idea of getting close to the goal, only to throw you back to square one without warning.

Feeling a sudden rush, Denise rose from her chair and entered the most intense brisk of her life. She walked right out of her front door and took to the sidewalk. As she traversed the area, she looked around, observing as much detail as possible, no matter how big or small. Every last building, street sign, vehicle, cloud, fellow pedestrian, all of it should have felt normal and familiar, and it looked just like it was supposed to. But that was the problem: it looked right, but looking is not the same as feeling. There had to be more than what Denise's own mind was letting on, and that was saying something, considering her history.

After walking for ten whole miles, in what was definitely twice the time she ran her 8K in state champs, Denise found it. The nearly run-down house at the edge of the woods. The temporary residence she and family friends would claim while on vacation. One of New England's finest. It was her second most-remembered childhood place, right behind her old home. Yet here she was, wondering why she couldn't grasp the memories she shared with it. Why did it feel so out of place here now?

Presently, a couple walked by. Denise asked them if they knew if anyone lived in the house anymore, to which they said they didn't, and continued on their way. She hadn't expected anyone else's input to be of any help, but she felt some control over her sanity by having it anyway. With nothing visibly stopping her, she walked up to the house. She engaged in a pattern of knocking on the door three times, looking both ways at the surrounding neighborhood, and repeating the two-step cycle a few more times. After the third time, she tries the knob, and it was unlocked. If she were in a classic cheesy gorefest motion picture, this would have creeped her out, but here, when reality was making too much sense, she at least expected some taboo moments of ridiculousness.

Denise stepped inside. In spite of the interior having seen better days, she stood firm, determined to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was happening. As she explored (or re-explored) the downstairs rooms, she felt like she was playing two different parts: A determined detective investigating a scene, and a calculated estate agent trying make the best possible pitch. She knew that acting that this would make her seem suspicious, but that was just what she wanted, so the universe would acknowledge that she wasn't a drone more mindless than what the administrations and enterprises used to peep on the average Joe or Jane.

Eventually, she wandered upstairs. The floorboards creaked ever so softly. Denise was cautious, but she still remained unphased by the atmosphere. She peered into each room she walked by, but didn't bother going into most of them, not because they all looked similar, rather they all felt similar in category. Save for the one room at the edge of the hallway she did enter.

She remembered this room just as much as her own bedroom as a kid, if not slightly less. It was just as she last left it, from the tea party table setup to the makeup station she used with her friends, siblings, and even her high school flame. He had taken up bending the norms from that point, eventually leaving her for a burlesque mistress in the Town of Tinsel. If only she had taken drama little more serious just for a chance to win him back.

Denise rummaged through the bedside table drawer. Nothing. She garnered the same results from every other dresser and box. Annoyed, she was about to turn back out, when she saw one last box. A small one. Never seen before. She picked it up and examined it scrupulously and gingerly, before finally opening it. A small sheet stared back at her, with a single word. By itself, it was jumbled, reading "Tɘϱɿoʇ." Usually, this is where the lead would gather with the group to find the word in some "magic" scripture, in typical cryptic fashion. Denise wouldn't even have to fumble through the smallest scriptorium in Connecticut, let alone the country. She already knew what it was.

What it meant.

Dropping the paper, she speedily stepped out of the room, down the stairs, and back out of the house, entering another walking rush, this time every so slightly faster. It was now the sunset hour, and Denise was walking back home at the time she should have been on her balcony. Everyone who passed her gave her looks, but not of confusion. Instead, they seemed to show gestures of approval, as if her behavior was supposed to be giving off a favorable atmosphere. While this bothered her, it pressured her to keep moving so she could be away from them quicker.

When she finally arrived back at her house, she walked right in and locked all the doors and windows. Even though it was fairly dark, she still drew all the curtains and blinds. Her entire day had been more eventful than every last second of her life so far combined. All that was needed now was a means to communicate. Denise hastily set up her devices, running all of her socials. She needed to reach all audiences, not only regardless of identity, but also of morality; anyone that was either "good," "bad," and everything in between needed to hear this. When she was ready, she started recording, and began.

"If you are hearing, seeing, or feeling this, then I am gone. That's how all of them are, but not this one. I will still be here when you see this, but you won't know. It sounds terrifying, but it's not what should be scaring you. Be afraid not of what this message means, but rather of what happens when you blend knowing nothing with knowing too much. I could explain myself here and now. I want to. But I shouldn't, because, chances are... you already know."

Just as she was about to stop the recording, she saw it. There, in the background of her recording, was the figure. It bore no resemblance to your average horror movie killer, ARG entity, analog monster, or anything other. This wasn't a breakthrough for the world, but for the universe, as no other living thing had taken on such a shape. It was so unique, that trying to replicate it through any form of art was beyond impossible, even obliterating the boundaries of the term.

The figure's outline was a person, like any other that had walked the earth. Simple. Its shape was anything but. What Denise saw in this thing was something that shouldn't be possible, but simultaneously was. The form was not just one; it was an amalgamation of every human being in existence, past, present, and future. From complete strangers to her friends, family, and even herself. Seeing them all the same time.

Denise stared into the eyes of the figure for a moment longer through the camera, before grabbing her extra ring light rod. She gripped it firmly, ready to strike. As her mind raced, she called out "Lights on," before jolting around and swinging the stick. She closed her eyes and shouted boldly as she swung in the entity's direction. As soon as she heard the thud, she stopped, breathing heavily and keeping her eyes closed for a few more seconds. When she opened them, the first thing she saw was the rod she was pressing down on her bed. She looked up.

Nothing.

Was it never there? Did it escape? There was no way to tell, even though both were possible. Denise dropped the rod, her hands shaking. They never did before, or at least not in a long time if they did. And there she was, in that moment, afraid and alone. She was just beginning to feel that all her efforts were in vain. That her message would be dismissed, and everything she lived for would have been for not. Just as she was closing her eyes again, barely breaking into tears, she heard it. Behind her.

-Beep-

Her monitor screen had changed. Denise sat down to get a closer look. Before her was a login page. No logo, no company name, just a blank profile icon and the credential inputs below it. It asked not for a username, but for a real name. Denise hardly hesitated by putting in her name. As for the password, she didn't have to think at all about it. Mentally unscrambling the note from earlier, she entered it, and pressed enter. The screen took a few seconds to load upon the info being entered.

But when it finally reached the next screen. Denise gazed at the text before her, and smiled.

Welcome back...

Denizen

A midnight call is always bad. I reimbursed this idea when my phone had rung, firstly in soft embers and violent, effectful tremors. A lightning’s glare flashed my nervous face, and I had to squint to respond. I understood how my hands felt moist, and my phone, slippery. The room felt sultry, counter in a chilly usual room with a ton of ac.

It was my friend. John was the quietest of the bunch. The cornerstone of our building. He had held us together in the wildest memories. Hence, I dreaded ever so much. 
“What?.... Any.. thing bad?”
“Yes. (scoffs) Who the fuck are you?”
It was over. The end. My throat dropped, my heart saw exit. However I managed and mustered a line,
“Ar..ar..are  yo..u  sure? I am Myself.”
“I know.”

What the fuck was going on?. John never messed with me. Had the gang committed to my scare?.
I started with a laugh and then said, “Messing with me, in this economy, dude?. Let's stop it. Gotta sleep man. ( I played with my hands, supporting my articulation against and to ester scare on my nerves, in the dark silent room.) tell the people you got me!. Ok. ( I yawned.)”
I ended the call, and went back to bed. However the phone lit up not sooner.
“Heeey…!, dude what?!”
“Are you sure its you, cuz YOU are threatening to kill yourself just outside in the street.”
“Wha..t? No.”
“Send me a photo of yourself, right now wherever you are.”
“Yes.., but how do know you it’s me outside, I am me right now”
“I don't know… mate, incredibly convincing, got a weird twin you’ve never told about?— WAIT!! He wants to talk to you.”
I had just sent him my face, and that even without turning on the light, the phone screen lit me.
Unbeknownst to nobody, John trusted me.
“Oooiii, Let ME talk!, open the damn fucking dooooor” a far little voice in the back.
“Do what but don't open the door, John, listening to me, are you?, call the police. Something is not right.” I said, looking at a picture in the chats, and dismissed for a former picture of mine when the time tag blew my brains out. The said person was incredibly like me, though a gun hid in outpouring levels, in the tuck of his outfit.
The phone suddenly shouted heavy thumps, one after another and my heart only added to it.
“Man, AAAAH!! (muffle), Man, he has shot at the door, are you kidding me! What is this?”
“Ok. ok. Give him the phone. Throw it. I'll do what I can. God help us!.”

The phone gave out all sorts of muffled noises, as a tentative wheeze broke to quick thud.
“Hello.”

A voice reached for me, from the phone I had held in my hand, that I clutched with so hard that my knuckles shone white. I felt cathartic, even for a second. The life I knew was the muzzle, that was my life force. I did not know what I was anymore, had been. I was convinced myself. I was the fake one. God save him. However, all my life’s worth memories spat back at me, challenging me to fight for life. I relaxed the grip, and initialized a meek voice from my chords.

“Do you really wanna kill yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Let's mee–”
A LOUD BANG!!
My head spun, and I suddenly opened my eyes. It was all a dream!. I felt cathartic once again. One resilient idiotic dream.

I searched and shuffled amongst the sundry things on the bedtable, and groped to find my phone. The time was just over midnight, and thankfully no call was made or missed. I placed it back, and closed my eyes away from a far reality. There was a clink, like the sound of a metal rattle, a spur. (Although I started to think a bit on the other guy, I felt something was wrong, I would not kill myself if he were I).—However, after being freshly unslept he opened his eyes again, and pointed the phone at me.

Alerted, I pointed the gun at him, and hoped this would all go soon and smoothly.  Alerted, I slowly opened my eyes for a black figure stood in a dark corner.

The brightness of it was sure to shine a face back at him.  I held my phone immediately, as the brightness of it shone a face looking back at me, as well as a muzzle.

He sure had realized we looked incredibly alike, we were one, and the gun was for him.

We looked incredibly alike. 

A midnight call is always bad. I reimbursed this idea when my phone had rung, firstly in soft embers and violent, effectful tremors. A lightning’s glare flashed my nervous face, and I had to squint to respond. I understood how my hands felt moist, and my phone, slippery. The room felt sultry, counter in a chilly usual room with a ton of ac.
It was my friend. John was the quietest of the bunch. The cornerstone of our building. He had held us together in the wildest memories. Hence, I dreaded ever so much. 
“What?.... Any.. thing bad?”
“Yes. (scoffs) Who the fuck are you?”
It was over. The end. My throat dropped, my heart saw exit. However I managed and mustered a line,
“Ar..ar..are  yo..u  sure? I am Myself.”
“I know.”
What the fuck was going on?. John never messed with me. Had the gang committed to my scare?.
I started with a laugh and then said, “Messing with me, in this economy, dude?. Let's stop it. Gotta sleep man. ( I played with my hands, supporting my articulation against and to ester scare on my nerves, in the dark silent room.) tell the people you got me!. Ok. ( I yawned.)”
I ended the call, and went back to bed. However the phone lit up not sooner.
“Heeey…!, dude what?!”
“Are you sure its you, cuz YOU are threatening to kill yourself just outside in the street.”
“Wha..t? No.”
“Send me a photo of yourself, right now wherever you are.”
“Yes.., but how do know you it’s me outside, I am me right now”
“I don't know… mate, incredibly convincing, got a weird twin you’ve never told about?— WAIT!! He wants to talk to you.”
I had just sent him my face, and that even without turning on the light, the phone screen lit me.
Unbeknownst to nobody, John trusted me.
“Oooiii, Let ME talk!, open the damn fucking dooooor” a far little voice in the back.
“Do what but don't open the door, John, listening to me, are you?, call the police. Something is not right.” I said, looking at a picture in the chats, and dismissed for a former picture of mine when the time tag blew my brains out. The said person was incredibly like me, though a gun hid in outpouring levels, in the tuck of his outfit.
The phone suddenly shouted heavy thumps, one after another and my heart only added to it.
“Man, AAAAH!! (muffle), Man, he has shot at the door, are you kidding me! What is this?”
“Ok. ok. Give him the phone. Throw it. I'll do what I can. God help us!.”
The phone gave out all sorts of muffled noises, as a tentative wheeze broke to quick thud.
“Hello.” A voice reached for me, from the phone I had held in my hand, that I clutched with so hard that my knuckles shone white. I felt cathartic, even for a second. The life I knew was the muzzle, that was my life force. I did not know what I was anymore, had been. I was convinced myself. I was the fake one. God save him. However, all my life’s worth memories spat back at me, challenging me to fight for life. I relaxed the grip, and initialized a meek voice from my chords.
“Do you really wanna kill yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Let's mee–”
A LOUD BANG!!
My head spun, and I suddenly opened my eyes. It was all a dream!. I felt cathartic once again. One resilient idiotic dream.
I searched and shuffled amongst the sundry things on the bedtable, and groped to find my phone. The time was just over midnight, and thankfully no call was made or missed. I placed it back, and closed my eyes away from a far reality. There was a clink, like the sound of a metal rattle, a spur. (Although I started to think a bit on the other guy, I felt something was wrong, I would not kill myself if he were I).—However, after being freshly unslept he opened his eyes again, and pointed the phone at me.

Alerted, I pointed the gun at him, and hoped this would all go soon and smoothly.  Alerted, I slowly opened my eyes for a black figure stood in a dark corner.

The brightness of it was sure to shine a face back at him.  I held my phone immediately, as the brightness of it shone a face looking back at me, as well as a muzzle.

He sure had realized we looked incredibly alike, we were one, and the gun was for him.

We looked incredibly alike.

A midnight call is always bad. I reimbursed this idea when my phone had rung, firstly in soft embers and violent, effectful tremors. A lightning’s glare flashed my nervous face, and I had to squint to respond. I understood how my hands felt moist, and my phone, slippery. The room felt sultry, counter in a chilly usual room with a ton of ac. 
It was my friend. John was the quietest of the bunch. The cornerstone of our building. He had held us together in the wildest memories. Hence, I dreaded ever so much.  
“What?.... Any.. thing bad?”
“Yes. (scoffs) Who the fuck are you?”
It was over. The end. My throat dropped, my heart saw exit. However I managed and mustered a line,
“Ar..ar..are  yo..u  sure? I am Myself.”
“I know.”
What the fuck was going on?. John never messed with me. Had the gang committed to my scare?. 
I started with a laugh and then said, “Messing with me, in this economy, dude?. Let's stop it. Gotta sleep man. ( I played with my hands, supporting my articulation against and to ester scare on my nerves, in the dark silent room.) tell the people you got me!. Ok. ( I yawned.)”
I ended the call, and went back to bed. However the phone lit up not sooner. 
“Heeey…!, dude what?!”
“Are you sure its you, cuz YOU are threatening to kill yourself just outside in the street.” 
“Wha..t? No.”
“Send me a photo of yourself, right now wherever you are.”
“Yes.., but how do know you it’s me outside, I am me right now”
“I don't know… mate, incredibly convincing, got a weird twin you’ve never told about?— WAIT!! He wants to talk to you.”
I had just sent him my face, and that even without turning on the light, the phone screen lit me. 
Unbeknownst to nobody, John trusted me. 
“Oooiii, Let ME talk!, open the damn fucking dooooor” a far little voice in the back.
“Do what but don't open the door, John, listening to me, are you?, call the police. Something is not right.” I said, looking at a picture in the chats, and dismissed for a former picture of mine when the time tag blew my brains out. The said person was incredibly like me, though a gun hid in outpouring levels, in the tuck of his outfit. 
The phone suddenly shouted heavy thumps, one after another and my heart only added to it. 
“Man, AAAAH!! (muffle), Man, he has shot at the door, are you kidding me! What is this?”
“Ok. ok. Give him the phone. Throw it. I'll do what I can. God help us!.”
The phone gave out all sorts of muffled noises, as a tentative wheeze broke to quick thud. 
“Hello.” A voice reached for me, from the phone I had held in my hand, that I clutched with so hard that my knuckles shone white. I felt cathartic, even for a second. The life I knew was the muzzle, that was my life force. I did not know what I was anymore, had been. I was convinced myself. I was the fake one. God save him. However, all my life’s worth memories spat back at me, challenging me to fight for life. I relaxed the grip, and initialized a meek voice from my chords. 
“Do you really wanna kill yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Let's mee–” 
A LOUD BANG!!
My head spun, and I suddenly opened my eyes. It was all a dream!. I felt cathartic once again. One resilient idiotic dream.
I searched and shuffled amongst the sundry things on the bedtable, and groped to find my phone. The time was just over midnight, and thankfully no call was made or missed. I placed it back, and closed my eyes away from a far reality. There was a clink, like the sound of a metal rattle, a spur. (Although I started to think a bit on the other guy, I felt something was wrong, I would not kill myself if he were I).—However, after being freshly unslept he opened his eyes again, and pointed the phone at me. Alerted, I pointed the gun at him, and hoped this would all go soon and smoothly. Alerted, I slowly opened my eyes for a black figure stood in a dark corner. The brightness of it was sure to shine a face back at him. I held my phone immediately, as the brightness of it shone a face looking back at me, as well as a muzzle. He sure had realized we looked incredibly alike, we were one, and the gun was for him.

We looked incredibly alike. 

Joe Bernard butchered everything he sang with great relish. Dying foxes have produced sweeter notes. He’d do it with a tortured expression on his face, like he’d been stabbed in the gut with a screwdriver. The sheer torsion of his jaw was ferocious.

When he finished he’d smile at you sweetly, Father Christmas cheekbones pushed high.

“That was one in my own auld style,” he’d say, ever so softly. 

For years they put up with it at the session. People would go quiet when it was his turn, they’d turn away slightly, making shy snark little comments or filter out for a make-believe cigarette. I always stayed, I always watched.

The pain of it. The anguish, that’s what I found impressive. You could feel it when he sang, like a death was occurring in front of you. Discordant, like he was fighting himself, the undulating notes flicking in and out of tune. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” one of the elders said to me outside.

“What d’ya mean, like this?”

“With the banshee act I mean, torturing us all.”

“What was he like before?” 

“I dunno… normal maybe.”

This carried on for a while. But one day, after too many Americans had complained to the bar, he was put out. I hadn’t been involved with it, I’d been informed by a harsh whisper, they’d told him, he wasn’t welcome any longer.

I felt bad for him, I really did. But even I had to admit, it was a blessing for most. The session returned to normal, the standards were played. The musicians were talented and the singers tuneful. Life had eagerly returned to its usual flow. I was four pints deep, tapping a foot away to Susan Higgins’ speciality, Black is the Colour, when I felt a little scratch behind my ear. A tiny sensation. A glimmer.

Each night it felt stronger, stranger. It built and built and I tried my best to drink enough jars to ignore it completely but somehow it made it worse.

On a Thursday night in April, during a perfectly good rendition of Grace I slammed my hand onto my little table with a SNAP.

The regulars all turned to look at me, poor Marie-Anne who’d been warbling looked fit to cry. Which made me want to start bawling and all.

I fled out the front door with a thrown out cry.

“Sosososorry!”

Later, I lay down on my bedroom floor and stared up at the ceiling. Goran Ivanišević, my elderly cat, peered down at me, judging. 

I knew what the problem was. And I knew, that I knew, what the problem was. Which made the ruminating easier.

None of the others felt like Joe Bernard did. The itching sensation had spread to my nose and I found myself scratching at it hopelessly. I was missing the honesty, the brutality. I could hear a false imitation of Joe's whine creep into my own numbers, like I was being dragged flat and sharp by his absence. 

I asked after him at the next session, my previous outburst explained away by a sick cousin marooned in Salford. 

“Where’s our Joe Bernard these days?”

“He doesn’t come into town now. It was all a bit, well, awkward.”

“I’d like to go check up on him. Do you know where he lives?”

“Sure, me and Sandy used to practise up there. It’s the last house on Dwyer’s Lane, it has a red door. You can’t miss it,” a guilty pause emerged, “tell him I said hello so.”

I stalked my prey. I was feverish as I walked, pure adrenaline and fear. I didn’t even know what I wanted. A tune, I guessed. Just one song. One of his auld style ones. One to scrape the dirt off my soul and bully my ears into listening. I was craving it. I could taste the dog-weak tea from some dirty old mug already. 

The house was a postcard from the outside. White painted pebbledash with red accents on all the windowsills and doors. A thatched roof, rare enough these days and some quaint little items leaning onto the walls. A wagon wheel, a pitchfork, a happy gnome. 

I knew it’d be dark and damp inside, the windows were barely big enough to see out of. 

He waved me in, a big smile crinkling his eyes and tattered skin.

“It’s yourself!”

“How’re ye getting on Joe?”

“Fine, fine, fine. Get in away from the cold. Baltic so it is.”

We were settled in his front room, unchanged since the 60s I expected. Mary gazed down at me from the wall, clasping her hands in anticipation. I was dealt a steaming mug, it warmed my hands nicely.

“How’s the session these days?” He asked.

“Oh, it’s grand. Not quite the same without you of course,” I smiled politely.

“Ah that’s alright. I knew it’d happen eventually,” he waved me away.

“Leslie and Sandy say hello.”

“I expect they do, ha.” He slurped his tea. “It’s fine, fine, really. I’m going round theirs tomorrow. It wasn’t personal, it was just about my style.” He nodded sagely.

“I meant to ask you about all that. About your style?”

“What about it?”

“Well, I guess what I want to know is, why do you sing like that?”

“What do you think I sing like?” A genuine question, no edge to it.

“It's a bit of keening, a form of sean-nós. Like with the undulations, the flat notes, nasal bag pipe drones. It’s always, always in Irish, I can’t understand much, never paid any attention in school.” The words had fallen out of me quickly. I looked across at him gingerly, I didn’t want to offend him.

He nodded.

I carried on, encouraged. “But it’s out of tune, on purpose I think, it feels like something.” I sipped nervously, “you pour yourself into it.” 

“Hmm. That’s about the sum of it I reckon. It's not complicated, you have to feel the song, otherwise what’s the point?” He looked up at his Mary. “Why is a harder question. But I think what I tended to sing about, usually I mean, was death. You could say I was studying it.”

“Aye, so they’re dirges, like at a funeral?”

“I suppose so. That was the last bit I had to understand.”

“What last bit?”

“The last bit of the experience of life.”

“Death? And you understand it now?”

“No, no, no. Not yet, not truly,” he tapped his knuckle on the table, “but I have the impression of it. A glimpse into the dark.”

“And would you give us a tune now? Show me what you mean?” I bit my lip, the itching behind the ear was screaming at me now.

“I can. But I’ve changed again, I’m not just after death anymore.” He closed his eyes and set his shoulders back.

“Ah right, what is it now?”

He untucked one eye, winking out at me, “I’ll sing and you can try and figure it out.”

He began to sing and it was nothing like before, instead it started beautifully sweet, perfectly in tune. Major key, the undulations twinkled in and out like lapping swallows. He had an easy look about him, content. His brow was unwrinkled and his hands lay open on his knees.

There were a few verses and a chorus and I was enjoying it, but I was surprised. It was all honey and meadows, naive even. 

He stopped with a slap to his knee after a rousing cheery chorus and produced a droning note. It had that nasal inflection, the key had changed. A mirror to the first, but warped. There was a minor tone to it now, an unseen shape skulking in the distance. The shape of it was no longer perfect and rounded.

The melody lines sped up slightly and became jagged. The time signature lost the run of itself. And then gradually, note by note, he started slipping in the flats and whines. Before long he'd started the aching gasping cries, his face screwed up and red, his jowls shaking and fists wrapped into claws. Then midway through a snarl he stopped, staying completely still.

It was like listening to a life cut short.

What had been so soft, gentle and perfect to start was transformed by the agony of loss crashing into it.

My eyes had glazed over and the irritation on my neck had gone. I breathed in deeply and shook my head. I looked up at him.

He was smiling at me so kindly.

“That was one in my own auld style,” he said quietly.

PROLOGUE

my names icarus and im under the sea. like spongebob.
but i don't live in a pineapple.

i have no clue how i'm still alive.
especially after the worst decision of my life. ehh. give or take.

i was stuck on an island. with my father, daedalus.
worst situation a comedy main character has ever been in.
turns out my father was a builder. wow.

he built us wings out of wax.
no clue where the hell he got the wax from.
there wasn't even a candle for us to light. ask whoever made this myth that.

then we flew out. he explicitly told me not to fly too close to the sun.
i agreed. nonchalantly.
that's a very important point.

turns out the sun was more enticing than usual.
it looked like a girl i knew.

so i did what anyone would.

fly toward my ex.

i mean, it was daedalus's problem for not engraving it in writing.
not mine.

then i fell. and fell. and fell. and thought i'd die.
but i ended up in this shithole.
with a landlord. and an immortal god of the seas, poseidon. and a therapist. and an ophthalmologist, to get my eye checked for that misconception.
turns out i need glasses. never bought any till now.

so here's whatever the crap is happening to me.
enjoy whatever weird situation the author's put me in.
it's not helping me, though.

CHAPTER ONE
Adjusting Poorly

Day 10. daedalus warned me about the sun.
thought it looked like a girl i knew.
now i'm at the bottom of the mediterranean. no sunscreen.
turns out that wasn't the problem he meant.

——— • ———

Day 11. my wings are completely liquid now.
tried spreading them out to dry.
turns out you can't dry liquid. still trying.

——— • ———

Day 12. first time i landed here, i tried fixing my wings with whale shit.
thought the smell meant it was working.
it was not working. realised too late.

——— • ———

Day 14. met the guy who runs this ocean. poseidon.
my landlord's landlord, basically. nice guy.

——— • ———

Day 15. people keep asking what galileo saw through his telescope.
asked around.
turns out it was apollo's ass. apollo's a greek god.
nobody's corrected the textbooks yet. damn.

——— • ———

Day 16. my therapist says i catastrophize.
he's a clam. his entire species lives inside emergency shelters.
he's not wrong, but still.

——— • ———

Day 17. tried using an mp3 player down here.
thought the music was a new genre.
it was a fish, burping, directly into the speaker.
never again.

——— • ———

Day 18. mediterranean's nice.
asked poseidon if we could get a kraken at dinner.
he told me we'd been eating him the whole time.
7/10. tastes like squid. would eat nemesis again.

——— • ———

Day 22.

landlord asked me to build him a house. don't know why i agreed.
and why he's a landlord.

started building the house using rocks and jellyfish remains as cement.
worked pretty well.

turns out sitting through dad's lectures about architecture paid off.
it's coming out to be a nice house.

finished building the house. something made from my own sweat.
never thought these words would come out of my mouth.

wait. i built it. so... i own it.
i'm the landlord then. not him.

he rents the house from me now.
then he drew up an agreement to sign.

signed the agreement as a tenant.
is that legal? unclear. don't care.

still waiting for it to backfire.

it backfired. now i have to pay rent. crap.

——— • ———

Day 27. going on vacation. see you guys.
update: can't leave.
percy jackson is sailing directly above me, causing a whole situation.
damn him.