What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

You’ve finally beat procrastination and forced yourself to sit down at your desk to do the important work you’ve been putting off that requires your full concentration.
You begin—and within seconds you’re distracted with something. Your mind wanders. You just can’t focus. Again.
You’re so discouraged and assume you have some sort of attention deficit issue.
But in truth you probably just keep putting yourself in a compromised work environment.

"Even when you realize how much your environment is shaping you, it's still shaping you more than you realize." - Nick Milo

Your environment has a big impact on your thoughts, mood, decisions, actions and behaviours. It's why restaurants and retailers spend massive amounts of money creating the right vibe to alter how their customers feel (and hopefully spend).
What’s great about engineering your environment for improved concentration is you don’t need to develop any new skills. In fact, you don't need to do anything better; you’re just setting up guardrails that prevent you from doing dumb stuff like checking your phone in the middle of working. By taking these simple steps, you'll feel like you're on a powerful nootropic. Like you’ve been granted a superpower.

Your environments

Note that I talk mainly about doing deeply focused work (aka deep work) in this post, but the advice applies to school studies just as well.
When discussing environment, I like to break it down into three kinds: physical space, workspace, and work device.
There are a lot of variables at play in your overall environment. Are you working from home or an office? Is the environment noisy (coffee shop chatter; your kids running around at home) or quiet? What kind of work or studies are you doing? What space and resources do you have access to around you? Essentially it all comes down to how much control you have over your environment. For this discussion, I'm going to assume you're working from home and can control your environment to a large degree.
Two important things to note before we begin: when doing deep work, give yourself a start time and plan out your environment so that everything’s ready in advance of that start time. Don't just gradually start your morning and begin working whenever you’re all set up and feeling ready (because you’ll find ways to stall and procrastinate). Set a time in your calendar and commit to starting on time. Treat it like an important meeting you’re leading. You wouldn't begin prepping for the meeting once it starts; you'd have everything ready to go prior to its start.
Alright, let’s get going.

Physical space

Your physical space is the room you're working in. This could be in your home, your office, coffee shop, library, or outside.
Different space for deep work
Ideally, you'd do your deeply focused work in a space different from your regular work or where you do more administrative tasks. Doing this will provide cues to your mind that this work is important and needs special attention. So, if possible, try a different room or area of your home to do this work. It doesn’t have to be a permanent setup; it could be as simple as using the kitchen table for your deep work session if you normally work from a cluttered desk in the bedroom.
Walls not windows
It's better to have your desk face a wall than a window. You might think looking out a bright window at some nature is calming and provides inspiration, but it's really just a distraction when working deeply. I know, staring at a wall sounds painfully boring—and that’s the point.
Temperature
If you're able to control the temperature of your environment, consider how it feels. Are you too hot? Too cold? What can you do to adjust the temperature (or your clothes) before you start working so that it doesn't become a distraction after you start?
Tip: Wear layers so it’s easy to take something off or throw something on without having to do a whole wardrobe change. Just make sure these layers are either on you or nearby.
Music
If planning to listen to music, have your headphones ready and the music selected before your start time. It’s recommended to listen to music without vocals, as studies show hearing music with a voice distracts us more than music without. Research also suggests that the most productive type of music to listen to while focusing is music that sounds familiar and is relatively simple. Note that 'familiar' is relative.
Tip: Use 40hz binaural beats to prime your brain leading up to your session but not throughout the entirety of your session.
Take stock of objects in your environment
Environmental cues—seemingly innocuous things in our space, like books or pictures hanging on the wall—don't actively disrupt us like notifications do, but they can still pull us away from what we intend to accomplish. So it's best to remove as many visual cues as you can in advance before doing deep work.
Take stock of the objects in your environment and identify which ones may attract your attention. Then clear these. Note that there are some objects which can be beneficial, like plants. But generally, the more complex the object, the more it will pull you into distraction. This is another reason to have your desk face the wall rather than a window or overlooking your physical space.
Remember: It's significantly easier to deal with distractions in advance. Once they appear, it's often too late to stop them.

Workspace

Your workspace includes the surface you’re working on (desk, table) and what you’re sitting in (or standing on if you’re a fellow stander).
Clear clutter
The more clutter on your workspace, the more clutter in your mind. A clear desk to do deep work from will ensure there’s nothing waiting to pull at your attention.
Remove everything from your desk that you don't need for this specific session. Books, notes, YOUR PHONE, everything. Question everything.
De-device yourself
Take off your smartwatch and turn it and your phone off. Seriously, don’t just put things on silent. Turn them off. Your mind will know the difference.
Now put both devices (as well as tablets and any other devices you have) in another room, if possible. Or at least put them in a purse or bag. They need to be both out of sight and out of reach. We're more likely to check our phone more frequently when we can see it—even if it isn't buzzing or ringing. Research also shows that merely having your phone in your visual field interferes with concentration; it subtly, almost imperceptibly, pulls at your attention—and you’re then forced to expend mental resources to fight this.
Don't work with food on your desk
Do you snack while you work? It can be comforting, but it’s also habit-forming. And you might think it’s not distracting, but it usually is. Maybe you spill something on your keyboard, or your fingers get sticky and you need to wipe them, or you get a piece of food stuck in your teeth that you’re now wrestling with. All these things happen and we barely notice them, but they add up to the enemy: distraction.
Do work with drinks on your desk
Before you start, make sure you've prepared fluids to stay hydrated. Definitely have water, but you may also want coffee or tea. Whatever it is, just have it ready on your desk so it doesn’t become an excuse to take an unscheduled break to go get something.
Comfort
Ensure you’re comfortable, whether sitting or standing. Ask yourself, Is there anything I can do right now to be more physically comfortable? How’s your chair height? Your footwear? Physical discomfort can quickly turn into distraction.
Use a distraction catcher
Keep a pen and piece of paper on your desk and within reach so you can jot down anything that pops into your head that’s unrelated to the task at hand. Maybe you just remembered you have yoga class after work and you forgot to add it to your calendar. Quickly capture it on paper instead of opening up your calendar or, worse, trying to keep it in your head until you’re done (which will take up cognitive resources and prove very distracting). Once you write it down, you’ll be free to keep working without worry that it’ll get missed.
Tip: also jot down things that distracted you during the session (whether from your external environment or your internal one) so you can think about how to improve next time.

Work device

So far, you've attentioneered your physical space and your workspace. Turn now to your work device. This could be a desktop, laptop, tablet or a notebook and pencil (it could also be your phone but this should be avoided at all costs. Please please try to find another way to do your work than from your phone).
I'm going to assume you're working on a computer.
Gather resources
Download things you need to do your work from apps like Slack, Drive, or email so you’re not opening them in the middle of your session to get something only to get distracted by something else.
Do this well in advance of your session. Like, the day before, if possible. Doing it in advance is important for two reasons: (1) if you notice there’s something you can’t find or your colleague sent you the wrong file, it gives you time to track it down; (2) you don’t spend the minutes leading up to your work session frantically jumping from app to app and putting your mind in a frenzied state.
Shut it all down
Shut down all apps and tabs that you won’t be using during the session. If you think you may use an app, better to shut it down ahead of time and open it later if needed.
If you do open an app or website to work on, immediately close it once you're done. Don't leave it open (Closing apps and tabs right after use is a great habit in general that I recently developed; it really helps keep me on task throughout the day).
All messaging apps on your work device need to be fully shut down, not just have notifications turned off.
Tip: Have your tasks listed out on paper ahead of time and beside you so you don't even need to keep your task manager app open.

A word of warning

That was a lot to cover. And you might be thinking, This is a lot to do! Is it really all necessary? How will I ever focus at a coffee shop or the office where I have less control over the environment?
Two things come to mind: (1) a lot of what I’ve covered will become second nature once you do it a few times. Personally, I have a simple checklist I use to keep the process quick; (2) this guide is for those who have trouble focusing under any circumstances. The purpose of setting up an ideal environment is so you can first learn how to concentrate with as little friction as possible.
Once you develop this skill in an ideal environment (and you also master internal distractions, which I'll talk about more another time), you can slowly start to introduce some distractions back in.
The ultimate goal is not to have your concentration hinge on having a perfectly meditative space and be unable to work if there's the slightest distraction. That makes you fragile. You want to become antifragile. You want the ability to maintain laser-sharp focus for several hours in a bustling cafe without headphones. That’s the goal.
So, at the beginning you'll want to be kind to yourself and make it easier by eliminating as many distractions as possible. And this will take some time to get right.
But eventually, with practice, you'll become less worried about distractions. They'll simply have less hold on you. They'll be less enticing. And you'll be unstoppable.

For anyone who missed how this started
https://www.reddit.com/HFY/s/PxAkXKR0aH
I didn’t expect so many people out there would care about what’s happening to me. I’d say it’s humbling, but, well, my situation has been humbling me since I left the states. You guys cheering me on, and trying to help, it’s kept me going though.
So, I figure the least I can do is keep you all updated until something prevents me from doing so. Likely in a permanent fashion.
I'll say, the ride home was awkward, to say the least. For all of the grim predictions running through my head going to the spectacle , on the way back they were ten times worse.
I wasn’t caged, shackled and tortured when I returned. If I said I was greeted with concern by the handful of distant relatives and lost souls I’d be over exaggerating. But there was a bit of respect and kindness .
I was patched up, as far as being stabbed goes, apparently I got lucky.
There was food, question free beer, and a healthy number of people asking how things went.
All I wanted to do was sleep, but something kept me going. Kept me answering questions I’d rather not have, kept my fear fried brain making conversation and trading verbal jabs.
A tap on my shoulder startles me, the sun is rising and if I don’t get to sleep soon, I’m going to fall over.
“Your half. “ Sylvia says, it’s just shy of a thousand pounds.
“All this was for, what is this? $600 American? “ I say.
“ Walk with me. “ Sylvia begins, I follow.
“Money isn’t much good if I’m dead. “ I say, my tone sullen and exasperated.
“Then don’t die. “ She replies, walking across the debris strewn scrub grass toward the farm house.
“Do you have any shame? You kidnapped me in the middle of the night to feed me to a couple of demons. I’m your nephew for Christ’s sake! “ I’m not yelling, I don’t think my body is capable of that much exertion at this point, but my words are clear.
“I’m not your aunt, Nikolas.
Great-Great-Great grandmother, give or take a generation. It’s been a long time.
And if I was doing, as you suggest, yes, I would feel a deep shame.” Sylvia lets the answers and questions ferment in my mind as we walk.
“So why not tell me what’s going on? Maybe teach me some of that magic you were tossing around at the airport. “ we stop outside a sliding door. Sylvia has a genuine look of amusement on her face.
“Magic? Nikolas, magic is what stupid people call being fooled.
Magic is the Priest’s sermon, the fortune teller’s reading, the huckster’s pitch.
It’s a way to create vast amounts of power from nothing.
The world is full of things that defy the laws of nature. What I do, what those of the family with me do, is understand them. We learn, we improvise, and we adapt.
We do not make power from nothing, we find it, and use it. “ Sylvia watches me, judging my response to her statement.
“So that’s what you meant before. About the trappings of the gypsy. This whole vibe, it’s a smokescreen.
Assholes expect the Gritts to be some Romani stereotype, and give you a wide berth. When strange shit happens, they chalk it up to some kind of con, or something they’ve seen in a movie. Either way, they aren’t looking for monster fights, and supernatural research. “ I know I’m in the ballpark when she pats me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt.
“And the value of your half, is somewhere around 30 thousand. We wager in esoteric items, favors, and creatures. When you leave, I’ll make you a fair offer for what is yours.
You’ll understand more in the morning after you have a chance to look around. “ Sylvia says before showing me a sparse, but clean, and comfortable room.
I wake up in the early afternoon, something, beyond the obvious nagging at me.
After a cup of nearly caustic tea, I finally realized what it was.
Sylvia, she told me a lot last night. But many of my questions were avoided. I know about her, and this place, but my fate, beyond another round of tug of war between two nightmares, is unknown.
That being said, my second conclusion, is that I need to start rolling with the punches. I’ve tried calling the police (they asked how Sylvia was doing before I said my name.), my parents, anyone, and like it or not, for one unsaid reason or another, I’m stuck here.
I’m going to skip a lot of introductions. Reading me introducing myself, 50 times and trying not to be awkward around folks that seem way too okay with me dying, probably wouldn’t be the best use of your time.
As I explore the grounds, I enter one of a handful of old barns. The inside has peg board walls hung with tools spanning the spectrum from mundane to esoteric enough I have no idea what they are.
Inside, among benches strewn with a random assortment of objects, and equipment, stand two men.
The first is Colin, he’s pale as a ghost, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived, he wears an Aerosmith shirt, and toolbelt that is making his pants lose a battle with gravity. The 40 something is holding an electrode connected to a thick, black wire directly patched into the main breaker.
The second, Dafyd is a short, olive skinned man in his mid fifties. His outfit consists of a tweed jacket, blue jeans and plain white shirt.
Between them on a grounded workbench sits a small snow globe, within stands a faded ballerina, one arm lost, floating randomly through the liquid.
My teeth ache as the breaker begins to make a dangerous humming noise. For a couple of seconds, a short blue spark arcs from the electrode to the snow globe.
The air smells of ozone to the point where I’m convinced I’ve burned out my nose hairs. The two men argue a bit between themselves in a language I’ve heard but never learned to speak. Then turn as they notice me.
“Nik, come settle an argument between your uncle and I. “ Dafyd says.
“Don’t know how much help I’m going to be, but I’ll do my best. “ I say, walking up.
“The kid has no idea what’s going on Dafyd. “ Colin says.
“I know, but we’re not looking for an expert opinion.
Nik, what year is it? “ Dafyd asks.
“1993.” I say without hesitation, “ What the hell? “ I add. My brain is a bit fried, but not enough to screw up the date by 30 something years.
“God damn it. “ Colin says.
“I knew it! “ exclaims Dafyd.
“This piece of shit is getting binned.
You look confused kid.
It’s called a gimmick. It’s the stuff side of what we deal in. Some of it, it’s two steps off of a horror novel. Most of it though, it’s just strange.
Figuring them out is 95% engineering and 5% esoterica.
They teaching you anything across the pond? “ Colin asks.
The question leads to a conversation, the conversation leads to a week of me shadowing the two finicky, strange guys.
I’d go into more detail, but as the days go by, things seem more and more like spending time with some out there branches in the family tree. As terrifying as everything has been, as terrifying as it is, it’s, interesting.
But I wouldn’t be writing if things were sunshine and roses though, would I?
One day, after working with objects that scared, confused and frustrated me in equal measure, I realized there was something I was avoiding.
So I found myself standing in front of Augustus, the creature held upright and immobile in it’s coffin-like cage. The Plexiglas window is cracked.
It's worse than I thought it would be. Every time I look at the thing’s face I see the blood it made me spill. I see the power it wields, and the murderous intent in it’s twisted pit of a mind.
But sometime soon, I’m going to be next to it again. I have to be able to keep myself together. I have to understand this thing as much as I can.
“Hey killer, how the fuck ya Doin? “ Augustus taunts. Shame reddens my fear paled face.
“Can we talk? “ I say, I want it to be a demand, it comes out as a whimper.
“What do we have to talk about, bud? What about this are you not picking up on yet? “ Augustus is smug, confident even while confined.
“How you seem to have this limitless ego, when you're being held by literally the oldest woman possible. “ I’m too scared to say this above a whisper.
“That dusty old wizard’s sleeve out there? She’ll fucking get hers.
Lucky bitch on a lucky day is all that was.
But luck runs out, and when it does, I’m gonna uproot your entire sad little family tree. “ Augustus threatens.
I actually take a step backward, and almost turn. The fear this thing causes, it’s more than the knowledge of what it can do, it’s a force in and of itself.
“Augustus, why not hear me out? “ I plead.
“Because kid, that’s not how this story goes.
I’ve got nothing but time, I’ll be around till the heat death of the fucking universe.
I don’t need to hear things like you out, I don’t need to bargain. No matter how airtight your inbred little clan thinks these bonds are, eventually, someone always makes a mistake. Something small, like a wrong angle on a rune.
Or…, “ as the thing talks, the door to the coffin like cage holding it starts to slowly swing outward, “ Something big, like forgetting to set the fucking padlock. “
I’m already running as he talks, but he’s standing in front of the exit before I can take a step.
He looms in front of the door, coat spreading, seemingly of it’s own accord, making the patchwork killer seem like some kind of twisted manta ray.
He locks eyes with me, I’m frozen, gripped in terror so intense I have no idea if it’s mundane or the aura of fear Augustus projects.
Those mismatched orbs burrow into me, I feel like this thing can see into my soul.
He inhales for an impossibly long time, a slick, menacing grin spreading across his leathery face.
“Yeah, today’s the day kid.” He says, a kick sending me across the floor like a smooth rock across the surface of a pond.
I’ve never felt pain like this, I try to stand, but my knee refuses to bend. I hit the ground and my ribs scream, I’m sure at least one was broken in the tumble.
I hear Augustus’ footsteps, my struggles to get to my feet are useless. Seconds in, i’m in literal crippling pain.
He grabs me by the throat, taking his time as he raises me above his head.
The look of joy on his face as I choke and struggle to breathe twists his features, for a moment he appears nearly snakelike.
He holds the tips of his claw-like nails against my stomach. Then draws his arm back.
“Don’t worry bud, I’m not just going to tear out your heart, everyone does that shit.
This isn’t going to be a sprint, it’s a fucking marathon. I just want to aerate the track a little bit before we start. “ His hand blurs and I close my eyes hoping I don’t last very long.
“Stop” I hear a deep, smooth, male voice say.
I hit the ground, and try to see who just stopped the beginning of my execution, but the pain, the cracked ribs, pulled muscles and long ragged scrapes have me seeing spots.
When my vision clears, I see a tall, blond man with impossibly angular features, dressed in an immaculate black and mauve suit.
His eyes try to look kind, but there is something wrong behind them. Something waiting to be let out.
“Who are you? “ I say, one lip, split and torn.
“You can call me Art. Arthur Deus if you feel like being formal.
But what you want to know, is why I’m here.
Well Nikolas, to simplify things, think of me as the older brother of the leering terror your ‘aunt’ has trapped here. “ As Arthur talks, I notice something, the motes of dust in the air are hanging still.
“I have no problems with you taking him. I haven’t seen you, I don’t know your name. Couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. “ I ramble.
Arthur holds up a finger, I go silent.
“If only it were that easy.
See Nikolas, your aunt and I, have quite the history. And as much as it pains me to admit it, she’s a crafty one, and has the means to make things very difficult for me.
Sylvia cannot know I’m involved, this is why I have an offer for you. “ As art says this, he waves a hand, almost dismissively.
Like a switch being flipped my pain stops, I watch as my wounds begin to seal and fade, amazed.
“What is it? “ I say. The words feel like they have weight.
“Sylvia is looking for someone to take over for her. As old as she is, she’s not immortal.
You’re her third attempt.
I’m not going to lie to you and say I care about what’s happening to the humans involved in this grim little spectacle. But I care about my family, and to a lesser extent, those like myself.
This bloodsport that your aunt is a part of, it’s vile. It’s world spanning, and it’s for nothing more than greed and bragging rights.
I want to change this. And I would like you to help me. “ Art’s tone is slick and confident.
“If I do, then you get him to back off? “ I say, pointing to Augustus.
Art looks dismayed for a moment.
“That’s not something I can really promise Nikolas. If anything could force him to listen to reason, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. “ My heart sinks as Art says this.
“Fuck off Art. “ Augustus says.
Arthur rolls his eyes. They seem to go just a little too far back.
“But what I can do, is have a conversation with him, impress upon him how important it is he works with you. “ Art pats me on the shoulder before turning toward his sibling. His hand is impossibly hot.
“This kid dies, that is not my fault. You’ve seen this shit, he’s not built for it, just bust me out of here. “ Augustus isn’t far off of pleading in his tone.
“You know that’s not possible. I cannot let Sylvia know I’m here. But given time, I will have you out. “ Art assures.
“Fact remains, this kid gets on the wrong side of a blade or a fuckin, werewolf or something, that’s not on me.
Even if he manages to keep his lungs in his chest, look at him. His mind is cracking, he’s either insane or God-damned, catatonic in two months. “ Now Augustus sounds like a cocky piece of shit again.
“Of course, if he dies, or succumbs mentally, that’s not on you.
But I want you, to make a promise to me. I want you to understand that this child cannot be harmed by your hand. “ It sounds like Art is talking to a five year old.
Augustus shrugs before replying.
“The fuck you want me to say? You know me, you know I can’t say I’m not hurting this kid. And I sure as hell am not making a promise about it so you can get you-know-who involved when nature takes it’s course.
Fuck this kid, get me out of here.”
Arthur sighs and turns from Augustus , walking to me.
“Nikolas, I have something to tell you. “ He says, there’s a gravity to his tone that clearly makes Augustus uncomfortable.
“Art, what are you doing? “ The Trenchcoat wearing creature asks.
Art kneels bringing himself eye to eye with me.
“Don’t do this. “ Augustus says.
“Then promise. “ Art replies, a few seconds of silence go by, “ As you can see, I cannot guarantee your safety Nikolas.
But, for his own good, I want to tell you a word, one that will make my myopic brother look at things a little differently, if the need arises.
I’d use it sparingly, it’s not meant for those like yourself. It will have a physical, mental and spiritual toll. But it might spare you the worst of his excesses. “
That word was the last thing Arthur said to me. With a staggering, disorienting lurch, time began to move forward.
It kept moving forward for the next month.
I learned a lot over that time, but, not what you might expect.
As it turns out, there is a hell of a lot more engineering, physics, and chemistry involved in working with the supernatural than, summoning circles and newt eyes.
But eventually, the day I was dreading came.
The venue was a strip club of all places, a massive building, on the outskirts of Norwich, gaudy neon lights illuminate a place that, unlike the theme restaurant, seems to be in active use.
There was a different ambiance this time. The folks milling around the rune etched Lucite box seemed more sedate, and a hell of a lot richer.
The lighting was professional, driving music sets a professional sports tone.
This time I walk in the cage of my own accord. It’s not pride, or bravery, but simply knowing, I have no choice.
The roar of the crowd stokes my fear as Augustus slowly opens the door of his coffin-like vessel.
He loves the attention, his grin both horrifying and genuine.
“Guess we’re in the big leagues now, eh, killer? “ Augustus prods.
I’m sweating. I’ve cut a little weight over the past month, unintentionally, but as I wonder what horror is going to come walking in the other side of this cage. I don’t think being in marginally better shape and having a working knowledge of basic engineering is going to do me a lot of good.
Suddenly the crowd is silent, lights illuminate a spot at the far end of the massive Lucite box.
She’s small, slight, and has grey, lifeless skin. Her eyes are massive, her body beautiful, but exaggerated to the point of looking cartoonish. She’s not wearing much, a small t-shirt and what I’ll generously call a bikini bottom.
Beside her is a massive, brick slab of a man, late twenties or early thirties. His eyes are wild, he’s covered in layers of scars, and burns. He wears an old, worn prison uniform that’s never seen a washing machine.
He matches her strange, boneless stride, with a loping wolf-like gait.
“Entering the ring, you know her, you love her. She’s the Vixen of the void, The Nymph of nothing, Norwich’s own, ‘Sweet’ Francis Anne!
And at her side, brought in at great expense from the land of Twinkies, cheeseburgers and weak beer, The Corps Killer, the Military Mangler, with 24 out of ring kills and 36 in, ‘Big’ Billy Speck! “ an announcer screams.
The crowd bursts into life, noise shakes the walls of the cage.
“And, on the other side, I don’t know, some wanker in a Trenchcoat, and a kid that isn’t even old enough to be here. Let’s watch them die. “ He finishes.
Augustus looks enraged, his teeth chatter, he flexes his clawed hands. I walk in his shadow as he advances to face the creature and her second.
“I know you! “ The grey skinned thing says, her voice high pitched. As she speaks I notice what appears to be a thick scar bisecting her from forehead to stomach.
“Never heard of you. Neither will anyone else after this. “ Augustus says with a grin.
“You’re the runt of the litter right? Royal blood but peasant flesh, that’s what they say, no? “ Francis says, she grins a toothless smile. The inside of her mouth, a black void.
“Fuck my family. What I am is as good as meat gets. I give myself power, all you have is a cosmic std. “ Augustus stares Francis down as he talks.
Francis reacts with nothing more than a coy look. Bill stares down at me, the handle of some large blade sticking out of his right pocket, and a short length of chain wrapped around his left forearm.
A buzzer cuts through the roar of the crowd, the world seems to consist of nothing more than myself and the horrors around me as the timer begins to count down.
Like a flash Augustus leaps at Francis, but her body stretches and contorts as she moves, he never gets close.
I tear myself away from the clash of unnatural creatures as I look to the mutilated killer in front of me.
I didn’t come in unarmed, but I also was expecting another kid. And wanted to avoid what happened last time if at all possible. My heart races as I pull the small black can from the pocket of my worn, grey hoodie.
For a second I feel like a badass. I’ve got the can of mace aimed and spraying before Bill can react.
Four seconds tick by before the can is empty, Bill is soaked in thick yellow liquid, it runs down his face like tears.
The psycho doesn’t even blink.
“You good? “ he asks before slapping my outstretched arm aside and shattering my nose with a backhanded blow that seemed almost an afterthought.
Augustus screams in frustration, moving faster than I can track, but not able to put a scratch on the amorphous, rubbery woman.
Bill uncoils the chain, and I feel a sudden deep, crushing pain in my chest. I stumble backward, coughing. He laughs and whips the chain out again, I manage to see the next blow, but have no way of stopping it.
He manages to hit the same spot, the pain is overwhelming, my lungs feel bruised, I can’t breathe.
Francis seems to have grown bored avoiding Augustus, he pants, sucking wind as she stands in front of him.
That scar splits, not fully, but from forehead to the bridge of her nose. What’s behind it, is nothing.
I mean that in terms so literal, I can’t describe how it looked. It was more of a feeling that a sight. Looking into it, made me understand just how empty something can actually be.
Pieces of Augustus’ skin and flesh begin to, simply not exist. His look of confusion lasts for about a second before he’s sent sailing through the air by a long, whip-like arm.
The trenchcoat clad creature extracts himself from a tangled mess of tables, chairs and debris. Francis and Bill laugh, mocking us.
“Let’s trade dance partners” Augustus says, his two handed shove launching my broken body into Francis.
She catches me, her body absorbing the impact.
Fear is making me hyperventilate, physical trauma is turning that into a wheezing pant that feels like being waterboarded.
Francis looks down at me, violence and seduction in her eyes.
“Make things easy for me and I’ll let you go out with a bang. “ She says, the look of carnal violence on her face makes me gag.
Augustus struggles with Bill, the creatures wounds many and severe.
A minute remains, but I don’t know if I can last another ten seconds.
Francis stretches one arm into a thin tendril, it begins to circle me, caging me into a progressively smaller area.
“I’m sixteen, you paranormal nonce. “ I blurt out, the pain from my broken nose almost making me pass out, “ That’s the word they use around here, right? For the kind of creep that gets supernatural powers to hit on a kid? “
I can’t run, I can’t fight, all I can do is try to distract this thing for another 42 seconds.
Her face begins to turn, shifting and warping into something resembling a cattle skull more than a person.
The wet snapping noise distracts both Francis and myself.
Augustus has his hand buried in the chest of the convict, he holds the man aloft for a moment.
Augustus says something in a language I can’t even guess at, and with one fluid motion tears the black, decayed heart from his own chest and replaces it with that of the killer.
He begins to scream, then laugh, wounds spraying ichor, he seems to swell, his face a mask of pleasure and Ill intent.
“Death machine just needed a new engine. “ Augustus says with a cackle.
Francis forgets about me and lashes out, quite literally, at Augustus. Limbs becoming a frenzied blur of snaking flesh, , destroying anything they so much as graze.
He wades into the storm, flirting around the edges of the cage, making her chase him with the lethal limbs.
The conflict is a blur, but at the 23 second mark I see it. As much as I hate the prick, I’m almost impressed.
She’s tangled, somewhere among the bent stripper poles, and doorways to private booths, She’s caught herself.
Augustus takes his time now, her body is stretched thin, looped around door handles and under stages.
Ten seconds left, Augustus is feet from her writhing, blob-like form. Her features pulled taught enough to be nearly non-existent.
“Takes a lot to open yourself up doesn’t it? “ Augustus says, kneeling, he holds the killer’s knife in one hand, “ Why don’t I do it for you? “
The blade is barely touching her flesh as the timer ends.
“Fuck’s sake! “ Augustus says, standing, and letting the knife fall to the floor.
Something about the way he walks to one end of the Lucite cage worries me.
“Nobody likes a draw, but as far as they go, that was one hell of a kiss to your sister, wasn’t it folks?
No one is defeating our lovely lady of legend, but let’s hear it for the man who tried… Trenchcoat! “ The announcer screams over the loudspeaker.
The crowd is on their feet, bets are being paid out, and two groups of people are trying to open doors conveniently barred by flesh no person is going to get through.
I jog up to him, my body screaming at me every step of the way. He taps along one clear wall.
“Cheap runes. “ Augustus says, before driving his fist like a spear through the Lucite.
The hole he makes is about the size of a watermelon, his hand easily going through all six inches of the wall.
But it’s not big enough to accommodate the body of the poor twenty something he drags through.
In an instant the man is flensed, his small bones broken, eyes, ears and jaw, nothing more than a smear.
But he’s still alive, wailing a haunting death bellow as he struggles to understand what just happened.
“Stop! “ I scream, horrified. Blood sprays from my ruined nose, “You think I won’t say it? “
Augustus slowly cocks his head, punching his fist through the wall again, and tossing another victim beside the first.
“In front of your family, and that aunt of yours? You think this is bad? The shit she’ll do to you if she knows you even looked at my Dangerous Brothers looking prick of a brother will make this look like a massage.” Trenchcoat pauses, letting the reality sink in, letting my absolute lack of power envelop me like a blanket, “ You want me to stop? I’ll give you something no one else has, a choice.
Either finish one of these pieces of meat off, or, have a taste. “
He brings his hand back for another strike, and I make my choice.
No, I’m not telling you which one. I can share a lot of things with you guys. But, I’m sorry, how I picked to save the rest of the people in that place is a shame I’m going to carry on my own.
Don’t know if any of you will want to hear from me again, after knowing what I’ve had to do, who I’ve had to deal with, but I’m going to keep posting. This is getting nothing but worse, and maybe, I can save someone else the same fate.

For anyone who missed how this started.
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/s/8Gy9JbmUVC
I didn’t expect so many people out there would care about what’s happening to me. I’d say it’s humbling, but, well, my situation has been humbling me since I left the states. You guys cheering me on, and trying to help, it’s kept me going though.
So, I figure the least I can do is keep you all updated until something prevents me from doing so. Likely in a permanent fashion.
I'll say, the ride home was awkward, to say the least. For all of the grim predictions running through my head going to the spectacle , on the way back they were ten times worse.
I wasn’t caged, shackled and tortured when I returned. If I said I was greeted with concern by the handful of distant relatives and lost souls I’d be over exaggerating. But there was a bit of respect and kindness .
I was patched up, as far as being stabbed goes, apparently I got lucky.
There was food, question free beer, and a healthy number of people asking how things went.
All I wanted to do was sleep, but something kept me going. Kept me answering questions I’d rather not have, kept my fear fried brain making conversation and trading verbal jabs.
A tap on my shoulder startles me, the sun is rising and if I don’t get to sleep soon, I’m going to fall over.
“Your half. “ Sylvia says, it’s just shy of a thousand pounds.
“All this was for, what is this? $600 American? “ I say.
“ Walk with me. “ Sylvia begins, I follow.
“Money isn’t much good if I’m dead. “ I say, my tone sullen and exasperated.
“Then don’t die. “ She replies, walking across the debris strewn scrub grass toward the farm house.
“Do you have any shame? You kidnapped me in the middle of the night to feed me to a couple of demons. I’m your nephew for Christ’s sake! “ I’m not yelling, I don’t think my body is capable of that much exertion at this point, but my words are clear.
“I’m not your aunt, Nikolas.
Great-Great-Great grandmother, give or take a generation. It’s been a long time.
And if I was doing, as you suggest, yes, I would feel a deep shame.” Sylvia lets the answers and questions ferment in my mind as we walk.
“So why not tell me what’s going on? Maybe teach me some of that magic you were tossing around at the airport. “ we stop outside a sliding door. Sylvia has a genuine look of amusement on her face.
“Magic? Nikolas, magic is what stupid people call being fooled.
Magic is the Priest’s sermon, the fortune teller’s reading, the huckster’s pitch.
It’s a way to create vast amounts of power from nothing.
The world is full of things that defy the laws of nature. What I do, what those of the family with me do, is understand them. We learn, we improvise, and we adapt.
We do not make power from nothing, we find it, and use it. “ Sylvia watches me, judging my response to her statement.
“So that’s what you meant before. About the trappings of the gypsy. This whole vibe, it’s a smokescreen.
Assholes expect the Gritts to be some Romani stereotype, and give you a wide berth. When strange shit happens, they chalk it up to some kind of con, or something they’ve seen in a movie. Either way, they aren’t looking for monster fights, and supernatural research. “ I know I’m in the ballpark when she pats me on the shoulder hard enough to hurt.
“And the value of your half, is somewhere around 30 thousand. We wager in esoteric items, favors, and creatures. When you leave, I’ll make you a fair offer for what is yours.
You’ll understand more in the morning after you have a chance to look around. “ Sylvia says before showing me a sparse, but clean, and comfortable room.
I wake up in the early afternoon, something, beyond the obvious nagging at me.
After a cup of nearly caustic tea, I finally realized what it was.
Sylvia, she told me a lot last night. But many of my questions were avoided. I know about her, and this place, but my fate, beyond another round of tug of war between two nightmares, is unknown.
That being said, my second conclusion, is that I need to start rolling with the punches. I’ve tried calling the police (they asked how Sylvia was doing before I said my name.), my parents, anyone, and like it or not, for one unsaid reason or another, I’m stuck here.
I’m going to skip a lot of introductions. Reading me introducing myself, 50 times and trying not to be awkward around folks that seem way too okay with me dying, probably wouldn’t be the best use of your time.
As I explore the grounds, I enter one of a handful of old barns. The inside has peg board walls hung with tools spanning the spectrum from mundane to esoteric enough I have no idea what they are.
Inside, among benches strewn with a random assortment of objects, and equipment, stand two men.
The first is Colin, he’s pale as a ghost, eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived, he wears an Aerosmith shirt, and toolbelt that is making his pants lose a battle with gravity. The 40 something is holding an electrode connected to a thick, black wire directly patched into the main breaker.
The second, Dafyd is a short, olive skinned man in his mid fifties. His outfit consists of a tweed jacket, blue jeans and plain white shirt.
Between them on a grounded workbench sits a small snow globe, within stands a faded ballerina, one arm lost, floating randomly through the liquid.
My teeth ache as the breaker begins to make a dangerous humming noise. For a couple of seconds, a short blue spark arcs from the electrode to the snow globe.
The air smells of ozone to the point where I’m convinced I’ve burned out my nose hairs. The two men argue a bit between themselves in a language I’ve heard but never learned to speak. Then turn as they notice me.
“Nik, come settle an argument between your uncle and I. “ Dafyd says.
“Don’t know how much help I’m going to be, but I’ll do my best. “ I say, walking up.
“The kid has no idea what’s going on Dafyd. “ Colin says.
“I know, but we’re not looking for an expert opinion.
Nik, what year is it? “ Dafyd asks.
“1993.” I say without hesitation, “ What the hell? “ I add. My brain is a bit fried, but not enough to screw up the date by 30 something years.
“God damn it. “ Colin says.
“I knew it! “ exclaims Dafyd.
“This piece of shit is getting binned.
You look confused kid.
It’s called a gimmick. It’s the stuff side of what we deal in. Some of it, it’s two steps off of a horror novel. Most of it though, it’s just strange.
Figuring them out is 95% engineering and 5% esoterica.
They teaching you anything across the pond? “ Colin asks.
The question leads to a conversation, the conversation leads to a week of me shadowing the two finicky, strange guys.
I’d go into more detail, but as the days go by, things seem more and more like spending time with some out there branches in the family tree. As terrifying as everything has been, as terrifying as it is, it’s, interesting.
But I wouldn’t be writing if things were sunshine and roses though, would I?
One day, after working with objects that scared, confused and frustrated me in equal measure, I realized there was something I was avoiding.
So I found myself standing in front of Augustus, the creature held upright and immobile in it’s coffin-like cage. The Plexiglas window is cracked.
It's worse than I thought it would be. Every time I look at the thing’s face I see the blood it made me spill. I see the power it wields, and the murderous intent in it’s twisted pit of a mind.
But sometime soon, I’m going to be next to it again. I have to be able to keep myself together. I have to understand this thing as much as I can.
“Hey killer, how the fuck ya Doin? “ Augustus taunts. Shame reddens my fear paled face.
“Can we talk? “ I say, I want it to be a demand, it comes out as a whimper.
“What do we have to talk about, bud? What about this are you not picking up on yet? “ Augustus is smug, confident even while confined.
“How you seem to have this limitless ego, when you're being held by literally the oldest woman possible. “ I’m too scared to say this above a whisper.
“That dusty old wizard’s sleeve out there? She’ll fucking get hers.
Lucky bitch on a lucky day is all that was.
But luck runs out, and when it does, I’m gonna uproot your entire sad little family tree. “ Augustus threatens.
I actually take a step backward, and almost turn. The fear this thing causes, it’s more than the knowledge of what it can do, it’s a force in and of itself.
“Augustus, why not hear me out? “ I plead.
“Because kid, that’s not how this story goes.
I’ve got nothing but time, I’ll be around till the heat death of the fucking universe.
I don’t need to hear things like you out, I don’t need to bargain. No matter how airtight your inbred little clan thinks these bonds are, eventually, someone always makes a mistake. Something small, like a wrong angle on a rune.
Or…, “ as the thing talks, the door to the coffin like cage holding it starts to slowly swing outward, “ Something big, like forgetting to set the fucking padlock. “
I’m already running as he talks, but he’s standing in front of the exit before I can take a step.
He looms in front of the door, coat spreading, seemingly of it’s own accord, making the patchwork killer seem like some kind of twisted manta ray.
He locks eyes with me, I’m frozen, gripped in terror so intense I have no idea if it’s mundane or the aura of fear Augustus projects.
Those mismatched orbs burrow into me, I feel like this thing can see into my soul.
He inhales for an impossibly long time, a slick, menacing grin spreading across his leathery face.
“Yeah, today’s the day kid.” He says, a kick sending me across the floor like a smooth rock across the surface of a pond.
I’ve never felt pain like this, I try to stand, but my knee refuses to bend. I hit the ground and my ribs scream, I’m sure at least one was broken in the tumble.
I hear Augustus’ footsteps, my struggles to get to my feet are useless. Seconds in, i’m in literal crippling pain.
He grabs me by the throat, taking his time as he raises me above his head.
The look of joy on his face as I choke and struggle to breathe twists his features, for a moment he appears nearly snakelike.
He holds the tips of his claw-like nails against my stomach. Then draws his arm back.
“Don’t worry bud, I’m not just going to tear out your heart, everyone does that shit.
This isn’t going to be a sprint, it’s a fucking marathon. I just want to aerate the track a little bit before we start. “ His hand blurs and I close my eyes hoping I don’t last very long.
“Stop” I hear a deep, smooth, male voice say.
I hit the ground, and try to see who just stopped the beginning of my execution, but the pain, the cracked ribs, pulled muscles and long ragged scrapes have me seeing spots.
When my vision clears, I see a tall, blond man with impossibly angular features, dressed in an immaculate black and mauve suit.
His eyes try to look kind, but there is something wrong behind them. Something waiting to be let out.
“Who are you? “ I say, one lip, split and torn.
“You can call me Art. Arthur Deus if you feel like being formal.
But what you want to know, is why I’m here.
Well Nikolas, to simplify things, think of me as the older brother of the leering terror your ‘aunt’ has trapped here. “ As Arthur talks, I notice something, the motes of dust in the air are hanging still.
“I have no problems with you taking him. I haven’t seen you, I don’t know your name. Couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. “ I ramble.
Arthur holds up a finger, I go silent.
“If only it were that easy.
See Nikolas, your aunt and I, have quite the history. And as much as it pains me to admit it, she’s a crafty one, and has the means to make things very difficult for me.
Sylvia cannot know I’m involved, this is why I have an offer for you. “ As art says this, he waves a hand, almost dismissively.
Like a switch being flipped my pain stops, I watch as my wounds begin to seal and fade, amazed.
“What is it? “ I say. The words feel like they have weight.
“Sylvia is looking for someone to take over for her. As old as she is, she’s not immortal.
You’re her third attempt.
I’m not going to lie to you and say I care about what’s happening to the humans involved in this grim little spectacle. But I care about my family, and to a lesser extent, those like myself.
This bloodsport that your aunt is a part of, it’s vile. It’s world spanning, and it’s for nothing more than greed and bragging rights.
I want to change this. And I would like you to help me. “ Art’s tone is slick and confident.
“If I do, then you get him to back off? “ I say, pointing to Augustus.
Art looks dismayed for a moment.
“That’s not something I can really promise Nikolas. If anything could force him to listen to reason, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. “ My heart sinks as Art says this.
“Fuck off Art. “ Augustus says.
Arthur rolls his eyes. They seem to go just a little too far back.
“But what I can do, is have a conversation with him, impress upon him how important it is he works with you. “ Art pats me on the shoulder before turning toward his sibling. His hand is impossibly hot.
“This kid dies, that is not my fault. You’ve seen this shit, he’s not built for it, just bust me out of here. “ Augustus isn’t far off of pleading in his tone.
“You know that’s not possible. I cannot let Sylvia know I’m here. But given time, I will have you out. “ Art assures.
“Fact remains, this kid gets on the wrong side of a blade or a fuckin, werewolf or something, that’s not on me.
Even if he manages to keep his lungs in his chest, look at him. His mind is cracking, he’s either insane or God-damned, catatonic in two months. “ Now Augustus sounds like a cocky piece of shit again.
“Of course, if he dies, or succumbs mentally, that’s not on you.
But I want you, to make a promise to me. I want you to understand that this child cannot be harmed by your hand. “ It sounds like Art is talking to a five year old.
Augustus shrugs before replying.
“The fuck you want me to say? You know me, you know I can’t say I’m not hurting this kid. And I sure as hell am not making a promise about it so you can get you-know-who involved when nature takes it’s course.
Fuck this kid, get me out of here.”
Arthur sighs and turns from Augustus , walking to me.
“Nikolas, I have something to tell you. “ He says, there’s a gravity to his tone that clearly makes Augustus uncomfortable.
“Art, what are you doing? “ The Trenchcoat wearing creature asks.
Art kneels bringing himself eye to eye with me.
“Don’t do this. “ Augustus says.
“Then promise. “ Art replies, a few seconds of silence go by, “ As you can see, I cannot guarantee your safety Nikolas.
But, for his own good, I want to tell you a word, one that will make my myopic brother look at things a little differently, if the need arises.
I’d use it sparingly, it’s not meant for those like yourself. It will have a physical, mental and spiritual toll. But it might spare you the worst of his excesses. “
That word was the last thing Arthur said to me. With a staggering, disorienting lurch, time began to move forward.
It kept moving forward for the next month.
I learned a lot over that time, but, not what you might expect.
As it turns out, there is a hell of a lot more engineering, physics, and chemistry involved in working with the supernatural than, summoning circles and newt eyes.
But eventually, the day I was dreading came.
The venue was a strip club of all places, a massive building, on the outskirts of Norwich, gaudy neon lights illuminate a place that, unlike the theme restaurant, seems to be in active use.
There was a different ambiance this time. The folks milling around the rune etched Lucite box seemed more sedate, and a hell of a lot richer.
The lighting was professional, driving music sets a professional sports tone.
This time I walk in the cage of my own accord. It’s not pride, or bravery, but simply knowing, I have no choice.
The roar of the crowd stokes my fear as Augustus slowly opens the door of his coffin-like vessel.
He loves the attention, his grin both horrifying and genuine.
“Guess we’re in the big leagues now, eh, killer? “ Augustus prods.
I’m sweating. I’ve cut a little weight over the past month, unintentionally, but as I wonder what horror is going to come walking in the other side of this cage. I don’t think being in marginally better shape and having a working knowledge of basic engineering is going to do me a lot of good.
Suddenly the crowd is silent, lights illuminate a spot at the far end of the massive Lucite box.
She’s small, slight, and has grey, lifeless skin. Her eyes are massive, her body beautiful, but exaggerated to the point of looking cartoonish. She’s not wearing much, a small t-shirt and what I’ll generously call a bikini bottom.
Beside her is a massive, brick slab of a man, late twenties or early thirties. His eyes are wild, he’s covered in layers of scars, and burns. He wears an old, worn prison uniform that’s never seen a washing machine.
He matches her strange, boneless stride, with a loping wolf-like gait.
“Entering the ring, you know her, you love her. She’s the Vixen of the void, The Nymph of nothing, Norwich’s own, ‘Sweet’ Francis Anne!
And at her side, brought in at great expense from the land of Twinkies, cheeseburgers and weak beer, The Corps Killer, the Military Mangler, with 24 out of ring kills and 36 in, ‘Big’ Billy Speck! “ an announcer screams.
The crowd bursts into life, noise shakes the walls of the cage.
“And, on the other side, I don’t know, some wanker in a Trenchcoat, and a kid that isn’t even old enough to be here. Let’s watch them die. “ He finishes.
Augustus looks enraged, his teeth chatter, he flexes his clawed hands. I walk in his shadow as he advances to face the creature and her second.
“I know you! “ The grey skinned thing says, her voice high pitched. As she speaks I notice what appears to be a thick scar bisecting her from forehead to stomach.
“Never heard of you. Neither will anyone else after this. “ Augustus says with a grin.
“You’re the runt of the litter right? Royal blood but peasant flesh, that’s what they say, no? “ Francis says, she grins a toothless smile. The inside of her mouth, a black void.
“Fuck my family. What I am is as good as meat gets. I give myself power, all you have is a cosmic std. “ Augustus stares Francis down as he talks.
Francis reacts with nothing more than a coy look. Bill stares down at me, the handle of some large blade sticking out of his right pocket, and a short length of chain wrapped around his left forearm.
A buzzer cuts through the roar of the crowd, the world seems to consist of nothing more than myself and the horrors around me as the timer begins to count down.
Like a flash Augustus leaps at Francis, but her body stretches and contorts as she moves, he never gets close.
I tear myself away from the clash of unnatural creatures as I look to the mutilated killer in front of me.
I didn’t come in unarmed, but I also was expecting another kid. And wanted to avoid what happened last time if at all possible. My heart races as I pull the small black can from the pocket of my worn, grey hoodie.
For a second I feel like a badass. I’ve got the can of mace aimed and spraying before Bill can react.
Four seconds tick by before the can is empty, Bill is soaked in thick yellow liquid, it runs down his face like tears.
The psycho doesn’t even blink.
“You good? “ he asks before slapping my outstretched arm aside and shattering my nose with a backhanded blow that seemed almost an afterthought.
Augustus screams in frustration, moving faster than I can track, but not able to put a scratch on the amorphous, rubbery woman.
Bill uncoils the chain, and I feel a sudden deep, crushing pain in my chest. I stumble backward, coughing. He laughs and whips the chain out again, I manage to see the next blow, but have no way of stopping it.
He manages to hit the same spot, the pain is overwhelming, my lungs feel bruised, I can’t breathe.
Francis seems to have grown bored avoiding Augustus, he pants, sucking wind as she stands in front of him.
That scar splits, not fully, but from forehead to the bridge of her nose. What’s behind it, is nothing.
I mean that in terms so literal, I can’t describe how it looked. It was more of a feeling that a sight. Looking into it, made me understand just how empty something can actually be.
Pieces of Augustus’ skin and flesh begin to, simply not exist. His look of confusion lasts for about a second before he’s sent sailing through the air by a long, whip-like arm.
The trenchcoat clad creature extracts himself from a tangled mess of tables, chairs and debris. Francis and Bill laugh, mocking us.
“Let’s trade dance partners” Augustus says, his two handed shove launching my broken body into Francis.
She catches me, her body absorbing the impact.
Fear is making me hyperventilate, physical trauma is turning that into a wheezing pant that feels like being waterboarded.
Francis looks down at me, violence and seduction in her eyes.
“Make things easy for me and I’ll let you go out with a bang. “ She says, the look of carnal violence on her face makes me gag.
Augustus struggles with Bill, the creatures wounds many and severe.
A minute remains, but I don’t know if I can last another ten seconds.
Francis stretches one arm into a thin tendril, it begins to circle me, caging me into a progressively smaller area.
“I’m sixteen, you paranormal nonce. “ I blurt out, the pain from my broken nose almost making me pass out, “ That’s the word they use around here, right? For the kind of creep that gets supernatural powers to hit on a kid? “
I can’t run, I can’t fight, all I can do is try to distract this thing for another 42 seconds.
Her face begins to turn, shifting and warping into something resembling a cattle skull more than a person.
The wet snapping noise distracts both Francis and myself.
Augustus has his hand buried in the chest of the convict, he holds the man aloft for a moment.
Augustus says something in a language I can’t even guess at, and with one fluid motion tears the black, decayed heart from his own chest and replaces it with that of the killer.
He begins to scream, then laugh, wounds spraying ichor, he seems to swell, his face a mask of pleasure and Ill intent.
“Death machine just needed a new engine. “ Augustus says with a cackle.
Francis forgets about me and lashes out, quite literally, at Augustus. Limbs becoming a frenzied blur of snaking flesh, , destroying anything they so much as graze.
He wades into the storm, flirting around the edges of the cage, making her chase him with the lethal limbs.
The conflict is a blur, but at the 23 second mark I see it. As much as I hate the prick, I’m almost impressed.
She’s tangled, somewhere among the bent stripper poles, and doorways to private booths, She’s caught herself.
Augustus takes his time now, her body is stretched thin, looped around door handles and under stages.
Ten seconds left, Augustus is feet from her writhing, blob-like form. Her features pulled taught enough to be nearly non-existent.
“Takes a lot to open yourself up doesn’t it? “ Augustus says, kneeling, he holds the killer’s knife in one hand, “ Why don’t I do it for you? “
The blade is barely touching her flesh as the timer ends.
“Fuck’s sake! “ Augustus says, standing, and letting the knife fall to the floor.
Something about the way he walks to one end of the Lucite cage worries me.
“Nobody likes a draw, but as far as they go, that was one hell of a kiss to your sister, wasn’t it folks?
No one is defeating our lovely lady of legend, but let’s hear it for the man who tried… Trenchcoat! “ The announcer screams over the loudspeaker.
The crowd is on their feet, bets are being paid out, and two groups of people are trying to open doors conveniently barred by flesh no person is going to get through.
I jog up to him, my body screaming at me every step of the way. He taps along one clear wall.
“Cheap runes. “ Augustus says, before driving his fist like a spear through the Lucite.
The hole he makes is about the size of a watermelon, his hand easily going through all six inches of the wall.
But it’s not big enough to accommodate the body of the poor twenty something he drags through.
In an instant the man is flensed, his small bones broken, eyes, ears and jaw, nothing more than a smear.
But he’s still alive, wailing a haunting death bellow as he struggles to understand what just happened.
“Stop! “ I scream, horrified. Blood sprays from my ruined nose, “You think I won’t say it? “
Augustus slowly cocks his head, punching his fist through the wall again, and tossing another victim beside the first.
“In front of your family, and that aunt of yours? You think this is bad? The shit she’ll do to you if she knows you even looked at my Dangerous Brothers looking prick of a brother will make this look like a massage.” Trenchcoat pauses, letting the reality sink in, letting my absolute lack of power envelop me like a blanket, “ You want me to stop? I’ll give you something no one else has, a choice.
Either finish one of these pieces of meat off, or, have a taste. “
He brings his hand back for another strike, and I make my choice.
No, I’m not telling you which one. I can share a lot of things with you guys. But, I’m sorry, how I picked to save the rest of the people in that place is a shame I’m going to carry on my own.
Don’t know if any of you will want to hear from me again, after knowing what I’ve had to do, who I’ve had to deal with, but I’m going to keep posting. This is getting nothing but worse, and maybe, I can save someone else the same fate.

Thank you u/SpacePaladin15 for this universe!
And many thanks to u/TheManwithaNoPlan for being a full co-writer on this project!
[First]-[Prev]-[Next]
Memory Transcription Subject: Rolem, High Magister of Dawn Creek. Date [Standardized Human Time] October 31st, 2136
I pulled at the sleeves of my turtleneck as I stared at the broadcasting announcement. The news that had ravaged our office for those tumultuous paws was now about to be revealed to the general public, along with those quarantined within the meeting room. I had the foresight to call a press conference around 3rd claw, when the majority of the population would be awake. It would seem Tarva’s office had a similar idea.
The unfortunately familiar sounds of the broadcast rang through the hall, a dead silence accompanying it as its audience watched rapt in its implications, similarly to how I was upon first viewing. From the mouth of Niknonus themselves, undeniable proof that the life in our Federation had been a lie. I glanced over at the other Magisters, each in varying states of disorganization and anxiety. No matter our leanings, we all knew that what was about to transpire would not be pretty. We have our jobs to do, and for the glory of Solgalick I hope that we are adequate enough to prevent yet more death this paw.
Once the broadcast ended, the lights faded back in, signaling Retyu’s cue. I had just about been able to help revise it prior to this conference, and I hoped that it would at least prevent violence in the chamber. I glanced her way, and with a shaky exhale, she steeled herself and stepped out onto the stage. Every eye was on her as she made her way to the podium, the tension hanging thick enough in the air to act as a legitimate barrier.
Once she mounted, she cleared her throat and spoke to the frozen herd before her. “Now that you…have an idea of the situation, I would like to play for you a broadcast that we will be airing over all applicable bandwidths. Please, do take a look.” With her job done, Retyu stepped down from her podium and let the PSA play, not even a peep coming from the press. Despite its brevity, she likely had the hardest job among us.
On the projection, the likeness of Retyu appeared once more, a happy expression present on her features. “Hello everyone. I’m Magister Retyu of the Dawn Creek district. If you’re seeing this, then you undoubtedly have a lot of questions. Thankfully, we at the Dawn Creek Magistratta have answers for you!”
The scene then transitioned to an animated section, portraying a cartoonish Venlil standing in a grassy field alongside similarly stylized Zurulian and Sivkit. “The news may have been shocking, but do remember that not every species was altered. Many species have been herbivores since before the Federation, and this will not change things for you.”
The perspective shifts to show animated versions of a Gojid and Krakotl approaching the earlier group, followed by fear from both the Zurulian and Sivkit. Both the Gojid and Krakotl look dejected at the rejection and begin to turn away. “However, that can’t be said for every species. Yes, some were predators who used to have the ability to eat meat, but they also had the ability to eat plants too. The Federation did nothing to their minds, only their stomachs.”
The Venlil, rather than cower like the others, reaches out to them and hugs them both. I remember how much I had to argue for them to not cower at all, glad the animators gave in at the end. The pair of converted omnivores looked shocked by the gesture at first, but then eagerly returned the gesture. Upon seeing the Venlil was unharmed, the Sivkit and Zurulian approached and were accepted into the group hug. “Remember, these people have been this way since before you were born. They are still your neighbors, friends, and loved ones. They are the same people, and should not be treated differently because of this information coming to light.”
The scene fades to a white background, and the same Gonid and Krakotl as before appear, walking through the white void towards an artists interpretation of the testing stations we had set up around the city. “To prove that, all the afflicted species have been gathered up over the past several paws for scanning and testing. We strongly encourage all members of the affected species who weren’t contacted by the Exterminators to check in to one of our many testing centers, so that even those skeptical can rest assured that you’re of no more danger to the herd as you were before.” Both the characters were scanned by a Venlil in an Exterminator’s uniform, and both receive passing blue marks. The scene is further punctuated by them jumping all into the air with lines shining from them all to symbolize their positivity.
The scene then finally switches back to Retyu’s face, the same happy expression plastered on her face. “We all call Venlil Prime our home. Let’s each do our part to make it one.” The screen then cut to a map of the district, with the testing camps marked for any converted peoples we had yet to locate to make their way towards. Above, it gave the CIN for both our office and the local Exterminator’s office. I still wish I had been able to push back the gathering of people until after this broadcast. Hopefully that was enough to prevent pandemonium from completely taking over.
On the topic of converted omnivores, I looked further back to find Eron curled in the back. He still wore the sweater I had given him just two paws ago, clenching the sleeve in his claws he stared wall-eyed at nothing. As my gaze lingered, he spotted me looking and sat up, his spines visibly lowering beneath the article of clothing. Hopefully he, too, took the message to heart.
With that out of the way, Fior took the stage, flicking his ears in a forceful greeting. “Good paw, everyone. Now that you have seen both the announcement and the following PSA, we would like to open the floor for questions.” No sooner had the words left his mouth did the entire room erupt into a cacophony of voices. Some spoke clearly, others did not. Some cried, some shouted. Fior was clearly in over his head with the situation as he struggled to get everyone under control. This crowd needed some kind of force to command them, a pillar to be strong for them. Perhaps it’s time we go off-script a little.
I stepped forward from the side area onto the main stage, firmly shooing Fior off the podium. The maelstrom of voices didn’t seem to notice my presence, but they were about to. I took a gavel from the storage compartment and whacked it against the wooden podium repeatedly.
-WHHAKWHAKWHAKWHAKWHAK-
The herd quickly silenced themselves at my implied command. I did not frequently use this gavel beyond my legal rulings, so its use was more than enough to capture everyone’s attention. It would be prudent to press that advantage. “We shall be taking one question at a time!” I commanded, “This is an unprecedented situation, so we cannot cause undue confusion! You!” I pointed a claw at a Venlil holding a microphone and datapad, “Black Wool, Grey Tail! Please, ask your question first!”
The man, a reporter from our district's division of VRPBN, stepped back a bit in surprise. It was obvious he either hadn’t expected to be singled out so soon, or get a chance to so clearly ask his question. He cleared his throat, eager to leap on the chance. “Yes! You said that the, uh, the citizens who have been revealed to be predators are to be scanned. How long do you expect this whole process to take?”
An appropriate question, and fully relevant to the subject at paw. In truth, I was impressed that I received any sort of understandable question to begin with. While I still had issues with him calling the citizens predators, I had to commend him for staying on a topic that matters to the public. Even if that public doesn’t realize it at the moment.
I straightened my back to be professional. “The length of time is all dependent on the cooperation of both the civilians and the authorities. There are several thousand people we must scan all throughout the District, living in multiple cities and towns. That is a feat that does not play well with solid timelines, but I can assure you all that this Magistratta has endeavored to make it as efficient and painless as possible for everyone, so that you may all go back to your lives.”
On a normal day, a politician had to get used to saying as much as you could without saying anything. However, I quickly learned that was no excuse to be spineless. You had to show you held a stance that you believed in, lest you alienate both sides of any argument. I could not say that these procedures would take no more than a herd of Paws, but I also could not say that I had no idea when it would end either. That meant I could only state how I would endeavor to make sure it takes as little time as possible to soothe the fears of the citizens.
I pointed to another reporter, not wanting to leave any room for panic to seep back in. “You ma’am. White wool with the streaming holonote.”
“How can we expect to be safe when our neighbors have been harboring bloodlust for so long?” She said without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Of course people would go to that accusation. I am suddenly reconsidering my feelings on immediate responses.
I have to force my ears to stay standing. “I am inclined to remind you that all the people who are being scanned are, and have been for some time, all legal citizens of the Venlil Republic. That means they were either born here or have lived here long enough to be naturalized. The fact is that there have been no reports of bloodlust and savagery from these citizens. Keep that in mind, as the scans will show how little of an impact such emotions, if the scans are to even find them, have upon our lives.”
“But how can you be sure they’re trustworthy?” A voice bleated from the crowd, “we know now that they aren’t prey, never have been! So how can we trust them?”
Trust. There was a word I had a complicated relationship with. I used to have someone I thought was a friend, who I could trust to rely on even outside my normal duties. But he, Kevros, abused that in me. He manipulated me to serve his own ends, right up until he met his final end, and he was a member of one of the affected species. It would have been easy to let my personal experiences cloud my judgment. But not this paw.
“Trustworthiness is in the hands of the individual,” I stated plainly. “I speak from experience when I say that neither diet nor species has an impact upon how trustworthy someone can be. I believe that whole-heartedly, no matter what the scans say. Said scans are only to show that to the public without doubt.”
I pointed again, choosing an alien this time. “You, Zurulian.”
The small man cleared his throat. “As a medical representative, what is the plan for these changed predators working closely with our sick and vulnerable? Are there-“
I interrupted him without hesitation. “If anyone is thinking of firing an employee who partakes in this screening, I would like to remind them that it is ostensibly against Republic law to discriminate in hiring based upon Species. You are not forced to hire them, but none may be fired for a reason such as this. Any such actions will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law by these courts, and the courts of any other self-respecting district.”
The Zurulian seemed deflated by my efficient and partially preemptive shutdown of his point. That was by design. I did not want to see people's lives ripped out from under them over something they had no control over. In that vein, I called upon yet another alien, though this time I chose one hailing from an affected race. “You, Paltan.”
They seemed shocked that I chose them, as did others in the room. I saw mouths about to protest my choice, but a quick raise of my gavel and a glare snuffed any potential ill-fated argument. They, too, cleared their throat and asked in the steadiest voice they could muster. “W-What kinds of- of s-safety measures are in place for the p-predators? W-We don’t need any more death o-or disasters, e-especially on f-fault of the c-changed.”
It was disheartening to hear yet another person think less of them and their kind based upon this news, but it was an unfortunate prediction. It made me think about how Kevros’ body had been found. He had tried to make his escape, presumably with drugs from what the survivors attested. However, he had met his end just earlier this paw from his own carelessness. I did not want to dwell on the grisly details of his death, but even if he ultimately deserved it, any people that I could ensure would avoid a similar fate would be worth it.
“We have already set up all possible emergency services to be run autonomously to reduce the manpower required to handle any large scale emergencies. In addition, we have set up an…ahem, a suicide prevention line to minimize the possibility of self-inflicted death. I would encourage anyone, anyone, who needs it to call that line immediately, we are happy to listen and talk. The Light of Solgalick has not abandoned you nor any in their gaze.”
The Paltan shrunk back in their seat at the conclusion of my answer, their features contorted in thought. While some might give minor objections to including my faith, I hoped that my words would be enough to dissuade at least one person from taking their own life. I thought back to how intensely self-hating Eron had been just the paw prior, a dreadful knot forming in my stomach at the reality that such feelings were likely going to be the expected outcome for the near future. I should check in on him once this conference is concluded.
Only allowing a moment for thought, I quickly pointed to another person, going back to another Venlil. “You, sand wool.”
The Tan Venlil I had addressed straightened their back and stood from their seat. “Compounding the previous question, what are your plans when the scans come back with irrefutable evidence of predatory taint in the predator species? How will your administration handle the deportation of dangerous individuals from the herd?”
I had to dig my claws into the wood of the podium to keep my composure. When. They had said when, not if. It was clear that they had expectations as to how this paw would go, expectations that I could not allow to go unmanaged. “The Magistratta appreciates your concern with the matter, and should the situation arise, the Exterminators have full authority to deport any they deem beyond reasonable doubt to be a danger to the herd. However, that number is likely to be a small contingent of the overall population, no more than would be found in the Venlil population, rendering mass transportation both infeasible and unnecessary.”
They looked to be about to protest, so I slammed my gavel down once more to ensure that they did not lower morale in this room further yet. We do not need that kind of rhetoric burrowing in people’s minds. Deciding that my mental state was quickly deteriorating, I chose two more people in the room to ask questions to, pointing to the first. “You, Leitian.”
The small mammal looked at me with their wide eyes, equally as shocked as the Paltan was that I had chosen them despite the fact that their species was not listed in the broadcast. “H-How are you staying so calm about all this?! Don’t you know what this means?? This news is completely galaxy-shattering, and you’re just- just standing up there on a podium like this is just an-another harvest festival!! How can you be calm s-so close to…to predators??”
Ah, there is the panic I was expecting. At his outburst, I was reminded of a new story I had read just prior to this very conference. Apparently, in the Scorched Sands district, Solgalick themselves had damned someone in broad daylight, with the entire patron base of an entire restaurant bearing witness to the cosmic event. Something that should realistically be the news of the eon, but was swept under the rug by this single news broadcast. Who cares about my god being proven real when the person next door’s great great great whatever might have eaten meat hundreds of years ago? Surely that is much more important than one's eternal soul!
I didn’t want to dwell on that too much, lest I ruin my mood prematurely. I was about to answer the Leitain’s question as I had so many others, but I suddenly was struck with a far better idea. I turned my gaze to the side stage area, looking for a certain someone in particular. I quickly found Eron’s sweatered form where he had been when I took the podium. He was looking intently at me as I pointed at him and beckoned him up. I couldn’t clearly see his face, but the expansion of his sweater gave away his shock at being called up. He hesitated to heed my non-verbal request for a short time, but eventually slunk on stage.
As soon as he became visible, many unwarranted gasps and exclamations came from the press. Eron whined and tried to shrink back, but I signed calm with my tail and reaffirmed my desire for him to join me next to the podium. With yet more hesitation, he shuffled over and took his place beside me. In a show of solidarity, I stepped down from my elevated position and planted myself firmly by Eron’s side. I noticed that my presence seemed to calm him somewhat given that his spines lowered, although the stress of the situation seemed to be making him noticeably blush. I do not blame him, these circumstances are not ideal in any sense of the word.
“Easily,” I responded into the backup microphone I had clipped onto the fabric of my sweater. “I do not just stand calm up on my podium, but also next to a ‘predatory’ species, a nomenclature I would call to discontinue in this conversation. This is your Magister of Transportation, Eron. He is responsible for the popular expansions to the tube network and aided in easing accessibility to mass transportation in and around the industrial area of Dawn Creek. He, like so many others, has not suddenly changed in revelation to the news. He is the same incredible person that I, and many others, have come to know and respect for good reasons. I would encourage all of you, both in this room and outside it, to continue respecting those you may know that have been affected by this broadcast. They need your support now more than ever.”
The room was sufficiently shocked by my display of solidarity with the affected species, to the point that I had no interruptions when calling out the last of those I would be answering questions for. “One last question. You, dark gray in the back.”
“Why have you entrusted the Exterminators to this job?” She asked out as soon as my voice had stopped echoing from the room’s speakers. “It’s been well-documented that your rulings have been disproportionately against the office and their actions. This comes as a shock, especially in the wake of one, potentially two Code Zeros being called recently across the planet. Why have you changed your mind regarding this issue?”
I flicked my ears in subtle annoyance at the question, as they implied that my rulings were biased. This conference cannot end soon enough. “Throughout my tenure, I have strived to ensure that no biases shall inform my actions. I follow a doctrine of rationality and do my best to act on what is best for the herd as a unified whole. Previous Magisters have not had that conviction, and that shows in past legislatures. Regardless, I have been assured by Magister of Law and Order Fior that the Exterminators will handle this situation with the utmost professionalism and convic-”
The room went dark as the very ground beneath us shook. The massive boom rang out followed by the sound of shattering glass, starting pandemonium within the conference hall. Screams permeated the building, least of all those coming from the press inside. What was…no, please not now! In a rush, I jumped down from the stage and pushed through the mass of fur and scales that stood to block me. From behind, I heard Eron desperately call out “R-Rolem!,” but I needed to see for myself what had happened. I need to know that I was right not to trust them.
The light from the naturally-lit lobby hurt my eyes, but I pushed through the pain towards the exit. People were cowering behind furniture, and the elaborate stained-glass window of Solgalick that had been above one of the entrances lay shattered on the ground, covering the lobby with broken glass. I carefully navigated the chaos as I headed out the main door, my heart anxiously pounding in my chest. Two Exterminators stood just outside, having dropped their flamers and chattering panickedly to one another as they pointed out towards…towards…
…Perhaps some biases are justified.
[First]-[Prev]-[Next]

I haven't written anything down for almost a week, which is my limit. I set my intentions on immersing myself a bit more for my Live Chat on Lucid_Experiences.
Log: 118
This next experience was a fun one.
I'm on a train with my wife. It was built similarly to a subway train but had lots of walking space. It was dark outside. There's pine trees for miles. As I'm looking outside the window, I catch my wife in he reflection.
I smile and turn to her. "Isn't this great? Traveling the country together, I mean."
She smiles gracefully. "I wouldn't want to do this with anyone but you."
Quite subtlety, a noise on the right catches my attention. It's faint but sounds like low radio chatter.
".o..t .o i.. sh.. n.. .e.l."
I focus in on it a bit harder and manage to hear a small voice inside my ear.
"Don't do it. She's not real."
I become partly lucid and reply using my mind's eye, "Hello? What do you mean?"
The voice chimes in again, "Get off the train! This isn't real! I don't have much time to explain!"
Having this slight awareness, I acknowledge the dream and walk toward the front of the train. Before I get to the conductor, my wife walks to me, but she isn't my wife anymore. She has turned into a random woman, her face and figure unfamiliar.
I exclaim, "Get away from me! You aren't her..."
She becomes visibly irritated. She then grabs my left hand and tries to eat it. I move my ring over the spot where her teeth are going to chomp down. Her face becomes visibly angry. I will the cabin door open and force her out with my thoughts. She flies out as if being punched in the chest and disappears behind the train, presumably left behind. The thought of her is gone now.
I continue to the front of the train. I motion to the conductor.
"I know this isn't our stop, but I need to step off."
The train slows down enough to hop off safely. After stepping on the fresh grass, I notice that I'm naked. It isn't as concerning as it would normally be, but I want to feel comfortable, so I take in my surroundings to look for a solution.
There's a restaurant just up ahead. I tread on over, dangly bits and all. The crowd is dominantly black. My skin is as white as it can get. I feel unnoticed, though. I ask various constructs for a pair of underwear. No one can oblige. I then find the host.
I calmly explain, "Hey, my dude. I'm just in and need some clothes. Do you have, at least, some underwear I can have?"
He gives me a smug look as he hands me a large table cloth. It's silk white with golden-tan trim.
He smerks and says, "This place isn't for your kind. You might wanna get outa here."
With absolute confidence, I deliver my thoughts, "I may not have grown up around black people, but tell me this. Aren't you still human?"
He is impressed by my response. He extends his hand for a very particular handshake and bro-hug.
I wake up shortly after.

How inappropriate would it be to ask someone if they are on the menu? For the record the guy I have a crush on works at a fast food restaurant that I tend to frequent 2-3 times a month (a little excessive, maybe). He is really nice, cute smile and well, I find him attractive. Usually when he takes my order he gives me a 50% off which no other place does! I been meaning to ask him out but I’m terrible at flirting and I have no idea if he is even gay or bi! I was thinking that next time when he asks “anything else” I was thinking of saying “are you on the menu?” Or “your number” But I don’t know! I don’t want to weird him out 😩 and the company I work for is moving offices so I won’t see him anymore. Also, I get very nervous around him so I end up looking dumb when we engage in small chatter.

I'm an aspiring jazz pianist. This fall I will be attending the Music Conservatory at Juilliard. Typical for one of my interests, I didn't have many friends my age. Instead of playing sports, or finding a girlfriend, I spend weekends jamming with people 3-4 times my age.
We play at a bar the next town over, and after 4 years of playing there my Saturday night performances have become a family tradition. Every week my mom bakes a treat, and we bring it as an offering to the crowd of regulars.
People would take turns joining for a set and then take a break to drink. The best performers were easily Tony, a retired studio sax player with no common sense and almost as little hair, Lou, a drummer who always wore tinted shades, even inside, and the couple Adam and Ella, who traded fours better than any duo I'd ever heard.
The rest I would describe as fans: people who wished they learned to play, and people who wished they never stopped playing.
My favorite regular customer is a man named George, whom everyone else calls "Old Georgie."
George's appearance, age, and mannerisms, had me believing several times that he had died while listening to us play. The ancient man could sit statuesque for an entire twenty-minute jam without blinking or saying a word. Then as my turn at the keyboard ended, he might suddenly grab my arm and complement a rhythm I had played over an hour ago.
George was strange for sure, but he also gave me the best advice of any keyboardist I had ever met. For example, one night I sat next to him muttering under my breath about being unable to find the right notes. "You don't make notes," he told me, "You make sounds." A lot of the advice was like that. I'm not sure I could explain how it helped. But with each anecdote he made, another piece of the puzzle clicked in place for me. I'm not sure I could've gotten into my top school without Georges's strange remarks.
The old man also claimed to have connections with many jazz legends. Most of the performers assumed he was lying though, and teased Georgie about it constantly. Between every other song, one of the players would ask out to the audience how they compared to some famous musician. Most of the time, George would just grunt. But occasionally he would provide an honest comparison.
"Be glad you don't play like Miles Davis, " was one of his more iconic takes.
Two weeks ago, I decided it was time to figure out the truth. During one of my breaks, I went over to George and sat down next to him. He didn't react and continued staring out into the distance. Loud Bebop music threatened to drown out my words.
"Thank you for your advice the past couple of years, I wouldn't have gotten into school without it."
I wasn't sure if he could hear me through the noise, but I continued anyway.
"You know, I've heard a lot of rumors that you've played keys for Cannonball Adderly?"
"Yep." He replied after a long pause.
"Miles Davis too?" I asked, trying to draw out the conversation.
"Yeah, did some sets with him a couple of decades back. Couldn't stand the guy, but he was alright with a horn."
"Why don't you ever play with us then?"
"I don't play anymore." George's gaze remained distant but became less focused.
"Why not?"
"Why- It doesn't matter why. I met someone that changed my perspective, that's all." his last words were loud enough to get looks from the people around us.
I didn't say another word, but the damage was done. George waited till the end of the set, then left and didn't come back.
After the Jam, I went to Tony and told him what happened. His eyes widened, acknowledging what I had done. "Oh... he does not like it when people bring up his past."
This made me feel even worse. "Is there anything I can do?" I asked.
"Maybe eventually. I made the same mistake a couple of years back and teased him a bit too hard. He didn't show up for a couple of weeks."
"Well, do you know anything about why he stopped playing?"
"I mean, I know rumors about things he's said."
I made a gesture demanding that he elaborate.
"I don't know, it's something about playing music for the devil- or playing for a possessed man. But that's third-hand information, and you didn't hear it from me."
Then Tony quickly walked away, like he had just leaked some government secrets.
His prediction was right though. Three weeks went by before I saw George again. Just in case he was still mad, I sat on the opposite side of the room when my time on the keyboard was over. To my surprise, the old man wandered over as soon as I sat down.
"Listen, kid, I'm sorry for making a scene," he said. "I'm just tired of people trying to poke holes in my history."
"It's alright-" I began, but he interjected.
"- I don't care if you don't believe me. I don't care if anyone believes me. A bit of respect and privacy is all I'm asking for."
I fell silent and felt sorry for the old man. Not because of my failed interrogation, but because he was right. Every day people gave him crap for a history he never talked about. George wasn't out for attention or validation. He didn't put himself above others, and he didn't even try to show off. Acknowledging this, I trusted his words a little bit more.
I sat with George for the rest of the night. Tony came over an hour later, asking if I wanted to sub back in. I told him I was feeling a bit sick. After a while, it was just me, George, and the bar staff who were cleaning up the night's mess. The rest of my family had gone an hour ago, and I was expected to drive home myself after the jam was completely over.
I wasn't sure if I should apologize, or say anything at all. George had yet to finish his one drink. He took another baby sip that barely changed the level in the glass. I continued resisting the urge to check phantom notifications on my phone.
Just when I got up to leave, George began to speak.
"Right before I gave up music, I learned a very important lesson..."
The story that followed could not possibly be true, it SHOULDN'T be true. But I can't dismiss it completely as fiction in my mind. After all, if not this, what else could've made George give up the one thing he loved?
—
…It was from a man I met playing in Chicago, a week or two after my 25th birthday. The month was going poorly, as far as money's concerned. Bands and musicians I knew all happened to be in other cities. The lack of gigs drove me to the street.
A restaurant I knew had an upright piano they could roll out front. The owner, Ernie Davis, was a long-time friend of mine. He paid me by the hour for drawing in customers.
I was a hit, I knew I was. There was always a crowd around me. Once I established a routine, people would even show up early in the morning and wait for me to start playing.
One night a man pressed his way to the front of my audience wielding a violin case. He was tall, with ghost-white skin, and his face was tense like he was trying to hold back tears.
I judged the man as an academic and hated him on first impression. I might've been biased, as a self-taught pianist and an uneducated man, but jazz didn't have the same reverence back then. His type called it dirty, and you certainly couldn't learn the style at Juilliard.
I noticed he was trying to make eye contact with me.
Once you play jazz enough, you learn a special language of looks. Just by gesturing with your eyebrows, you can arrange a solo, or signal a new section. His eyes knew the language well, and they were whispering that he wanted to play.
All I had to do was nod once, and the man began to unpack. Awe moved through the crowd, and applause came as the fiddler mounted his instrument.
I tried to maintain a cheerful facade as my worry grew. But when he joined in the facade dropped and my jaw fell.
There was something wrong with how right he sounded. The tone was beyond perfect. It wasn't mechanical though, quite the opposite. His violin sang with a humanity I'd never heard before. The voice was operatic, and listening closely I could imagine lyrics being sung from it.
When we decided to end the tune, our audience cheered. I introduced myself, shaking the man's hand. He told me his name was "Terry," though now I believe that was an alias. I asked him if he had any requests, but he just shrugged and said "It didn't matter. I'm just here to play."
The restaurant had been closed for an hour when we decided to pack it up. There was still a crowd of roughly two dozen who were sorry to see us go. I apologetically told them I would be there tomorrow, then Terry's face lit up. He asked, "What time?"
I gave him a rough estimate since I didn't have a strict schedule. He said "See you then," and walked off before I could say anything else about it.
When I walked back to my apartment I put on a record, then started getting ready for bed. But the memory of Terry's melody itched the back of my brain. The more I thought about it, the worse my vinyl recording sounded in comparison. Eventually, the imperfections of the record bothered me so much that I had to turn it off.
Even the silence that followed sounded out of tune.
Every day for the next week, I showed up to the restaurant to find Terry already there playing. I'd fight my way through the crowd to the piano, join in with him, and play into the night.
We made more money in tips playing togeather than I did in total playing sets with Miles Davis. Often we would have to sub out and take a break to empty our tip jar into a larger container inside the restaurant. If I hadn't gambled most of it away back then, I might've been pretty well off today. It was that kind of money.
Around the third or fourth day of playing with him, I also realized that I'd never seen him tune his instrument. Usually after half an hour or so, it's a good idea to tune a violin. At least, that's how I understand it. If you don't, the finger positions on the instrument will be different for each note. Pretty sure it messes with the tone too. But even though he didn't tune, the violin's sound remained pristine.
On Saturday, late into the night, I finally decided to ask what his deal was. I believe it came out something like "How the hell do you get your notes to sound so perfect." Which is when he told me the proverb I often tell you:
"I don't make notes, I make sounds."
That made no sense to me, so I told him. "I don't follow."
He explained it to me. I suppose this was something you are supposed to learn in music school because I'd never heard about it before.
The way he taught it was that notes represent sounds. But the sounds a piano makes, like most instruments, aren't the sounds those notes represent. You see, the pitch of each sound an instrument makes is based on mathematics. Each one is the result of a specific ratio using a central pitch.
This is a crude way to put it, but as you play higher notes, the distance between the pitches changes.
At this point I was still confused, so he brought up his violin for a comparison. First, he played a chord, saying, "This is what the piano plays."
The harmony didn't have the usual sparkle I had associated with his playing. It didn't sound bad, it sounded just the same as any other violinist I'd ever heard.
"- and this is what the notes truly represent."
The next chord was the same notes, but they just sounded better in a way that was hard to describe.
It reminded me of the difference between a living flower, and a preserved clipping. Both plants might look the same, but put them side by side and your heart can tell the difference.
I interrupted the chord to ask who had taught him to play. I remember specifically, he said:
"I taught myself, just like you."
At the moment, this meant nothing to me. But now it sends chills down my spine since I don't recall ever telling Terry I was self-taught.
Not satisfied with the short answer, I continued. Specifically asking how he learned about the true note sounds, and how he'd taught himself to play them.
Terry sat silently for a moment. I could tell this was some secret, and he was deciding how much of it he could trust me with.
After an awkward moment, he answered: "I cut a deal with another violinist to teach me."
"A teacher?" I added.
"...Not Exactly." He concluded. I correctly assumed this was the last he was willing to say about the subject.
We started divvying up the tips when Terry surprised me by stating that he wouldn't be able to join me here tomorrow.
I told him it was no worry, and that I would see him the day after. But he cut me off, saying "I can't play here anymore, ever again."
I began apologizing, but Terry assured me it wasn't my fault, explaining that he was traveling around the globe, and it was time for him to move on to the next destination.
All I could say to this was "Oh." Then we continued sitting while Terry packed up his violin.
When we stood up to leave, I told Terry "If he ever needed a pianist, I would be there."
He got a look on his face then like something just occurred to him.
"...I became friends with a club owner," he began quietly like someone might hear, "who told me he'd let me play there any time I'd like. Are you interested in one last night together?"
I was thrilled at the opportunity, as the space would allow for a bigger crowd, which meant a bigger payout. I instantly agreed, and barely slept that night in anticipation of the show to come.
The next day came and went. I headed over to the address Terry gave me an hour early. "The Gates" was glowing in red neon lettering above an open set of doors. I didn't see any staff and was beginning to worry I had the wrong address when I heard a violin singing scales from backstage.
After a bit of searching, I found Terry practicing. He jumped in surprise when I greeted him. When he turned to face me I saw that he was drenched in sweat. Additionally, he had a familiar tenseness on his face, an expression I remembered from when we first met.
I asked him if he was ok and if we should call off the show, but he just shrugged it off. The rehearsal went as expected, but it became more clear to me as we went on that something was bothering him.
However, it was also clear that he wasn't going to tell me what it was. So I let it go.
Before long the distant sound of chatter and people sitting down signaled that our practice time was over.
I got up and headed to the door but felt a hand grab my shoulder.
"Listen, George. I need you to do something for me."
I turned around, and Terry was there holding out a hand. He opened his fist to reveal two cotton balls.
"For the last song we do, I need you to put these in your ears. Don't take them out until you feel my hand on your shoulder."
"I have my own earplugs," I replied, "but I doubt the crowd will get that loud."
"No!" He yelled, and I stepped away, surprised by the force of his words.
"It needs to be cotton. It's part of the deal."
Worried he’d call off the show, I conceded and took the cotton balls.
We walked on stage together to a full house. The crowd cheered, and I saw many of the regular attendees from our street performances. But something still felt wrong about it all.
There was still no staff. I could see the bar from the stage, but nobody stood behind it.
There were no waiters, busboys, or bouncers either. Just an endless flow of people trying to find a comfortable spot to sit or stand.
"Ready?" Terry yelled. I could barely hear him through the noise.
We launched into the first tune, and my worry melted away. With each song, the audience would go silent. Occasionally I would turn and look at the sea of gaping mouths and wide eyes. The faces stayed perfectly still like that while we played.
When each tune ended, the silence died with it, and the audience would go ballistic. People were not applauding as much as screaming, or howling.
I almost put the cotton in my ears then, but felt it would be better to follow Terry's explicit instructions.
Before I knew it, we had made it through every song but the last. Terry turned towards me, waiting for me to fulfill my promise.
He had been smart to choose a song that started with just him, and after a minute it was clear that he wouldn't begin until I obeyed.
So, I retrieved the cotton balls from my pocket and stuck them in my ears.
I'm almost certain I should've heard something, the screaming from the crowd maybe.
But every sound dissipated.
I was beginning to wonder how I was supposed to play like this when I heard Terry's violin, clear as ever. I put my hands on the keys and was surprised that I could hear the piano too.
The experience was otherworldly. I chuckled thinking that Terry had slipped something in my drink, a ‘treat’ to make the night more fun.
After the first repeat, I noticed something was wrong with the crowd.
It was the same spread of open eyes and mouths. But I could barely make out dark lines of fluid dripping down each face. The liquid streamed from every eye, and every mouth, staining anything it touched. It formed pools on tables and under feet. I refuse to consider what that fluid might’ve been.
At first, I thought it was a bad trip, then that I might be dreaming. But when I closed my eyes and re-opened them everything stayed the same.
Right when I thought the nightmare couldn't get any worse, I heard the violin speak to me.
"Don't stop," It commanded.
The voice could not have been Terry's or my own. The words swelled with the melody Terry played. He turned his head to meet my eyes, and I could see desperation on his face.
Somehow I could tell that he had heard the voice too.
There wasn't much left in the song so I sped up and Terry matched my pace. I tried to focus on the keys, but I saw bodies collapsing in the corner of my eye.
Terry’s violin sounded sharp in my ears. The melody cut into my mind, and I struggled against the urge to cover my ears.
I had the last solo, but it became nearly impossible to focus on my playing because the lights began to strobe rapidly.
Right before the end of my solo, the light cut out completely. We concluded the song, the two of us sharing a single chord. There was no applause.
I sat in silence, frozen with terror. After an eternity, I felt something brush my shoulder and I bolted for the exit.
I tripped in my escape but kept crawling to where I remembered the door being.
The entire building was dark and empty. I didn’t remember that many hallways when I went backstage to practice, but my anxiety could’ve been playing tricks on me.
I sprinted through door after door in perfect silence, unable to hear my footsteps. My lungs ached but I refused to take a breath or look behind me, even after, at last, I had found an emergency exit sign.
My run through the streets was a blur. I saw faces saying words, but I ignored them and kept going.
The cotton balls didn't leave my ears until I was back in my apartment with the door locked behind me.
Since then, the piano has never sounded the same.
That night was as beautiful as it was horrible. I can't tell how much of it was real, but no music I've heard since has come close to what I remember hearing from Terry's violin. Music just feels out of tune now, even my playing. I couldn’t even stand listening to my records until many years later. Maybe I was cursed, maybe I was drugged, or maybe something just snapped in my head. But I'm too scared to find out the truth.
—
This is the best I could manage with my recollection of what he told me that night and my writing ability. I should also mention that these are not the real names of the people in this story. I changed them to preserve privacy. It's safe to say if George is telling the truth, that he was probably drugged. But then the question becomes how much of the night was a hallucination.
Here are the facts:

1. George has some professional experience with the piano, based on the advice he gave me. It wasn't stuff that any random person, or even a musician of another instrument would say.
   
2. George refuses to play the piano anymore, assumedly from some traumatizing experience in his past. Also, unless he is a fantastic actor, George gets sincerely emotional whenever he is reminded of this experience.
   
3. The club "The Gates," has not ever existed in Chicago, as far as I can tell. Which makes me wonder where they were. I don't think this could've been part of the hallucination (if there was one) since George allegedly saw Terry for the first time that day only after he entered the club.
   
4. A normal violinist, with a normal violin, should not have the capability to affect people in the way described. However, in theory, a loud enough sound at the right frequency might have the capacity to damage organs.
   
5. Terry was correct in that most instruments, including pianos, are not tuned perfectly to the "pitch ratios" that we use in our 12-note tuning system.
   

I wish I could've recorded George's exact words, but since that night he hasn't returned to the bar. I have no way of contacting him, so I guess I'll never know the truth.

With his eyes closed, Kurt can see the migraine. A purplish fog that floats on the back of his eyelids and throbs with his heartbeat. The pain, burrowed deep in his skull, has gradually intensified over the past several weeks.
“I wasn’t like you,” he hears Len say over the background hum of music and chatter. “I got married so young.”
Kurt forces his eyes open and winces. The overhead light in the restaurant is aimed at the center of the table, but the bounce from the shiny black tabletop is enough to make his eyes sting. He looks at Len who’s hunched over his glass of chardonnay, staring into the golden liquid like it’s a crystal ball.
“I got married young too,” says Kurt in a pinched voice. “I just didn’t stay that way.”
Len looks up from his glass. “You alright?”
Kurt sucks in a shaky breath.
“The headache.”
“You made an appointment?”
Kurt nods, letting out his breath in a slow sigh, visualizing the purple fog of pain escaping with it. Kurt hates doctors and pushed off contacting one for as long as possible in the hopes that it was just a bug but the headache worsened and then came the fever and the achy joints and he eventually caved.
“It’s tomorrow,” says Kurt. He pulls his shoulders back and clears his throat.
Len looks back at his wine and nods, twirling the stem of the glass, whipping the chardonnay into a mini-vortex.
“I never got this stuff out of my system and I feel like I’ll never know what I missed out on,” says Len.
Kurt glances at the plate of calamari on the table. His stomach growls but he knows better than to eat anything. As soon as he starts chewing, his jaw tightens up on him and his tongue develops a detached foreignness like a phantom limb.

We have a large group of 19 people going to Moon Palace Sunrise. Half of us have been to Cancun several times. The in laws, who are celebrating an anniversary, have never been.
We have 3 infants, 2 children, 3 teens, and the rest are adults. We originally had planned to go to Riu Palace Peninsula, but I brought up that it wasn’t really easy to swim with kids and infants because the only child accesible pool was consistently freezing the 2 times we stayed there. It was not swimable for more than 20-30 minutes.
So, the group thought about it and someone decided moon palace would be great. No one spoke up about disagreeing, so we thought everyone was in agreement. Since none of us have been, this would have been a new AI for us all.
Now, we are 2 weeks away and the chatter is starting up about how this isn’t going to be a great place for a large group. The place is too large to easily get around, the restaurants are too varied, and we would have been better at Riu because of the size compared to MP. The concern is the beach is too far for the in-laws and the water isn’t blue (they have never seen the Cancun blue).
What are your thoughts about what an AI should or should not have for large group? My main goal is to ease some anxieties about how we can make this a fun experience for us even if there are some hiccups along the way.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

I do not have small business / brewery experience, but I’ve always wondered this when the question comes up. I’ve heard chatter about breweries needing to cut costs. And when payroll, rent, credit card transaction fees, and all that jazz keeps increasing, I can see how cutting that off and leaning into distribution might sound like it makes sense.
HOWEVER, I feel like without the taproom- where you get to meet other people, talk with the staff / owners, be in a place having a good time- wouldn’t the distribution side falter? Isn’t the place the reason why everyday people buy their beer off the shelf and choose their beer in the restaurants anyway?
I bought DM beer because yes, it’s good, but also I loved (and wanted to support) the place that I liked to go to, and the people that worked there. There’s a zillion beers on the market to choose from, and that’s how I narrowed my choice. When the taproom closed, I can see people buying DM out of “I’ll miss it” nostalgia. Am I way off base??
Side note- and IMO- l think breweries could be successful by intentionally curating a space that people want to be in together. Any new place opening in plain jane box with garage doors, steel chairs, secondhand board games and edison bulbs - it doesn’t matter what the beer is, it’s not any different than what’s out there. Dangerous Man’s tap room was special because it was early on the brewery boom scene, cozy, and intimate- people felt comfortable squeezing in at a mega community table.

I slugged my bourbon and swished the regret around my mouth.
I sat alone in my car in an empty parking lot in my small, dead-end town. 12:13 am.
This was my favourite spot though. Underneath the gigantic neon sombrero. An intimidating yet ridiculous glowing structure perched atop the (only) Mexican restaurant like a vulture. It lit up the faces of the locals, who stopped and gazed at it with religious wonder.
I thought about Trina.
She was my best friend when I was a kid, back when life was worth living. Her energy and smile were contagious. She would chatter non-stop about - well nothing in particular - but anyone in earshot would stop and listen. She wasn't a snooty, popular girl, but a miniature sun that people gravitated towards for warmth.
Then one day she vanished without a trace. The whole town was plunged into darkness and was never quite the same.
I used to daydream that I'd grow up and marry her. And we would leave this town forever.
I finished off my flask and looked up at Trina, who stood directly in front of my car.
My whole body convulsed in shock. I sat upright and stared in complete disbelief. What was happening? She was at least 10 years older now, of course. But her face was almost exactly the same. It was her! Somehow, deep down, I just knew....
"Marshall?" she mouthed, uncertainly.
Suddenly she was lit up with a blinding spotlight. It hurt my eyes. Terrified, I squinted at her, desperate not to lose sight of her again....
The spotlight shifted. It surrounded me. I lost sight of Trina. I lost sight of everything. I felt my car being pulled upwards. It floated into the night sky like it weighed nothing.
The giant neon sombrero was now suspended in mid-air, high above the parking lot. It reeled me in with its tractor light beam....
I yelled and yelled.
The reappearance of Trina Douglas was the biggest thing to ever happen to our town... at least since her disappearance. She had no memory of where she had been for the past 12 years.
Her sensational return overshadowed my sudden disappearance. That is, until Trina said my face and name were the only things she did remember. And that was all it took for the rumours to spread. That I was responsible for her disappearance (I would have been 8 at the time). That I was now on the run, and good riddance!
"I remember the little devil never left her side!"
"Watched her like a hawk, he did."
I watched all this from inside the neon sombrero atop the Mexican restaurant. I couldn't hear them, of course. But somehow I knew. Probably because my new captors wanted me to.
Then one night, the sombrero rose into the night sky. Higher and higher. Until the large faces of my entire life were all just a speck down on Earth.
See you all in 12 years.

My story is about a girl named vivianne that gets kidnapped and as he keeps her there she struggles with her emotions generally and romantically towards him. his motives are unclear at first but everything unravels in the end.
I could feel my body instantly relax as the door to the restaurant closed. It was just about sunset on a windy autumn day and the air was cold and crisp outside. Its actually my favorite type of weather but I couldn't pretend like my teeth weren't chattering as i tried to sneeze.
My dad was proposing to my soon to be stepmom which would sound exciting if he wasn't getting married to an absolute witch. He knows I don't support this but he didn't care. Where do I even start with her? Elizabeth.
It's almost like shes jealous of me or something, shes well in her forties yet seemingly envious of me, a 17 year old. Like one time when I came back from the hair salon and I had freshly dyed highlights in my golden brown hair. It was gorgeous, but when I walked into the door I could smell her stank face from a mile away.
My dad was standing beside her and he complimented me as usual, but she put on the fakest bitchy tone and said how "lovely" and "distinctive" it was but I could see through her act. Seriously who does she think she is, shes like a rip off kim k with double the amount of botox, and thats just the tip of the iceberg of the bad vibes I get from her. But you know who couldn't see through all that? My dad.
So now i'm here, in this dimly lit restaurant dreading the "Yes!" and fake tears that'll soon come out of that goblins mouth.
"Were here for the Lighthart reservation please." My dad tells the waitress in a tone trying to mask his excitement. I couldn't care less about dressing up for this but my dad basically forced me to at least wear a dress.
I tug on my jean jacket covering the black dress I wore as I follow my dad to the table. There were two tables put together and tons of chairs for both of our families. I'm an only child so he just invited my uncle, my grandma, and some of my cousins.
We sit down at the table and the waitress comes over to ask us our drinks. I order my favorite, a sprite. I'm sitting across from him as I look down at the menu for food.
"So, Vivi.." My dad starts, I already know whatevers about to come out of his mouth is bs but I let him finish. "I'm really nervous and I don't want anything to go wrong so just, be on your best behaviour, ok?"
"Whatever, ok." I replied while taking a sip of my sprite.
"I'm serious Vivianne, I know you aren't fond of Elizabeth but atleast respect her, for me."
"Ok dad." I mumbled. I could tell by his expression he obviously wasn't buying it but I unconsciously decided i'll give him tonight out of respect for him, not Elizabeth. I got out my phone and started scrolling instagram, I stumbled upon my friend Amy's new post. She was at a party I was supposed to be at but instead I have to be here at this stupid dinner engagement stunt.
My dad sighs and checks his watch. It was 7:21 and i was starting to physically feel the anxious waves emitting from my dad. I'm pretty sure I could see some sweat starting on his receding hairline as well. I was sure he was about to go into a full blown panic attack until suddenly I heard some small child cries from the entrance. Low and behold, The infamous Elizabeth Halt. She had on a weird style dress that reeked low quality, probably shein.
And maybe my biased judgement is the cause of this, but I sometimes get the feeling she just wants my dad's money. Were not millionaire rich, but were pretty comfy with a big two story house so I could see why she gravitates toward him so much, especially since he's gotten a promotion so he's now making a lot more.
"Hello! Harold you look so snazzy!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
My dad got up greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and gave her a a nice tight hug.
I felt something in my hair. I turn around to see a little gremlin looking boy staring back at me. Oh my god. I already hated this night.
"This is my niece, sarahbeth!" Elizabeth said. "And this is uncle frank, and granny kelly! Oh! And can't forget my little tucker! He's only 6, sorry if he's in your space." She giggled. I gave the little kid a death stare and he eventually left me alone.
My family and her family exchanged some "Nice to meet you's" and sat down. She flashed me the fakest smile in existence and then fixed her lipstick. I rolled my eyes and ate some of the bread and butter the waitress left on our table.
A couple minutes later after our menus were collected our families engaged in small talk while I tried to enjoy the restaurants scenery, it was dim and cozy and there were a few candles on the conjoined tables. We were sitting by a big window with slightly closed blinds. I could smell the potent scent of flowers coming from "granny kelly" sitting beside me, I sat at the end of the table so I didn't have to sit by two people.
The old woman looked to be around 70, but I guess it was better than sitting next to some little kid.
"Hey vivi, leave some bread for the rest of us!" Elizabeth said in a joking but totally no joking manner. She knows I hate it when she calls me that. I give her no permission to use MY nickname. I drop the bread I was eating on my plate and awkwardly laugh with the rest with them. My dad gives me a look that he knew I wanted to say something but for some reason I wanted to be subtle today, so instead I excused myself to the bathroom.
I got up from the table and grabbed my purse and phone and started navigating the restaurant. I turned a corner and when I was no longer in eye view of them I scurried out the door of the restaurant and into the parking lot. It was darker now but the sunset was still a little visible. I only would be a little while, I just needed to get out of there, the air was becoming toxic.
I walk around a bit outside and breathe in the cool air. I felt free. Sometimes I wish I could feel like this all the time instead of forced into this little box of limited choices. I just wish I could have some sort of control over my life, but at the same time I want to just let go and let life run it's course but my dad ruins that for me.
I was 7 when my mom died. I don't remember much, probably from the trauma my brain is hiding from. The images are blurry but I recall my dad in the living room when he got the news, his face was filled with pure agony. My mom died of a rare cancer that she got diagnosed with 8 months prior. I was obviously pretty oblivious of the details at my young age but my dad filled in the gaps as I matured.
I know her death affected him more then it does me, which is why it took 6 years for him to find the courage to date again. and 3 years later, he's proposing.
I check the time on my phone, 8:13 pm, my dad would be disappointed if i missed the "big question" so I turn around and start walking back to the entrance.
I feel strong a gust of wind that almost knocked me off my feet but I rebalance my self quickly. Suddenly my eye starts feeling like something got blown in it so I stop in my tracks and try to open my phone camera to look in it.
"Fuck" I curse under my breath, as I rub my eye, silently panicking. It felt like a hair or piece of dirt was in my eye and it was scratching it roughly. I couldnt see shit so I had to manually type my password in and find the camera app.
I finally find the camera and as I peel open my eye and hold it up, everything falls dark. The last thing i remember being a dark figure behind me in the camera frame.

Hey folks. This is potentially the first scene in a cyberpunk novel I'm working on.
I've got a lot of editing to do, but I wanted to get some thoughts on what is and isn't working. Appreciate any and all feedback. Thanks!!
Vera Fournier moved through the crowd at the Mong Kok night market, a form-fitted slash of black and violet cutting through the pulsing neon waves of bodies and commerce. She stared at her quarry, dark blue eyes focused and unwavering under a loose black fringe, as she stalked past hawker stands, the crush of buyers and sellers, spectators and performers fading into background static.
 
Michael Belfi strode ahead with the nervous swivel of a man convincing himself he wasn't being followed. He rushed past vendors hawking unlicensed skewers and counterfeit dumplings, arms flailing and tan jacket flaring as he stumbled around a flock of gawking tourists. He quickened his pace, turning onto Portland Street. He could run all he wanted, but there were only a handful of places for Michael to hop a Transline out of Saito territory.
 
Vera stepped to the side, standing between egg waffles and grilled baby octopus, the mixture of smells riding the line between tantalizing and nauseating. She expanded the map in her display, watching the pinprick Belfi make slow progress down Portland towards the MTR station. Her proxy tokens counted down, draining steadily, and she estimated about five more minutes at this rate of access before her spoofing failed and the Non-Sentient AI monitor came down like a hammer.
 
Kowloon ran with older protocols, but she was burning her last green access key chasing down this asshole, and was down to a handful of orange and a deep bench of red. She needed the money from this amateur, needed to buy new keys, compute deeper hacks, and dig herself out of this hole so she could get back to selling her services to serious organizations, not these two-bit nobodies trying to scrape their way up from nothing. She forced her teeth to unclench at the thought. Just like her, for the past twenty years.
 
She felt the throng crushing her, the press of flesh and her own emotions threatening to overwhelm her calm, her cool, her absolutely necessary focus. She took a breath and pushed another half a gram of Determination and shoved the feeling back down, like swallowing a rising gorge. Conviction flooded her veins, steel reinforced grit overriding the quickly fading feelings of overwhelm. Zeal came galloping back up, riding to the forefront as she felt her pulse quicken with the thrill of the chase.
 
Move fast, break things. Fix it in post. Vera pushed through a gap in the stalls towards a steel door set in gray cinderblock veneer, the back entrance to a restaurant with roast duck and crispy pork slabs hanging in the window. She called up a transport command and pushed it through the console, proxy tokens burning at prodigious rate. She stepped through the kitchen door, ignoring a balding man with liver spots holding a wok turner as he shouted at her, cigarette hanging from his lower lip, and walked out a supply closet in Mong Kok station, pressing out into the stream of commuters heading towards ticket terminals and fare gates. She stepped back into the supply closet, an empty remnant of automated lidar design. Vex turned her head sideways to peer through the barely open slit, her hair spreading out like a half-open black silk fan.
 
She shut down her map override and reverted the portal, slowing the burn rate and buying a few more minutes of admin privilege. She readied a pair of scripts and waited for Belfi to show his face.
 
In moments she spotted him sauntering down the stairs: tan suit stretched tight over an unlikely bulky frame, swagger returned to his step and head tilted back, as if staring down his nose at all the poor suckers who couldn't run a job — not like him. A slight curve turned up at the corner of Vera's mouth, the hint of a predator's smile. She stepped out of the closet, cutting a line through the crowd to intercept Belfi's course.
 
"Hello, Michel," Vera whispered in his ear, thickly laying on her French accent, softening his name in the way she knew he despised. He tensed immediately, shoulders clenching, followed by a rapid spin and all-to-obvious right hook. Vera didn't even bother jacking up her frame rate, leaning back to let him swing past awkwardly, grabbing his arm and letting momentum do the rest. He fell clumsily, a bag of over-developed and under-trained muscles tumbling to the floor. The crowd left a wide gap for the pair, eyes averted and steps accelerating. You didn't get involved in New Kowloon. You kept your head down, and you moved on.
 
Vera stared down at the big man, head high and arms crossed, as he picked himself back up.
 
"Shit," Belfi said, as he stepped back, arms out in a pacifying gesture. "Sorry, Fournier, you just startled me. Didn't mean nothing."
 
"Of course, my darling," Vera said. "No offense taken at all. Now quit jerking me around, and give me my money." The sudden snap in her voice caused Belfi to flinch involuntarily, along with several passersby.
 
"What are you talking about? I paid you. Not my fault if you lost the card or something," he said, eyes wide and arms open, the face of innocence.
 
"I do not know what kind of fools you expect to work with, but trying to pawn off a crypto-shell to a fucking ghostrunner is a whole new level of insulting," Vera said, her face a contrast in impassivity.
 
Belfi looked around, as if suddenly realizing that this entire conversation was being laid out in front of half of Mong Kok's commuting class. "Look, can we take this somewhere a bit more private? I promise, it's just a misunderstanding. We can work this out," he said, keeping his voice low.
 
Vera studiously did not roll her eyes, her face hardening with the intensity of the effort. "This is a private conversation, but will not remain so, if you do not pay me the 50,000 credits as agreed."
 
Belfi sagged, dropping his arms. "Look, I don't have it. Okay? I'm sorry. I got rolled by the Vicenti's three days ago. They took the card and everything else I had."
 
Vera felt her pulse quicken, and she triggered a routine to keep her breathing steady and face from flushing. She jacked up to triple time for a moment, pulling up her console and running a full inventory scan. Just under a thousand credits and nothing value, other than the identikeys he'd ripped her off for. She had already ran a full check on him before this job, and his accounts had been more embarrassingly empty than hers. He was all in on this job. Just like her. She felt something snap inside the back of her head.
 
She let out her breath slowly as she spun back down to real time.
 
"You know their reputation. You have any idea what they would have done to me if I hadn't paid them off?" Belfi continued, words spilling from his mouth like cheap silver.
 
"I have my own reputation to consider," she said. "You're going to give me back the identikeys and those credits you have shoved down your pants. Then I'm going to give you 5 minutes to run as fast and as far as you can before I inject a record of crimes against the Shogunate into the Saito Bounty List and leave you to the wolves."
 
She saw the flicker in his eyes before he moved and fired off a readied script, locking his arm in place, pistol still half stuck in his pants.
 
"Count yourself lucky I do not make you pull the trigger and leave you a eunuch," Vera said. She strode towards him and reached her hand into his pants, nose almost touching his, as she withdrew the identikeys and crypto cards from a strap on his thigh. She gave him a broad smile full of teeth as she stepped away and pushed the record into the system, burning up the last of her tokens. She released her admin privileges, her access key now a bright red.
 
A flashing notification surfaced on her screen, warning her of proximity to an armed and dangerous fugitive, with a large bounty for capture and detainment. Around them, commuters blinked and paused at the sudden alert. A woman with a shock of pink hair gasped, staring at Belfi. A gray suit pointed, speaking rapidly. A deep eyed man in a black vest drew a pistol. Belfi stood there for a long moment, hand still down his pants, horror spreading across his face.
 
"Goodbye, Michel," Vera said, as he turned and ran. She didn't know if he would make it out before a hunter caught him. In that moment, she didn't particularly care.
 
She felt her Determination and Zeal fade into twilight, the lingering light of a passing sunset, and sagged slowly to the ground, her polygraphene suit scraping softly against the tiled wall. A dull ache remained in her chest and she stared at an empty point between her legs. Vera closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the chatter of a thousand conversations, the padding of sneakers and the staccato click of heels, the soft, stilted tones of the announcer — the marching beat, the pulse of Mong Kok — wash over and through her.

Salut à tous & welcome to ParisTravelGuide
This monthly thread aims at giving basic recommendations to navigate the subreddit and Paris, and offering a general chatter space. Depending on the (inter)national news, we may inform you on impacting events here (strikes,threats, global cultural or sport events..)

USING THE SUBREDDIT

• Browse the menus (on desktop or mobile app) to access:
  • Wiki
  • Rules (NB: rule-breaking contents can lead to a content lock, removal, or if needed a user ban)
  • Monthly threads Archive
• Access some featured contents directly
  • Parisians, why do you think first-time visitors will be disappointed in the city?", courtesy of u/huukat ;)
  • Ideas for a less-touristy Paris
  • Oddities and dive bars
  • Activities with kids/young teens
  • Activities with a baby/small kid
  • What to do when it rains in Paris? (quality advice not guaranteed)
  • Tips for first-timers
  • Most discussed recent trip reports
  • Traditional dishes from Paris and French regions
  • Where to eat hearty traditional cuisine
• Search the sub archive to check if your question has already been answered:
  • by using the Search Reddit field on top of the page (make sure to type ParisTravelGuide before your search term in the search field): search with "Louvre". NB: while really not user-friendly, you can even make more sophisticated searches How to search on Reddit)
  • by clicking on the flairs of the existing posts (category labels): filter with the "🏛 Louvre" flair

HANDLING THE BASICS OF PARIS

• General understanding
  • Wikivoyage for Paris (en): an external wiki covering various aspects of the city from a touristic point of view
  • Paris Voice (en) life in Paris seen by the English speaking community
  • Anglo Info Paris (en), same with a lot of practical info, to settle or as a tourist, also general info for France
• Accommodations
  • Increase of the tourist tax for 2024: read carefully to avoid any bad surprises, especially for non-classified hotels that can apparently charge as if they were palaces due to a loop-hole.
• Public transport
  • Read the dedicated section in our wiki Transports (en) / Transports (fr)
• Taxis
  • public: G7 (en) is the only company recognized as public taxis in Paris. It applies fixed fares for travels between the two main airports (CDG and ORLY) and the two sides of the city (left bank / right bank of the Seine river), booking or extra services fees not included.
  • private: Uber are widely used, others are available like Bolt, Heetch, Marcel or Freenow
• Day trip
  • the Trainline (en) is a very straight forward and efficient data aggregator from various European train and bus companies. (the national one sncf-connect being a bit of a nightmare to use)
• Airports
  • Roissy-Charles de Gaulle aka CDG (en)
  • Orly aka ORY (en)
  • Beauvais aka BVA (en) and dedicated Bus shuttle for Beauvais airport <> Paris (Porte Maillot)
• Tourism Office:
  • Paris je t'aime (en): only for inner Paris
  • Visit Paris region (en): for the whole region Ile de France.
• Cultural/Event agenda:
  • Sortir à Paris (en): culture and nightlife agenda
  • Officiel des Spectacles (fr): movies/plays/concerts agenda
  • Paris LGBT (en): places, events and resources about the LGBT community
  • Paris Jazz Club (en): jazz concerts agenda
  • Fanzo (fr): search engine with a map for sports broadcasts in bars
• Health:
  • Public hospitals map
  • English speaking professionals list(en)
  • Pharmacies, day and night openings (en)
  • Emergency phone numbers(en)
• thread for Protest and Strikes concerns
• Eating
  • casual: David Lebovitz(en), a blog of a former US chef living in Paris for casual / traditional food
  • trendy: Le fooding(en), trendy reference magazine for foodies
  • starred: Michelin guide, for 1/2/3 stars restaurants or other gastronomic venues
• Civil unrest
  • Sporadic and sudden protests are very rare. The existence of a protest is very regulated, the day and the route have to be agreed with the authorities several days prior to the date.
• Authorized protest or march
  • a march usually lasts from 2pm to 6pm and most demonstrators stay until 8pm at the final destination
  • Demonstrators (and/or police) outbursts are more likely to happen at the end from 8pm
  • Most of the stores along the route close for the whole day, and side accesses to these boulevards are barred by the police to motorized vehicles.
  • 95% of the city goes on as usual in terms of street life.
  • Metro lines M1 and M14 are automated and thus operate whether there is a strike or not.
  • Taxis: all the companies work during a strike
    • G7: main company of the "Taxis parisiens", regulated price
    • UbeHeetch/Bolt/FreeNow: categorized as VTC ("Véhicules de Tourisme avec chauffeur"), unregulated price
• Safety
  • Police department recommendations
  • Safety tips video by les Frenchies (experienced US travelers)
  • Density & safety level: Paris administrative area ("Paris intramuros") is fairly small for a global capital but the population density is very high. Besides that, Paris is currently the most visited city in the world. This situation inevitably leads to various problems or dramas from time to time and one should beware of this cognitive bias. No public statistics accessible, but Paris' safety level is said to be fairly comparable to other big Western metropolis like London, Rome, Barcelona, Brussels or NYC but lower than Amsterdam, Berlin or generally Scandinavian / Central / Eastern European cities.
  • Violent crime: it is very unlikely in inner Paris, European gun laws being much more restrictive than US laws.
  • Pickpockets & scams: while generally safe, you might be exposed to pickpockets, scams or harassment in crowded areas, be it touristic, commercial or nightlife hubs. Keep your belongings in sight and try not to display too much costly items. Avoid unsolicited street vendors (not to be confused with, say, street artists near Montmartre or "bouquinistes" of the quays of Seine) and the occasional street games like Bonneteau ("shell game") that are known scams.
  • Cat-calling: this is a common issue towards women in Mediterranean countries. In Paris, it is more prevalent in the more modest neighborhoods in the North / North-East- of the city.
  • Emergency: If you are in an emergency situation, call 17 (police) / 18 (firefighters but who also handles all life and death emergencies) / 112 (universal European emergency number). All of them are interconnected and will be able to redirect you to the correct one if you happen to pick the wrong one.
  • Neighborhoods:
    • Tourism is concentrated in the rich areas from the center (roughly arrondissements 1st to 8th + Montmartre 18th).
    • As in most cities, main train stations tend to attract more people from the outside, hence a bit riskier, especially at night and crowded metro lines serving the main landmarks
    • The northern outskirts of the city (around Porte de la Chapelle / Porte d'Aubervilliers / Porte de la Villette) are home of temporary refugee camps, a high poverty and rarely drug use in the open. It could feel quite unsafe at night, better be accompanied by locals if you want to venture around at night there or simply pass through.
    • The surroundings of the very central area of Les Halles (around the eponymous commercial mall) can be a bit messy at night as a lot of young people gather here for eating / drinking or hanging out in the streets. It is still home of great streets for night life like rue Saint Denis but beware of the crowds.
    • Also metro stations on line 2 Barbes, La Chapelle and Stalingrad and their surroundings are among the most modest and messy, with countraband cigarettes sellers and potential pickpockets.(currently there's a dramatically sad camp of young migrants from Afghanistan under the bridge of the metro station Stalingrad)
    • Southern and Western parts are more posh and family oriented but could be "less lively" than the rest of the city.

ONGOING EVENTS

• Olympic Games preparation Impacts thread
  
• Israel/Palestine conflict Impacts thread
  
• Plan Vigipirate
  
  • Evacuation of public places in case of a left-alone bag for controlled destruction as what happened in the Louvre or Versailles recently. It also happens from time to time in subways.
  • Military patrolling in the city, mostly around landmarks, schools and religious buildings.
  • It doesn't mean there is a particular problem, but they take maximum precaution in these tense moments.

GENERAL CHATTER

The comment sections below is here for members to freely ask questions that are recurrent or not worth a dedicated post (like transport, safety or protests topics), write appreciations, greetings, requesting meetups...
Same rule applies as in the rest of the sub, post topics regarding Paris and its surroundings only please.
Bref, chit-chat mode is on in the comments!
This thread is automatically archived and regenerated every first day of the month at 8am (Paris Time) - Archives

22F, bmi around 21.5. I mostly notice this in situations where I am sitting or not moving a lot and it seems sometimes that movement is the only way for me to not be cold. I’m not sure if I just require a higher temperature than most people or if this could be a sign of some underlying condition, but here is where I’ve noticed it most:
1 the office at work. I share a room with 2 other people, and everyone remarks about how our room is significantly colder than the other 3 offices and the reception area. however, the other 2 people I share it with never seem as cold as I do. they admit it is colder than the rest of the building, but they are both fine in just long sleeves. I usually wear at least 2 layers, my winter jacket, sometimes gloves, and wrap myself up in a giant blanket! I was washing the blanket a few days and ago and was literally freezing so much that my teeth were chattering. for context, the two people I share the room with are a man and woman, both in their late 30s/early 40s.
2 hanging out with friends or at home - I feel like I’m always freezing unless I’m moving around/doing physical activity. my friends (mostly female and same age as me) will all take off their jackets and just wear their sweaters or even short sleeves, but I’m usually freezing and prefer to keep mine on at their houses or any public place we go to (eg restaurant or mall). at home, I feel like I’m also always cold and am unable to wear light clothes like everyone else and instead have to always be wearing a sweater or have a blanket on.
3 sleeping. everyone else in my family seems to sleep in just a t shirt with 2 blankets. I sleep in 2 sweatshirts and under 4 blankets

Trigger warning: death
This is an incredibly triggering topic but I need some advice from some more seasoned providers of pea flakes.
A note about how we ended up here. Our dog of about 10 years (featured in our awesome holiday card that I posted back in December) passed away suddenly and unexpectedly in. Super awful way. She was weirdly attached to the pigs and they to her. But was not one to be chill with another dog in the house (was fine at dog parks, on walks, outdoor restaurants, etc) so had she been here we would never have been pet sitting in the first place.
Last trigger warning
One wheek ago today there was a horrific attack on our herd of four. While pet sitting for a friend’s dog who was secured in a large metal pen that supposedly she could not escape from 😡 and our herd was in an appropriate enclosure in a room with a door that was closed I had to run to the store. I had no worries about this as all of the animals were secured (or so i believed) and completely separated and I was going to be gone only a short time (about 30 minutes). Much to my dismay and horror I came home to a massacre. Our youngest guinea was dead when I got back and the other three were traumatized and hiding. I rushed them to the vet immediately… unfortunately one of the survivors had to be euthanized. I am still reeling from this I am full of sadness and guilt on top of desperately missing my two girls ( adding this on top of the grief I am already navigating due to the sudden passing of my dog).
Regardless of how I am feeling my top priority is my two remaining pigs. I know that the two survivors are even more traumatized than I am. They just finished their pain meds, antibiotics, and CC regimen prescribed as a precaution. The vet checked them again today in house (trying to reduce trauma of moving locations again so the vet came to us) and cleared them physically. However I need advice on how to help my girls recover mentally.
I got a completely new enclosure, moved it to another room, and removed all of the old hides and replaced them with brand new ones. But I don’t know what else to do to help them emotionally. They cower in fear whenever I enter to give them their meds. I have been trying to leave them alone as much as I can but do spend a little time with them (not physically holding them) speaking softly and giving them their daily veg. But when they are not frozen in fear they are chattering their teeth or literally shaking in fear. I understand why…. I’m just looking for ways to help them cope. I know I will likely never have my old piggies and the trauma will affect them for a long time. But I want to be the best mom and make sure I am doing everything possible for them.