The voices mingled around me. Some loud, some soft, some weeping while others waited in stoic silence. The lodge anxiously waiting as the last rays of sunlight flit through the bay window. The wall of stacked cars and stone lights up like fairy lights upon a wall, revealing the weaknesses of our fragile defenses. And beyond the glass stood thousands of faces, watching the last rays of light sink beyond the horizon, beyond the walls that we called hope.
The room grew quiet. A whimper was stifled from the wall as the sun gave way to the stars. Their light poking holes in the sky like the sun had revealed our defenses flaws. A flask popped open followed by several large gulps. I can't fault you. The sword on my back grows warm and her hand touches my arm. Her long, blonde braid falls past her shoulder as she turns to me. To look at me and see me. Gosh, how can she know me so well. Her hand slides down my arm and into my shaking hand.
She brings it to her lips and tenderly kisses my knuckles, even the sunken ones. "The sun has surrendered," and pulls my hand to her chest, "you are now the light that must lead us, my love."
Her fingers interlace with mine, stealing the tremble hidden upon their tips with a squeeze. That tremble climbing up my arm to escape out of my lungs at my next breath. "We can only be hammered for so long before we have to be quenched, I guess." A small, but playfull smile breaks her somber face. She pulls me closer to her and presses her forhead to mine. In that small moment, the heat of her breath, the scent of her; from the moment she held me and handed me the star blade to now, she has been my light.
A small and stifled sob escapes her lips, for as she has by my beacon, I have tried to be her anchor. In our journey these last years, she has loved and feared, celebrated and cried, and we have grown. "You must be light that leads us." Her tears stain the dark wood at our feet and the tremble in her body transfers to me in at the touch of our skin.
"I must and I will." Raising her hands to my lips, returning the tender kiss she gave to me.
Turning to face the table before me, only a few are looking at what had been a private moment between her and I. The rest continue to look to where the light once had been. The heat on my back beckoned me, telling me what to do. To touch the pommel of the sword like the Forever King had done before. It was swift, but the rush of power flooded me at the embrace of my palm around the hammered piece of metal.
"So the night comes and we are like fresh pieces of paper watching spilt ink spread before us."
Eyes turn to me. Hone in on me. While still holding her hand, I turn to the west and the setting sun.
"This night, this darkness has had a long time coming and now we finally face it." Pointing at the last rays of sunlight that fade into twilight. In those last remnants of light, I can see the heads of thousands look around. Some in fear and some in confusion. The power continues to flood my body and I let go of the pommel of my sword.
Marching away from the table and to the wooden door of the lodge, my voice carries. "This story that has held us in our youth, in our entertainment, has now filled our very lives." The door glides open and I stride out, marching towards the eastarn wall. A few eyes around the lodge turn towards me. My arms shake themselves out of habit, releasing tension stored within.
"Now we write the last chapters of this very war," the growl surprises me, as people step aside to let me through. There are few faces that I recognize, but the ones that I do now recognize the position I hold. The star blade upon my back now emiting a soft glow. "One more story to add to the eternal narative that is sung among the stars."
More eyes, more faces turn to me as my voice reaches out to the gathered forces within our last bastion. My path is set and made clear in the divide of the people around me. Leading me towards the wall; towards the erected tower with a emerald, green flag and shining white sword flying in the wind above it.
"So let out story be a ballad, instead of paper waiting for someone else to write upon." The sky grows ever darker, and the twilight that normally sits around quickly is swallowed up by the oncoming night. Someone rings a bell, the warning bell. A haunting gong that sends shivers up and down my spine. They're here. Panicked voices fills the edges of the field as the chiming rings across the fortress. Men and woman rush to the walls, some armed with modern weaponry. Others with forged ones taking positions up along the wall.
Each step I take closer to the wall, my voice gets a little louder. "Let us sing, let us sing the song of the free." The bell chimes and my footfalls sound like a drum in my ears. "Let us shout, let us shout the darkness, make it fear our coming death." I move and pull up someone who is kneeling on the ground, tears coating their cheeks.
"Arise, Arise!" My fist bangs upon my chest.
Marching up the crude steps into the tower, my fist hammers the wall to the beat of my heart. The stone walls echoing with my voice within but reverberating across the field outside. "If destruction be our lot, we ourselves must be its author and finisher."
The glow from my sword spreads out from around me, slowling lighting up the tower. And as I march out atop of the stone building, I gaze out towards the wave of darkness rushing towards us from the west. I can hear the snarls and roars of the curse frothing towards us. The voice of darkness spreaking its inky touch across the barren landscape beyond the walls not a few minutes away.
"So let this ballad be our last ballad that we spin." I reach for the hilt of my sword and look down at the forces defending the wall. There gaze is brief but I their eyes, and their fear. But I also see their hope. "As free men, as free woman," turning to face the forces spread out below in the fortress field before me. "By our song, we will live forever!" I rip the star blade from the half-sheath on my back. "Or die by our own hand." The light beams out towards the heavens above as my words echo across the land.
The roar spreads like fire, chasing away the shadow of fear. Spear and sword slap against shields, cracking rumbling among the men and woman. Some beat upon the stone and steal around them while others beat their chest. A vicious cry of defience, a thunderous song echoing in my heart and ears as I turned to face the darkness.
And she was there. Right behind me as I turned to face the forces marching toward us. Her hands glowing in radiance as her spells weaved around us, casting down pillars of light spread out across the wall. I raise my sword high and can feel the air around me turn static. Darkness now clashes with the light as the hordes of the enemy crash and climb upon the wall. "Our story, our ballad, shall forever sing among the stars." Guns and artillary begin to fire. "But we are the authors of light!"
With a swing of my sword, bolts of lightning fire down from gathered clouds in the sky at the base of the wall.
~~~~~
-- Story Originally posted as a Prompt Inspired --
-- Original Prompt by u/GeorgeWL --
-- [WP] If destruction be our lot, we ourselves must be its author and finisher. As a nation of free men, we will live forever, or die by our own hand. --

Not shared, nor my shade; but something to be weaved; just as the measure of disappointment became it's own solution. But I talked my way through things forbidden, just to find myself blind in bed with those who are dead. Clumsy, but altogether natural of course, because it's consciousness what you refer in the description, yet that's what we don't get a lot about. See your deeds the way you are seen, and then return to a restless place: and the question in-between sheets will be why. Well, I just can't motivate myself to work without hot bitches staring. And that's the truth. Sad but True
— Hearfelt comment for an instagram witch.
Del desprecio a ese descarte, no he visto muchas cosas. Así se pasa una más para las cuentas, y aquí otro más para los versos, por qué aquí no hemos sido vistos. Cuánto más querría uno, que sino lo cuentas ni mucho menos piensas: << lo de este pibe que cosa más horrible>>, haciendo eso lamentable, por qué en decirlo nadie ha mentido. ¡Es horrible! Que cara es entonces la cuenta de lo que le sale a uno vivir sin más complejos; mejor seria cobrarmelo, para así saber que de algo ha valido. Bloqueame.
— Heartfelt comment for a random supermodel-to-be.
The Spirit of Fire
Flames begone, flames in spite: their warmth I felt - so I closed my fist until I could feel the warmth of my blood in my hand. And in dreams Fire came up to me and said: who am I? And I said unto him: you are bound to my bidding, thus your name misery will be. But fire wretched as he was, got closer and asked: and who are you?
And I said unto him that the blood of David ran through my veins, as I was his heir; for the mother of God claim me from death as a son. So Fire tried me, and figured it out.
You are son of woman —said Fire unto me— but as Fire acknowledged the name, I extended my left hand, and took Fire by the neck throwing him into the gound. — You are going to lace yourself to the right hand of the beast, and you'll keep him steady, so I can cleanly take him down. And Fire stayed down, and with his forehead kissing the ground asked unto me —why would the heir of David do so to earthly man?
And I said unto Fire that the beast from the abyss had left no mother for God, so I was to leave none of his body left for his head; as I was going to make it bleed until the end of the end of times.
The Spirit of Earth
Shapeless and without body, but keen within her many numbers, Earth came up to me in dreams, and said: who am I? And posessed in spirit as I was, I said unto her, that God had made her maiden again, and that she shall become the coins that Judas never received, which were to become the due payment of man and women for the body of Christ. Then I extended my right hand, and grabbed Earth by her hair —which descended deep into the abysses of hell— and cut it short so the demons of Lilith would no longer had her gripped by her back.
You are now a woman, and I'm going to rise you from the grounds. You'll lace yourself to the left hand of the beast, and keep it steady so with one shot I can cleanly take him down.
The Spirit of Air
A dream shaped by written words, whispered down for years by the currents of this Montain, and it's requiem witnessed but by a few — the end of dreams. But from where I standed at the peak, I called upon the distant currents that went down, and asked them: who am I?
And Air came unto me as bird, which had thousands of letters for feathers, and in the tongue of dead men answered.
"Somebody who only a few will remember by strange deeds; as the burden on your back, is a past tainted by impossible dreams. You were a lunatic giving new names to folk, and folk never bothered to remember —so your name must be freak, as you died in a forgotten shack some short time ago."
And as Air said these things upon me, I called Misery —as I had dubbed Fire — and told him to get inside my shot. The burden as Air had said, became lesser as i took the shot from my quiver. And I said upon Misery; that he was to set ablaze this arrow, as I was taking down the bird of Britain, and that I would do so, so God would give the deeds of Earth some better names.
The Lord is making a bridge between the empire of strength, and the last empire of men. Now by God's grace, I'm making the tongue of free men, the tongue of Spain. You will be eventually bound to my bidding, and if not me, it will be to the one I'm preceding; for I'm giving you twenty years to attone your wrongdoing. Alas, now because of your wretchedness, my shot on earthly men won't be clean, for his left leg won't stay steady.
Your old name was apathy, now I'm calling you Cisma, which in the tongue of dead men means schism. So now by the will of God lay unto the ground and say the words you've been teached. And as the arrow blazed forward, it's bending motion pierced the veil hiding the secret ladder of men. The bird of Britain catched on Fire, and it's hollering resounded throught the ladders of the mountain until the depths of the abyss. A column of air turned into fire, then violenty erupted from the vowels of the bird, and the wild fire spread as a storm from west to east all throughout the five kingdoms of men away from its own fiery wings, with a gift of misery and a few words to say.
"The name of your woman or the name of your man, will no longer explain their purpose to a man, a woman, or God. Charred words written by thunder will now be the new ladder of men — but until then, darkness upon thee."
The House of Water
I head into the coasts, and the beautiful beaches in-between, to find the stranger who burns images in the skin of men. He is the stranger, and has adopted the body of a monster, and he is one who cannot be understood, so he went on to only go out home in stunts, for the burdens in his heart have become too great to bear. Through terrible pains he has given all he once was for an identity, and as I pick up on his past, i found familiarity in the feelings of his heart. Oh dear friend how we found looking in sadness to ourselves, after doing same but with different means, carrying into our shoulders the loneliness of this world. As you have in-skin the garments of the strange doctrine that I preach — I shall congrate you, for you truly have fought the world entire, for my doctrine is the words of those who shall defeat the world entire.
I may not have your strangeness in-body, but I have it in these words, and in the true feelings of my heart. And I say in admiration that there's no higher form of art, philosophy or religion: than those who perform the highest thing they can give a name about.
Now even within solitude, and at odds with what old dead men call God, I see you and I found strength in you, as I can see you are within me, and in that, you are within everything as it should be - as is meant in everyone who does something that touches the heart of another man. I call this the kingdom of God. Yet blind men and women will wonder how can the kingdom of God possibly be within two outcasts such as you and me.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Upong giving my regards and waiting for response, I found my way into a bench. It was a warm afternoon, and the wind carried the water of the sea. The bird of Britain came about down from the wind of north, and layed on the bench were I was sitting.
The bird asked: why hast thou become this?
And I said back to bird, scorched he was and nearing death, that it was me someone who was supposed to give names, yet for years I couldn't figure out one for myself. Then on went to being given a name, Alas all the wrong ones. Did Adan gave himself a name? - I asked the bird back. And there was no response from bird. Then I continued.
A man has the essence of his soul retained by what he is seen doing. Yet I did things nobody saw, so my soul wasn't with God but with something just as ancient, and nonetheless unknown by men in its true nature — then Satan as the better known devil, came about and pushed me into a hole. It was my own doing. Yet the things I did, I thought were seen. But nonetheless what I did was without contemplation on a posible return. Just as somebody who prints an image on their own skin. It's permanent. This is the essence of a memory in the soul of the man who's seen by others. But in the familiarity of a man who picked every irreversible decision like the Alien, I find myself feeling sympathy, for the man is still not what he has been seen doing, he shall redeem himself by what he decides to turn himself into.
Is this a way of saying that you want to get yourself a tattoo? Get a new look? - the bird mockingly asked.
And I gave the scorched bird no answer.
Then the bird said unto me: what about your career as a prophet, uh? And the things you said about returning with substance? Do you actually think this is substance?
And i considered what the Bird said, then I negated with a movement of my own head. It is not i answered, but i find the memories of me not making sense unbearable. For those mean the memories of a fool, un pendejo, an insane person, or both. And I will always try to amend what I don't do well. But now I wish for only one thing, and it is to be remembered as someone who makes sense, and who out of that sense, made good upon the world. I don't expect anything in return for what I do now, as it is merely an outlet to keep me sane while I finish editing my work. It's clear I'm too incompetent to be a competent influencer. As for once, I don't care about influencing anyone into what I think; but to perform what I think it's important.
Then every proverbial student is free to take classes so as they see fit, and to interpret such classes as their comprehension gives them grasp of what it's said. In such regard, this is what I offer now, while I make the journey to Madrid. And the bird tilted it's head so as to observe me with his left eye, then after a long impasse, it made a loud and painful caw, and finally flew away. Soon after the bird flew, I looked upon the stars in the nascent night, and confessed to them, that it was the memories of who we were, what often stumps us into wrong beliefs of who we should be, maybe even wasting an entire lifetime retained by that which other people remembered us as being. But we are not the owners of our own names, the place we go, and our destiny. That's the biggest lie the western world of hollywood heros tell you, as in truth is collective agreement what determines what we look like doing and thus the meaning we should comfort to, recalling that names are practical mechanisms to remember the purpose of things, their meaning, and how their motion is described in the world.
But making the task of beating that collective belief, akin to the Nietzschean ideal of the camel turning into the lion, so as to transform it's spirit and become something else. But if it's the golden dragon of all the huamn values which judges you insane, will you be prepared to wrestle with the entire culture so as to have your way?
As I layed my eyes upon each star counting up to the number seventeen, I confessed of being scared of those beliefs, as revisiting the past, became a painful deed — and as I prepared to leave, I uttered one wish on the seventeenth point in the sky.
Lord please grant me strength, the way you have given my friend strenght.
2.
The night deepen, while the sea tide sang its own song of breathing. Some time passed, and then on the stranger showed himself approaching at the distance. I waved my hand at him, and after the instant, he found his way into my bench while I welcomed him with an extended fist which he casually bumped - after the short acknowledgement the dark alien looked at my face in between it's cover of dark, and looking at it undiscernable in its true features, with suspicion asked.
— What is it that you want?
I acknowledged him as a friend, then mentioned my brief research, as I had come to know him as man looking for a job, yet nobody would hire for things mundane due to his appearance. I listened closely to the news, and came to understand that this was a man looking for a second chance.Then I saw the intent behind his doing, and two words came to stick to my own thoughts. The first one was <> and the second one was <>. I was admired.
In analytical psychology I figured this man was the ESFP —the personality archetype related to the performer and the entertainer—, possessed in an abnormal way by the spirit by which a person submits to it's contrary nature, seeking to integrate and find fulfillment through the chase of what's perceived absent. If he was the ESFP then doing the flip by following the radial axis of each Jungian function in the stack towards their opposite resulted in the INTJ. The mastermind. The architect. The genius yet awfully complex individual. That was the elusive spirit he was chasing.
But a spirit and a character that at its most pronounced embodiment in a person, would experience life as an eternal foreigner hiding from the light of other men. Such made sense to me, for I myself was the INTJ, and had at spirit the ESFP. Him. So where as this man chased the spiritual fulfillment of being a complex and deep individual, I chased the fulfillment of becoming simpler, so I could demonstrate with action the deepest desires of my heart. One who was born plentiful in means to be liked, becomes complex, mysterious and uncomprehended, meeting one who will be seen trying to make sense becoming simpler. For Carl Jung portrayed the anima and animus of individuals, as the sense of what its absent, yet deeply cherished an valued. So I said these things to the alien, while he silently listened to me.
— All of that sounds like bullshit to me. -Said the alien after some contemplation .— Sorry but the things you say, don't mean anything to me.
And alas for I expected such response, as if one thing was true about this journey, was that explaining the journey in and of itself would become it's grimmest task. I affirmated what he just said with a slight nod of head.
— These things I say and how they relate to each other, in its excercise are similar to doing stecheometric balance with equations in the head, but simpler I'm afraid. - Then I paused, looked back into the sea, and continued. — That's high school chemistry, but I don't expect everybody to pick up on it, nor like it, nor understand it.
— Now i have called you a friend, and where I came from we dub with this title the people we share destiny with. As far as I'm concerned, we are chasing the same thing, which is the hardest posible thing. We both innately understand that we are not home, as we want our spirit to return to us, and that's not what a lot of people ever honestly try to attempt in a lifetime; as such is anyone's call to feel complete.
— And very few people ever reach true individuality, beyond the name they are imposed at birth.
Then I looked into the black alien, and in-between his foreign facial features, I interpreted something familiar. Disturbance. And I continued.
— We have given ourselves hell as we lived chasing something hard, so we can avoid the same hell later on when we are finally back to our own house. This is a christian precept, altought a rundimentary one. Does that makes sense to you?
And after listening such, the black alien calmly looked at the veil in my face in silence. Trying to discern what my face actually looked like, but the night was dark. Then turned his stare back to the reflection of the moon over the waters, giving some thought to what I just said. I opened up my backpack, and drawed two cans of beer from it. Offered one to him, and he silently refused with a gesture of hand. I popped my can and gave it a sip, while I myself stared at the tides coming in and out of the shore.
— If you wan't a tattoo, we can work that out. But this sounds annoyingly familiar, and my interest is not religious. Are you religious?
I nodded in affirmation, and complemented saying. — But my doctrine is something nobody has heard nor seen. For its aim, is doing as Christ said, in perfect means. Yet its true that the teaching fits you, as it's the teaching of the future man; and there's nothing in common between the current man and the future man, as they may very well be different species. This is the precept of evolution.
The alien seemed surprised.
— These two men don't know each other, for the current man doesn't know where the future man comes from, for he himself doesn't know where he is going. Yet in deep realization of your own artistic concept, I think you might want new ideas to meet with your appearance. So tell me, are you curious about what truly happens to a man after he dies? Do you want to learn how to read someone's mind? Do you want to blast with words of fire the hearts of an amazed crowd?
But the black alien broke his calm contemplation of what I was saying, and slighty disturbed, aggressively rebuked after hearing such.
— But you mentioned 'Christ', so you must be christian. How can a christian even say anything interesting in this current time? Last time I asked, their sayings were dreaded by restriction - so why would anyone condemn themselves to a life of bore? Are you a christian?
And I nodded after the question, in silence. Admittedly, for I knew what the problem was with being what I was, and my new companion was bang on identifying it. Made a pause, then raised my sight to where it met with the sky and the stars in it, and I said back to him.
— I am, but not one of a type you have ever seen, for the Christ that comes, is a Christ of art.
2.
The riptide sang, in its secret dialect of earth and sea. I looked upon the coast, turned an eye blind, and saw the ocean as the scorpio, and the land as the taurus; as it was the struggle between two lovers, never meant to consume each other. Ideal love then - yet not to confuse with this partnership as it was whimsilcally tied by the means in which i arranged my current conversation; for my lady somewhere waited for me. Then i allowed my eyes to rest still.
The alien looked upon me, undiscernable in my intentions, and again figured for himself that my interest towards him wasn’t clear. In suspicion, and after the moment he collected his thoughts asked “In your weird words you dubbed me performer, so what is it exactly that you wan’t from me. To me it seems like you are gathering people for some form of religious clown show. When you forced this meeting upon me, was this a proposal you thought i would find amusement in?”. And after the statement my own stare wandered in my conversation partner. While as he had his say, i returned to my can of beer, and finished it with a long gulp. Tempered in an unwillingness to fall to my new found friend irritation, i said within my own thoughts: “The alien looks easy going, but he is barbed in wit”.
Then i opened the can of beer that the stranger rejected; the loud pop resounded in the relative silence, interrupting for a moment the steady chorus of the sea. Gave it a long sip, and said.
– Theres no proposal in place yet. But im certain of something, and that is that both of us are messed individuals which reached the bottom doing the same thing - but the way my understandment of the human soul goes: two people can act by mere interaction as reactives to each other, creating a new chemical compound after the fact.
– This new psychology is very much like chemistry. But it is not my intention to draw you into something, but to pull myself out of this «something» by doing right on another person and maybe that person reflecting the good back on me. I just need a conversation partner, thats all. And i will do this with you, and with many people more. Presidents included.
The alien reflected on it, and after the hiatus of a long standing position of suspicion he finally gave in, and eased up with a slight smile. A strange smile of relief. But the smile, was all too familiar for me, as i realized the man was a tortured individual: a person in long standing pain. I smiled back the way he did, and continued.
– Our pain has a common name, and is a name that can be written with words unfortunately. It’s the devilish mother of all spiritual ills and its foundation, rests at the concept of a past that wasnt solved. It’s called «inadequeacy», and for people like you and me, understanding one day that such inadecuacy had to be solved by our own means, lead us into an act where our name changed as the changes in our cover up act to solve our inadequacy did.
– We never honored the past or the present in our pursuit, as we desired in passion to find solution to the present, by matching it into the idealization of some future without ever realizing that the old or present essence of ones being would be crushed into non existance by said future.
– Then we found the realization of that new name, only to understand that its demands became a tyranny on the other faces of our soul: as our soul is not something that can be undestood in unity, but something that conceives in the beginning in multiple things which try to give shape to one thing. Theres many people in a village, and our minds, are no exception.
— But happiness is only achieved by those who have their soul entire - or those who are the same person regardless of the context and scenario. And we gave to much to somebody that wasn't us, as our spirit took possession and lead us down.
– This is this the essence by which someone goes to hell, only to do one thing over again, getting an ever lasting pain for all the things that were given up chasing that which was absent. The more someone is forced into being shaped by the thing that was concevied in lust, the more the individual misses the place they used to call home, for that is no longer within ones reach. Does this makes sense to you?
The alien left me with no answer, and as he contemplated the sea, a tear travelled through his strange face.
– In this state of anguish, affliction rarely ever feels company, as the very individual condition that was pursued, became a full suit and persona to be forced upon and wear. Hell, is one lonely place man because we only learn to speak a language, that only makes sense to ourselves. But i think we can find a way out of it. This is why I'm here.
“Look, what you’ve done, it’s not something i can see the way you can see my own doing on me.” The alien replied. “Besides the way in which i canno’t see your face in this night, you seem ordinary — but what you talk and the way you say it, evokes in every word regret. What is it that you’ve done that has you regret like this?”
As the alien finished speaking, I emptied the can of beer, layed my eyes on the irregular grooves that my feet had left on the sand, and then replied back to him, after making a recap of the story i had repeatedly told myself after falling down.
“My story, is the fairy tale of a guy who makes way for the new coming of a new man; a better man for the world, while he casts disarray upon the earth: much to his dismay, at the expense of his own soul as the people who become victims of disasters, were ones who this man deemed unfair; cruel, evil, despicable in past. That was at the beginning."
"Theres a pile of corpses behind that character — even in covid time, people as close as the local priest of the small town he lived in, would break their neck after falling in the shower, as he had the slightest suspicion of their secret deeds. All clean deads for that matter. Untraceable to nothing but sheer randomness. Magic as it seeems. But were this folk truly evil people or even guilty of anything? You may ask - the man never knew it for sure, as he never had faculties such as godly omniscience to actually know it; which has taken a toll on him, as the burden of justice is an unberable one for anything but a god."
"Which leads to another point: spontaneously picturing random numbers in the head, associating them with psychological compounds by angular momentum, and actually being bang on the suspicion. Truth friend, in its stochastic presentation: it's unberable.”
“Consequential of such attempts to rationalize his own story in the eyes of people such as close family, my dude became clinically diagnosed with referenced thinking. Which are fancy words for schizophrenia. Nobody believed the story as it was uttered."
"Yet the consequences are there for everyone to see, altought not visible in their cause and effect by anybody but this guy, which lead him first into regret over ever starting his quest as a reformer; and then repent.”
“Now before he realized of this lets call it «curse», he preached for years over the internet as the disasters started to slowly creep up. He preached in a fashion parallel to Niestzches Zarathustra; Zarathustra meaning a famous philosophical device artificied by the philosopher Niestzche, who’s aim was to portray the best posible man, as something he dubbed the <<Übermensch>> ”.
“Such concept being the seemingly more elegant brand of a humanist ideal for a not so distant future: today - albeit a wrong one, for this guy was not dyonisian himself. The backbone of his framework, is analytical psycholgy becoming a chariot for a true understandment of human nature: and ultimately a facilitator for love within light: not within ignorance; not within darkness. Most philosophers today though would mock anything analytical in it's aim."
"Then on the guy preached and dwelved further into the relative hole of his own doctrine: and became imprisoned by what he didn’t got right at first attempt, making him in the process the character that Nietzsche from the comfort of his own writers seat, never attempted to actually embody within realistic means: eventually figuring out within himself the ultimate Nietzschean aristocrat: a magic pen granted by being capetian by mother: from judah by father."
"But Alas, you have no idea how common suicide is within philosophers after they finish their best work. As language, becomes the ultimate barrier for understandment, and then to ones capacity to feel love. Difference — true saliency in ones individual destiny— leads to the gravest posible pain. Ironic isn’t it?”
“Besides technical work with a new form of psychology inspired by analytical chemistry, as that drawed from his efforts during the light of day, five years ago, once he felt the urge to try to reach out to the world from a position of what he deemed was greater understandment: he primitively preached during night his new set of ideas for people to behave beyond the limitations of manipulative psychology, albeit a harsh doctrine meant to clear the way for a better product: Christ himself."
"This is not a doctrine a human being can actually perform, as such its christianity at its highest capacity to bear fruit. It’s an impossible doctrine, yet solves the oldest problem posed in the bible. All which sounds very sci-fi bullshit-y but actual problems started for the protagonist in this tale, when the preaching matched with terrible consequences. Not figurative, but within tangible reality.”
“So just as we talk, theres a small legion of hackers pretending to be doing internet social experiments while talking in an artsy matter: much in my own style, entertaining the exact same concepts - a legion of dangerous monkeys, i have no control over."
"One of the many unexpected consequences being this, yet prompted by something evil; ancient: essentially replicating what my protagonist developed and then preached over the years, while these "hacktivists" lay their attention on things and people, as they select them and enforce upon them strict surveillance, to behave properly. Then to destroy them, as they did in 2020 with many corporations and institutions.A bizarre combination of theater actors to my own liking, and then cyber-security demigods: omniscient in their claims to surveill, and they are - derivative such of another device of what I've done; which is to build a theater so people can make-believe that they are infact performing within themselves something greater - but that's matter for another story."
“Most of the corpses piling up flat out dead, have no relation to him whatsoever; they became victims as my protagonist took measures to fight back the monster he found at the foundation of the known world. This is not an elaborate analogy for one's own unseen capacity for evil, as i mean this: a monster as literally as it can be. For these things friend, im doomed as in true strenght, i have nothing but the pen i use to write down what i think albeit always at danger of it’s eventual inversion. I have no real friends left. Not one who can understand, or help bear the pain: as friendship and love are all gated by understandment."
"The full story has many more vertients, but i think i’ve done it enough justice. This is the predicament of an insane man chased by his own shadow as he builds a better man: one who delivers heavenly things, and then a shadow stringed to deliver tyranny as the very strings behind him make the better man stumble while he tries to keep a grasp of his own spirit, and then of his own soul."
"That monster behind, is wicked smart — and cannot be outwitted nor overpowered but anything but divine smite."
“I’m heading now to a new country, to try to get friends from the only institution in the world who knows and adresses the current times being, and who by extension, might believe me. And to clarify, these being the end of times; but not the end of the world. Yet now i myself have a damocles sword pending over my own head, and i need to do something about it before it falls.”
And as i said these things, i reached out to my backpack drawing a third can of beer from it — besides my own super laptop, thats what my backpack had: an infinite supply of beer. Corona, Indio, Victoria, Dos Equis, Heineken; you name it. I popped the can, and gave it a long and definite sip as i emptied it complete.
The alien didn't try to show that he understood, but stood still in silence, with his sight in the sand below and pressing lips, knowing by my demeanor; that these things as I've said them was something that I needed to do. Then he said: "I don't follow man. You say you preach and then disasters occur. Like a prophet from the bible?"
"Yes. Then I preached to get rid of the things that are actually making the world worse, and something awoke soon after, and since then; everything I do is subject to being misinterpreted due to the diffamatory action of this thing. Now everytime I do something, it can be twisted and turned against my original intent. Right now the hackers are my worst problem: I may have a degree in computers but I have no fucking idea whatsoever of hacking. I earn my living as an A.I engineer.".
The alien raised his sight to meet with mine, and after doing some contemplation on the fact, quite simply said: "You are insane". Then lowered his own sight, and raised it again to meet with the sea and continued. "If you want a tattoo, we can work that out. But either way and whatever parts of your story are true and even worse; the ones you may be lying about: you sound dangerous in a delusional kind of sense, and my life is hard enough as is."
I pressed my fists, knowing then the old same thing had happened again. For I had never forced anything upon anybody, and I was willing to respect that until the bitter end. Then I released the build up of frustration with a loud sigh, and after this amend, I replied back.
"I understand and respect it. But let me just propose you that if you ever want to figure what is beyond life as it's lived by person who has never seen what is like to be someone you write a great story about; you can pin me, and I'll show you what's beyond that door. Give it some thought."
The alien; The Black Alien Project stayed there sitting, spechless but calm, almost expecting something else to be convinced about. But pointless, for i knew that nobody can be forced into anything without bringing a transgression into play – and i wasn’t one to taint myself in sin if it could be avoided. Not anymore.
3.
I made the distance at steady pace walking along the shore, until i found a small group of pines in-between the liminal space of the beach and the land. I sat with one of the pines trunk behind my back, and drawed the Schizo Pills from my eternal supply of traveller goodies.
Quetiapine 100 mg, and Olanzapine 10 mg, i made a smaller fragment from the olanzapine pill, and swallowed both complete. As their side effects were concerned, they would soon knock me out of conscience, as this little ritual was my own way of calling the day complete – then i layed there, vigilant, waiting for my own drowsiness to claim me into sleep - but the Bird of Britan came flying from above, and stood besides me.
\Chirp, Chirp, Chirp**
I watched the bird, annoyed, as its presence had become an omen for contempt. For me and the death people of my past. I frowned upon the little shit, and said nothing. The bird made a little nod, while tilting its head in excentricity the way birds do, and replied. — Hey Andrew!, do you remember when you tried to penetrate your own computer to make a universe grow inside of it? I just wan’t to know something: did your computer moan? Did it finally learnt how to scream your name?
\Chirp Chirp**
Ignoring the bird, i closed my eyes and stayed like that for a long moment, hoping to make the bird think i was asleep. Maybe that would make him leave.
— Can’t bullshit me like that Sweetheart. So please tell me something; why don’t you command one of your supermodels; these muses, to come here and warm the bed for you. It's a cold night and you seem lonely brah
. \Chirp Chirp**
I opened my eyes, and irritated, pointed menacingly at the bird turning my left hand into an imaginary gun. I had already failed at something today, and wasn’t convinced i needed the memory of the things i failed at before. Not now.

• Hol’ up cowboy ! you wan’t to bang my bird ass when you should be banging a bitch ass. What happened with Tyrone huckleberry? Did you managed to make him as impotent as you are right now? —I held steady my hand; and tired, the tempation to pull again the trigger on the bird was growing larger. I saw red roses in my own sight, making a terrible omen for a migraine forthcoming. Said nothing.

— The glowniggers are out there brah. You may not be a hacker – and its true, but i took notice of your last words: so now the glowies are going to instead dreambooth* people into every posible kind of scenario of extorsion, while they surveil like a motherfucker. Like you dream boothed yourself for your little ahem "art project". Then we will use Suno*, then Sora* when it open sources. Are you going to protect your hoes?
Said nothing.

• Alright cowboy, i will give meaning to that revelations verse. What was it? Ah yes. Revelations 9:6. Every single person with an internet history will be as paranoid as you were in 2020. Everyone will be diffamated into acts of political terrorism! Aren’t you am-

And as i pulled the imaginary trigger from the imaginary pistol, an imaginary arrow in the sky descended with a blaze of not so imaginary flames on the Bird of Britain, engulfing the little shit in heat, and making it’s body explode into a gore of scorched viscera. As if the bird was in a microwave oven. I inmediately gasped as the explosion was too close from where i was sitting - after the conmotion, stared at the red and burned stain in the floor, and left my sight rest there, as sleep finally found its way into my restless thoughts.
"No longer care for love unless it's between good friends”. Said to myself. There was certainly a migraine coming, but maybe my dreams would help convince it otherwise. And as far as the hoes were concerned, Furious Angels would be there for them. Like the Rob Dougan song.
4.
Found my own mind after the slumber – asleep, then awake. I realized several hours passed - at least enough to wake up and witness the sun rise above the sea. But as for dreams, the light veil of their memories wasn't something to rely upon. But i did remember something, and it was some overtone in dread; an atmosphere of fear – and a kind of dread sustained in it’s inevitability by the urgency that builds upon dearth.
Now what exactly was it though? I couldn’t remember from my dreams, but ever since i falled to my own death i had always present in mind the future succesion of events that would follow when things started to go very wrong. Iran, the U.S, Israel - now whatever was it in the news; the outcome would be the same. A thousand more cuts to an already languishing economy. Make that corpse bleed, and then fall off a cliff.
As such things would be cooked, just as the bird of britain. The bird was still there though: just in pieces and roasted like the contents of a dropped KFC bucket would. But the little shit would return - as it always did. The economy? Not so much.
Yet i digress. None of the world circumstances mattered as far i was concerned – i had built a small and portable solar system to power my laptop, and my beer supply was well, infinite - i made myself sure that i had my needs covered whatever happened around me. Not tied to even a house for that matter. I incorporated myself and gave my back a stretch. The morning breeze coming from the sea evocated in my memories some time that had long passed – late childhood. I rejected those memories as they beared with them things i didnt wan’t to remember - then wen’t on as usual in my morning routine scrolling through my instagram feed, figuring if there were any new hoes to maybe motivate me into doing my God imposed labour.
Labour which was to either write, or to finish the House of Water — then after scrolling i did in fact saw a new hoe; i dropped a Faux Pas comment. Maybe she would play along, maybe not. Whatever. Sometimes I would put in a lot of effort to do a rhyme. But the effort depended on the insta-hoe in question. I know. Not the best of habits, but back in elementary school i was the kind of kid that would only get motivation when the girls in the classroom were present in physEd. And then i would run faster: whole lotta faster. Run Forrest! Run! Women love used to fuel me; and the habit sticked — and at the moment, i was kinda done with the idea of female trascendence. Would rely on their love, but not on their validation. Not like a simp. Fuck that.
Furthermore, what results did i demonstrably mustered after pursuing true egalitarianism and sharing it? Exactly. A bitch gonna do what a bitch gonna do, and so does the human female. After publishing the comment, I locked my phone and walked towards the highway, as i was planning to pay a visit to somebody long forgotten - I had kind of a schedule that i was going to follow, before taking the plane to Madrid and become hispanic Jon Snow from the walgreens Nightwatch.

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

The voices mingled around me. Some loud, some soft, some weeping while others waited in stoic silence. The lodge anxiously waiting as the last rays of sunlight flit through the bay window. The wall of stacked cars and stone lights up like fairy lights upon a wall, revealing the weaknesses of our fragile defenses. And beyond the glass stood thousands of faces, watching the last rays of light sink beyond the horizon, beyond the walls that we called hope.
The room grew quiet. A whimper was stifled from the wall as the sun gave way to the stars. Their light poking holes in the sky like the sun had revealed our defenses flaws. A flask popped open followed by several large gulps. I can't fault you. The sword on my back grows warm and her hand touches my arm. Her long, blonde braid falls past her shoulder as she turns to me. To look at me and see me. Gosh, how can she know me so well. Her hand slides down my arm and into my shaking hand.
She brings it to her lips and tenderly kisses my knuckles, even the sunken ones. "The sun has surrendered," and pulls my hand to her chest, "you are now the light that must lead us, my love."
Her fingers interlace with mine, stealing the tremble hidden upon their tips with a squeeze. That tremble climbing up my arm to escape out of my lungs at my next breath. "We can only be hammered for so long before we have to be quenched, I guess." A small, but playful smile breaks her somber face. She pulls me closer to her and presses her forehead to mine. In that small moment, the heat of her breath, the scent of her; from the moment she held me and handed me the star blade to now, she has been my light.
A small and stifled sob escapes her lips, for as she has by my beacon, I have tried to be her anchor. In our journey these last years, she has loved and feared, celebrated and cried, and we have grown. "You must be light that leads us." Her tears stain the dark wood at our feet and the tremble in her body transfers to me in at the touch of our skin.
"I must and I will." Raising her hands to my lips, returning the tender kiss she gave to me.
Turning to face the table before me, only a few are looking at what had been a private moment between her and I. The rest continue to look to where the light once had been. The heat on my back beckoned me, telling me what to do. To touch the pommel of the sword like the Forever King had done before. It was swift, but the rush of power flooded me at the embrace of my palm around the hammered piece of metal.
"So the night comes and we are like fresh pieces of paper watching spilt ink spread before us."
Eyes turn to me. Hone in on me. While still holding her hand, I turn to the west and the setting sun.
"This night, this darkness has had a long time coming and now we finally face it." Pointing at the last rays of sunlight that fade into twilight. In those last remnants of light, I can see the heads of thousands look around. Some in fear and some in confusion. The power continues to flood my body and I let go of the pommel of my sword.
Marching away from the table and to the wooden door of the lodge, my voice carries. "This story that has held us in our youth, in our entertainment, has now filled our very lives." The door glides open and I stride out, marching towards the eastern wall. A few eyes around the lodge turn towards me. My arms shake themselves out of habit, releasing tension stored within.
"Now we write the last chapters of this very war," the growl surprises me, as people step aside to let me through. There are few faces that I recognize, but the ones that I do now recognize the position I hold. The star blade upon my back now emitting a soft glow. "One more story to add to the eternal narrative that is sung among the stars."
More eyes, more faces turn to me as my voice reaches out to the gathered forces within our last bastion. My path is set and made clear in the divide of the people around me. Leading me towards the wall; towards the erected tower with an emerald, green flag and shining white sword flying in the wind above it.
"So let out story be a ballad, instead of paper waiting for someone else to write upon." The sky grows ever darker, and the twilight that normally sits around quickly is swallowed up by the oncoming night. Someone rings a bell, the warning bell. A haunting gong that sends shivers up and down my spine. They're here. Panicked voices fills the edges of the field as the chiming rings across the fortress. Men and woman rush to the walls, some armed with modern weaponry. Others with forged ones taking positions up along the wall.
Each step I take closer to the wall, my voice gets a little louder. "Let us sing, let us sing the song of the free." The bell chimes and my footfalls sound like a drum in my ears. "Let us shout, let us shout the darkness, make it fear our coming death." I move and pull up someone who is kneeling on the ground, tears coating their cheeks.
"Arise, Arise!" My fist bangs upon my chest.
Marching up the crude steps into the tower, my fist hammers the wall to the beat of my heart. The stone walls echoing with my voice within but reverberating across the field outside. "If destruction be our lot, we ourselves must be its author and finisher."
The glow from my sword spreads out from around me, slowly lighting up the tower. And as I march out atop of the stone building, I gaze out towards the wave of darkness rushing towards us from the west. I can hear the snarls and roars of the curse frothing towards us. The voice of darkness speaking its inky touch across the barren landscape beyond the walls not a few minutes away.
"So let this ballad be our last ballad that we spin." I reach for the hilt of my sword and look down at the forces defending the wall. There gaze is brief but I their eyes, and their fear. But I also see their hope. "As free men, as free woman," turning to face the forces spread out below in the fortress field before me. "By our song, we will live forever!" I rip the star blade from the half-sheath on my back. "Or die by our own hand." The light beams out towards the heavens above as my words echo across the land.
The roar spreads like fire, chasing away the shadow of fear. Spear and sword slap against shields, cracking rumbling among the men and woman. Some beat upon the stone and steal around them while others beat their chest. A vicious cry of defiance, a thunderous song echoing in my heart and ears as I turned to face the darkness.
And she was there. Right behind me as I turned to face the forces marching toward us. Her hands glowing in radiance as her spells weaved around us, casting down pillars of light spread out across the wall. I raise my sword high and can feel the air around me turn static. Darkness now clashes with the light as the hordes of the enemy crash and climb upon the wall. "Our story, our ballad, shall forever sing among the stars." Guns and artillery begin to fire. "But we are the authors of light!"
With a swing of my sword, bolts of lightning fire down from gathered clouds in the sky at the base of the wall.
~~~~~
Original Prompt by u/George_WL_
**Edits: Corrected minor gramatical errors**

I really love minor threat but I’m not straight edge and was wondering if I would get crowd killed for having a minor threat tattoo while chugging beers and smoking doobies at shows.
I’ve been able to compile a complete collection of all original pressings thanks to a bunch of breakups I’ve had throughout the years. That’s usually why I date men that are so much older than me TBH. All I know is that MT has gotten me through a bunch of tough times and it makes me really want a tattoo of them but I’m also not really willing to stop getting super fucked up at shows.
Is it weird that it would be the same tattoo as one of my ex boyfriends??
Do you think he’d mind?
I’m already so fragile and usually try to glue myself to the guy with the most obscure band tee and best two stepping skills at shows so that he can protect me but I’m just not sure how the brutal straight edge kids would respond.
Asking this sub because it might not just affect me- I would feel really bad if the dude I’m trying to bang after the show gets knocked out because of my minor threat tattoo.

So this is what i think of master modes, i posted it as comment on another post and wanted to make it a post rq. And keep in my mind master modes as a concept is okay, however im am totally against limiting ship mobility in any mode, at least a mandatory mobility limit.

1. Master modes locks combat into a tiny speed envelope, forcing face hug fights and reducing the skill ceiling by an insane margin. It is now a DPS race. "Its to fix jousting!!!!" no sweet child, good pilots dont joust, they glue themselves to their enemies blind spots, or try to. Watch avenger ones videos, hes rarely jousting. Jousting is a mid tier tactic. High level pilots wont joust unless they want to force one to recharge shields or get missiles off. So no, if you were jousting pre 3.23 thats a skill issue. Now there are no skill issues. Its who has better DPS. noice. guess thats good for low skill pilots. Huh guess that explains the vote a bit?

for example pre 3.22 i would always watch my closure speed on the bandit, if its more than 300 m/s ive fucked up. Now thats not an issue because you cant even go fast enough to get closures of 400+ m/s. No need to manage speed when there is no speed. sigh. On top of the speed nerf, all maneuvering thrusters have been nerfed, so actually flying evasive and weaving shots is impossible. That was 3.22s actual high skill meta. Literally dodging laser bolts in my flipping space ship. SO COOL :))) now what is it. BRRRRR my guns bigger my ships hull is heavier...
I was nearly unkillable in my old m50, as long as i didnt make a mistake -talkin PvP here-. Its not like i could kill much but they couldnt kill me, unless with a lucky missile hit. Now nope. M50 is just as weak as a noob would expect :(( sad day man.

1. Master modes makes ganking far easier. QT jamming is insane right now and the fact that higher speed is locked to a spooled drive, (which makes ZERO sense, but well get to that) means that you cant even move and youll have no shields cuz you spammed into Nav mode. Get wrekt literally ANYONE who isnt the very best pilot, and even then you stand little chance as the ganker is likely in a squad. For those that play{ed} Elite dangerous, think FDL gank squads chain interdicting you. That is now in Star Citizen. Thank you master modes.

Why this sub supports this i have NO idea as you folks seem to hate gankers and "griefing" yet this is OBVIOUSLY going to make that problem SO much worse. Everyones talking about "youre not supposed to play solo" disregarding how much of a time sink this game is... and how getting people together consistently is not easy. And beyond that, thats also encouraging gankers to group up as well, how do you not realize that? And AND ontop of that they say work together, for what? the pultry rewards you get, and then have to split?? at least give us mission stacking amongst party, like Elite dangerous has, if youre gonna mutter about wing men and the like...

1. MM makes flying less realistic than it was in 3.22. And dont go on about how 3.22 was realistic either. That's not relevant. What is relevant is that 3.23 is LESS realistic than 3.22. For one the shift to nav mode to combat can force a mach 5 to mach .08 deceleration in 1.5 seconds... guess what buddy, youre dead, your neck snapped... this game has g forces and g out modeled soooo why tf am i still awake after that? less immersive right there. and yes i know the elevators have insane acceleration as well and im willing to suspend my disbelief for that as it would be sucky to have long ass elevator rides where youre getting thrown around. IM not willing to suspend my disbelief for some asinine feature that violates the laws of physics on several points. or at the very least the laws of this game. Like how the hell am i even slowing down. Considering they nerfed retro thrusters and even before they couldnt get close to that kind of deceleration. Its literally the GAME just saying "OPE YOURE IN COMBAT MODE YOU GOTTA GO SLOW NOWWWWWW" that legitimately makes me angry. its an insult. And then it forces you to stay at that speed. hey, buddy? im slamming thrust, im in space, that means im accelerating. thats how physics works. It doesnt matter what freaking mode my ship is in. If im hitting thrust im going faster and faster. If im hitting no thrust then i continue at current speed. meaning the game is LITERALLY FIRING YOUR RETRO THRUSTERS TO PREVENT YOU FROM MOVING. guys this makes me unresoanbly angry. theyre using my ships thrusters to prevent me from going to the speed I fucking want. GET YOUR GRUBBY FUCKIN PAWS OFF MY FUCKIN CONTROLS. I DECIDE WHEN MY THRUSTERS FIRE. ITS MY FUCKING SPACE SHIP DAMMIT.

okay im sorry turned into a rant there. it just makes me super angry, and they do shit like this IRL too, they being car companies. Forcing my damn car to break and shit, with no way to disable it. Treating us like children, really irks me. This is a god damn game man, let me move freely.

1. Where in sci fi does a ship need to disable its sub light maneuverability for any mode. Ill wait. Not Star trek ships. Not star wars ships. Not any popular sci fi i can think of that has a dumb ass mobility limiter. Why is that? cuz it literally makes no sense. You always need energy to slow down in space always. the only way i could think of them justifying the slow down is if they said something like the quantum drive distorts space around the ship and you cant go faster safely, or something. which is to say that in QT mode youd be slow Not in combat mode. lol.

All in all this update took alot away from combat to add a cheap Arcady gimmick. Combat pilots arent satisfied and arent having fun. Folks talking about relearn combat. Why would i relearn something thats less fun? answer, i shouldnt and i wont. This ggs for me and Star Citizen until this is cleaned up. It doesnt need to go back to 3.22, but it does need to change drastically, and in the direction of 3.22. Many combat pilots feel the same as me.

https://youtu.be/zpDtpHe2Xyc
This is a quick 5 minute video, showing my polished Ruger Mark IV Bolt, or inner slide. Whatever you want to call it. Don't get all technical in the comments. Side note, I said Velorex for the extractor and the recoil rod and spring, I meant Volquartsen.
Getting stove piped on the firing line sucks. When shooting competitions, nobody wants to have to get an alibi as it eliminates your best shots depending on how many you have. So if you get two shots off then your gun stove pipes, you have what is called a two shot alibi. You then re-fire 5 more shots to get your total of ten for the round. You have fired 12 shots in total so you then have your two best scores removed. Ugh! Yeah, you don't want to have that happen. It's better than not scoring those 3 because of the stove pipe jam, but if you can prevent it from ever happening at all that is even better.
What is happening in the Ruger Mark IV, is that gun powder builds up on the bolt or inner slide. As the gun powder builds up on the slide it starts to slow it down causing friction inside the back of the gun. This messes with the timing of the slide or bolt however you want to say it. When the timing is off you then get a jam, typically on this gun it stove pipes.
The reason it is doing this, I think is mainly because of the finish Ruger has chosen to put on the inner slide. Gun Powder just sticks to it like glue and that really sucks. So by polishing the inner slide the surface of it is now so smooth it will be hard for anything at all to stick to it. This will allow the gun to continue to work any cycle in proper timing for much longer than the factory finish was allowing for.
I will update in the comments how may shots I take before I get my first stove pipe, but I think it will take a lot now based on how smooth the finish is now.
All it takes is a Dremel tool, a little bit of Mother polish and the cloth ring, I don't know what that is called sorry, and you are off to the races. I only had to do two rounds of polishing to it and the Dremel made light work of it. It took me about 2 hours in total and I think that two hours will be worth a lot more than buying an aftermarket bolt to improve the performance when the main difference I see in them is the finish. The factory finish on the Ruger Mark IV is mid at best, and the aftermarket ones are highly polished. So if you polish your stock bolt, bang, you save a bunch of money and hopefully I get the same results.
I will let you know in about 1 week from now, 5-13-24, so check back and I will have the answer as to if this worked or not.
Thank you and please like this video and subscribe to my page.

rugermarkiv #gunmod #ballistixpro #polishing #pistolonly

Part 1 was here: https://www.reddit.com/d100/comments/1b2cgs2/d100_underwater_dungeon_obstacles_hazards/ Didn't get enough, so I'm posting again.
I couldn't find any good undersea obstacle lists, so let's go! You're exploring an underwater dungeon on the ocean floor at the bottom of the sea (or maybe it's floating in a massive whirlpool, or in the Elemental Plane of Water). What kinds of aquatic obstacles, environmental hazards, traps, or things could block your forward progress? (Preferably non-combat entries, or things that could make combat more tricky.)

1. The thick vegetation here hides several 5 to 20 foot long plant tendrils reaching up from the floor. They will grab and restrain anyone passing over, though they lack the strength to kill any fish larger than your hand. They also shriek loudly when cut.
   
2. Same as above, but this variant is strong enough to strangle people
   
3. A swift current passes through this passage at a rate of 20 feet per round
   
4. A strong current passes through this passage at a rate of 50 feet per round. Being pulled by it will cause damage as you collide with the rough sides of the passage.
   
5. This chamber has a strong whirlpool current around its perimeter, along with lots of pillars and sharp rocks to get smashed into
   
6. A narrow passage is lined with razor-sharp molluscs, they have long proboscises that suck up blood
   
7. This opening is clogged with gelatinous vegetation that secretes acid on contact
   
8. This opening is clogged with gelatinous vegetation that secretes an extremely sticky glue. The plants are barely attached to the wall and come free easily. It takes 1d4 minutes to cut one off without injuring yourself.
   
9. Bright blue runes glow on a pillar. Their light feels cold to your skin. Anything that moves past the pillar faster than 25 feet per round is encased in bouyant ice.
   
10. The turbulent water here is choked with silt, reducing visibility to 10 feet
    
11. Hundreds of blood-sucking parasitic worms lie buried under the silt. They will emerge and swarm anything that disturbs them. The wounds they inflict bleed freely and do not close without medical attention.
    
12. Did you know there is an aquatic variant of shrieker mushrooms?
    
13. Did you know there is an aquatic variant of gas spores? They still look like beholders, weirdly... Still explosive.
    
14. A volcanic vent fills a small area with harmful boiling water
    
15. A section of floor has a strange arcane sigil inscribed on it, and water and silt flow over it in a hexagonal pattern. Any object or creature moving into it is shot out at high speed in a random direction.
    
16. This passage is lined with necrotic arcane runes that glow purple. The water is stagnant, devoid of oxygen, and completely unbreathable.
    
17. This passage is lined with yellow arcane runes that dampen sound. Speech, echolocation, and verbal spellcasting are impossible.
    
18. Seismic activity suddenly knocks loose a torrent of mud and sand that threatens to sweep you away or bury you!
    
19. Seismic activity suddenly opens glowing red cracks in the floor. The water is quickly heating to boiling temperatures!
    
20. Anemone ferns emit a small electric field around them. Deals lightning damage and can stun. comedianmasta
    
21. Hermit shrooms are large, shelf-like mushrooms that grow in heavy currents (usually on ledges and cliffs). Can be climbed to fight against the heavy currents, but too much weight will make them retract into their shells. comedianmasta
    
22. A typical smasher trap, but it moves slowly in an enclosed space because of water pressure. The pressure causes severe nausea for about 20 seconds before it finally closes shut and crushes the victim. comedianmasta
    
23. A wall of magically high-pressure water that blocks passage through. Can be deactivated by changing the pressure differential in another part of the room/dungeon. comedianmasta
    
24. A dense tangle of weeds blocks a door. comedianmasta
    
25. Dense lumps of calcified coral block a door. comedianmasta
    
26. Grasping weeds that sense body heat to reach out and grab prey. Ice and magical cold keep them docile. comedianmasta
    
27. Mage hand barnacles (a misnomer, they're not telekinetic) create water currents to strongly thrust creatures away from themselves. Often cultivated in conjunction with spike traps or other hazards. comedianmasta
    
28. A spear trap that shoots a heavy harpoon. If you survive it hinders movement and you must be careful when removing it. comedianmasta
    
29. Ghost coral are bleached white growths that reach out with ghostly hands to impale prey on necrotic growths. Holy powers and radiant magic, like undead turning, shatter the growths and banish the spirits within. comedianmasta
    
30. A cloud of blood and viscera has been trapped here by currents, likely something a predator got recently. Swimming through it risks exposure to disease. comedianmasta
    
31. A tangle of net algae is easy to pass through slowly, but likely to snare anyone in a hurry. Removing it could cost you a few crucial seconds needed to escape danger. comedianmasta
    
32. A school of fish is attracted to light sources, creating a severe distraction. comedianmasta
    
33. A school of cute colorful fish that follow predators (and adventurers) so they can feed on the things they kill. They snap up their food at an alarming rate. ProfBumblefingers
    
34. A giant flounder is disturbed by the noise and bursts from the silty floor. It's not hostile, it's just big, in the way, and not sure where to go. ProfBumblefingers
    
35. A magical relic produces a constant stream of bubbles, creating air pockets on the ceiling or in chambers above. It's splitting the seawater into its elemental components. One stream is pure oxygen. The other stream is pure hydrogen. ProfBumblefingers
    
36. A school of snapping shrimp is in the area--you can't hear a thing over all that racket! ProfBumblefingers
    
37. The carcass of a large whale or other creature has fallen to the ocean bottom. It might have scavengable food, oil, or weapons from whatever killed it. It may also attract dangerous scavengers or whatever ate it in the first place. ProfBumblefingers
    
38. A fishing net is being dragged across the seabed by a fishing vessel, ocean currents, or some clever aquatic raiders. ProfBumblefingers
    
39. Methane hydrate deposits on the seafloor. If you use fire or lightning magic, you might get a much bigger bang than you bargained for! (One cubic meter of methane hydrate expands to 160 cubic meters of gas if ignited.) ProfBumblefingers
    
40. Crab migration. Hundreds of thousands of large crabs swarm across the ocean floor. Run? Fight? Hunker down? Will they bite? Will you have crab legs for dinner? ProfBumblefingers
    
41. A large stationary sand sucker has buried itself in sand except for its mouth, which has a 5’ diameter opening. it appears to be a normal sea floor or hollow until someone draws near, at which point the victim will be sucked in and sprayed with acid. oliviajoon
    
42. Hypnotic mollusks are oyster-like creatures with a shiny pearlescent shell worth its weight in gold. They hypnotize anything that comes within 10 feet and then patiently wait for it to starve to death. oliviajoon
    
43. A sunken boat has a cursed mirror inside. Anyone looking into it is given the mental compulsion: "kill all your friends." oliviajoon
    
44. A species of squid sprays a cloud of smelly ink. Touching it stains clothing and leaves a potent stench that lasts for hours and can attract predators. oliviajoon
    
45. Giant barnacles stick to cave walls. If you come too close they will spray you with sticky glue that can suffocate if it gets on your gills or face. oliviajoon
    
46. Cursed seaweed appears to be full of screaming faces. Paying attention to their cries deals psychic damage. oliviajoon
    
47. A shipwreck creaks and groans in the ocean currents. While exploring a mast collapses, crushing and spraying splintered wood everywhere. oliviajoon
    

Throughout Milo's lifetime up until age 26 He had only merely understood the term "Illuminati" briefly and often dismayed others who mentioned it, because of the common flooded approach that any Conspiracy Theorist he had ever conversed with would commonly and quite refutatiously take, in a conversation. Most often of times, He had dismayed the belief that anything having power beyond the Common Authority and Governing Powers, that were often displayed in the Media, were actually real or even consequential to consider. He lived a very normal life, mundane at times, but never truly disorientated or considered Weird or Phenomenally Obscure by any means at all. On the usual day, Milo would spend time with his small circle of friends, Jessie and Bianca and Trevor and Anthony. He worked as a delivery man for the United States Postal Service and took his life and his career as a pertinent and very common course to which he planned to persue his career into the future, where he might start a family, once he met the proper companion. His life seemed to course not too varied from what He himself considered to be Real and had never haltered from that state, aside from it being left the common Schizoid Druggy Conspiracy Theorist on the Internet to occasionally grab his attention. Always restricting such nutzos in careening dismay, Milo had never been brought by himself or others into questioning his surroundings and what details might be intailed. Until one day he realized that something had been riding him amuck in his life, Milo became an Alchoholic and was leading deeply into a depressive haze.
Jessie: "Are you doing OK?"
Milo: "I don't know man, i just seem to be in some sort of a wild funk. Life just doesn't seem like it useed to. I've got work from 10-6 every day that seems to be ok. Except that Jengens is really bothering me to fallow up on my behavior. I wish the Old Man would just leave me alone, and quit hassling me. I pretty much have been on the sauce for as long as I can count. Didn't know that it would end up almost costing me my job. I don't know what I should do."
Anthony: "Do you ever consider maybe, like, quiting drinking? It might be that your body is starting to become unbalanced. You should really consider getting checked up, Dude, it might save you your job."
Jessie: "Yeah, I mean, If I had been cutting out my hours, just so I could go home and drink more, I would quit drinking. I'm just saying Bro, that there are options. You might want to lay off the stuff for a while. If you need help I know a couple guys that go to Annonymous Meetings. Could help you before you end up wrecked and homeless Dude."
Milo: "Why are you guys riding me about what *I should do better? Starting with my drinking.. Look my drinking has nothing to do with it, ok? I could possibly be just infed with an auto immunity disease or have bad genes. Don't Judge me! Starting this week, I'll cut back, ok? I don't want to end up having to go back to Taco Bell."
Jessie: "Yeah, that's probably best. Now, you look like you need some sleep. Want to, uh, crash over here for a night?"
Anthony: "Yeah, bro, you don't look so good."
Milo: "Yeah, I, uh.. Can I, like, crash over here? And I told you guys to stop hounding me! I'm a big boy, I can Handle my Drink. uh..."
Jessie: "Look, Mi...." He said setting Milo with both hands. "Look at me, ok.. You.. Go... into the Den and sprall out on the Lay Z. We'll see you well in the morning."
Milo: "yeah, uhm.. yes."
And with those words Milo stumbled his way into Jessie's Den to settle on the Futon, not aware of the kind of future he was about to embark on. One thing's for sure it was going to be very strenuous and trying, and as he slumped he had forgotten about his obligation to be at work at 9 AM the fallowing morning.
In his dreams he could see his future self in the back alley of a supermarket. Stumbling to find a way to carry his Army Backpack and slipping on the abandoned newspapers and randomly array of assorted market sacks that lay scattered along the backalley's grizzly surface. He couldn't recalculate or acquire how long it had been since he had a dollar in his pocket, now wallowing in his stupor intoxicated on Carbirator Fluid he shoplifted from the Supermarket Gas Station and Truck Attendent docile under roof(?) He couldn't even put words together properly, and mumbled to himself verociously with decadence. He felt like Hell, and quickly wished for an escape from this horror he now lived in. It was at this very dark pit of dispare that he finally awoke to his neighbors empty house;
As Milo tried to make sense of it, Jessie and Anthony had vacated the premises, and he was now awakening from a horrendous 3 hours of tossing and turning in his feverishly adamant inhebriated moment. "I wonder where they wen?" Milo seemed to ask the apparent "NOBODY" that was now occupying the house with himself. Slightly uncomfortably cold he seemed to find no peace, and no way to stop the annoying draft that had been wofting throughout the house, He started searching for a drink. Unwanting to disturb further into A&J's belongings, Milo found himself unable to sleep, rocking back and fourth on the Wily Leather Futon, contemplating how he needed to be to work in the morning, and "Should probably consider getting some sleep!"; he settled unfurled and unrestingly. Permitted that he at least could walk home, he didn't want to make the adventure and leap accrossed the neighborhood, downhill, in the Winter, with only a delivery jacket and at this time of night. He could not find comfort on the mattress, and He "Had to be at work in the morning!"; yet the adventure seemed even worse of an option. "In the morning..." he spoke to himself without merit, "God! I wish I knew where those guys went. This house is Dead Silent. It's as if they had some sort of engagement they didn't care tell me about." He continued to no one who accompanied him. "I wish they could have filled me in with what was so *Fun." He was unable to find rest the entirety of the night, when finally after much abated debate, He took the Very Early Morning's Twilight to jaunt accrossed the neighborhood heading to his home, arguing with himself outloud the entire way home. "What a bunch of Bull Shit!" He continued to enthrall upon beings that didn't exist, "A very *Good Night Indeed." He emphatically remarked in a sarcastic tone, continuing to speak to beings that were invisible and imaginary, "A fun day work is going to be today! Am I right?"
After an errogated amount of effort, Milo strenuously approached his Apartment, Exhausted by the night's dissapointed theme. This no doubt would continue becuase, As it would be, Milo forgot his keys back at A&J's House. "Oh! DUMB SHIT!" and without really putting any thought into it, after many tries througout the morning, He attempted to break into his apartment building to at least spend the rest of the morning in the warm confines of the apartment stairwell. After several different advances he was finally let in by a neighbor who was leaving early that morning. Fortunately the stairwell was very warm and he could rest his weary legs and tired feet for at least a few hours. He would then contemplate on how he could possibly use another neighbor's help to call Anthony and then have Jessie come drop off his keys by 9am or else he would sertainly be fired. "Oh! What a Bullshit ass night!" unable to finally feel a slight bit of rest from his weary travel and unnerving inability to sleep. "I sure hope somebody comes home, I might have to start walking when the Sun comes out; which will be what time? 7 or 8? + I got to piss!" The question about when the Sun comes up seemed to be answered by his own desperation. Alone in the stairwell Milo started to abandon all beliefs he had in a "GOD". He seemed to be all Alone.
After his long ended shift into overtime, Milo's work hours went by rough without a quick highball to keep him engaged in his daily obligations and He, Milo, started to question whether or not he was even worth the paper pocket filled hours he put into the job. When he got home he unscrewed the Vodka Half Gal and kicked off his shoe and began to drink. Trying to forget how hard the day truly was. "Why does life have to be so damned dumb and hard?" Unmet with a retort from his imaginary friends in his apartment. He remembered calling Anthony;
"Hey, why didn't you pick up? I'm late to work, and I need my keys. Can you bring me my keys please? I'm fucking Late for work!" He remembered the call.
After a moment or two of becoming a stupor in his drinking, he Taylor Swiftly called up Anthony on the Telephone; "Yes?" Jessie then answered, "Oh hey, Yo this is Milos.. Hey, what's up?" Milo was pretty guzzled into the Half Gal, "Oh, Yeah, Hey Milo. How was your night?" "It fucking sucked! I ended up late for work! I had to walk all the way home! Where were you guys last night anyways? I checked the house, and There was, like, Nobodiez aroundz."
After a brief discussion between Milo and Jessie it had become aparent to Milo that whatever Anthony and Jessie had been doing, it wasn't any of his business. After several tries with manuevers to get Jessie to tell him where and what they had been doing, Jessie abruptly called an ending to the conversation and hung up the call, leaving Milo only in the stuporous feeble minded bewhilderment to his entitlement and left him feeling in the dark and all alone again.
And then several weeks passed and Christmas started coming within the week to pass. Milo spending most of his time avoiding his Boss and trying to stay stable enough to cope with business. He favored himself a hard working man, and acclaimed that he deserved a good holiday bonus this year, even though the situation seemed to deem anaccordingly. Neglegent to the fact that he was on thin ice and had 3 times this month gotten caught with alchohol on his breath, didn't seem to register with Milo even in it's most apparent and obvious light.
When soon, leading toward the coming Holiday, Milo spent a "Good One" tying it off with Anthony over at his neighbors pad. Jessie and Anthony seemed a little concerned for Milo's welbeing and showed their concern through a number of key and well thought out placed approaching phrases that Milo seemed not apparently afluent to be aware of.
"What if I told you to forget about your worries for the rest of the night, you and me could go to a meeting with Anthony and I and We could show you how to relax and forget about how bad Jengens is Slave-Driving you for a while." Jessie said
Anthony: "Yeah, I mean, we could take you to our congressional fellowship for the Solstice. Would be a real treat, It's particularly special becuase this is the only Blue Moon Solstice in 2,700 years! We are going to be meeting somewhere special, you should come."
Milo: "I don't know. I mean, It's Christmas and I was supposed to be out in Kansas with my Folkes for the Holidays. I think I really get down on myself becuase I fucked up so many times..."
Jessie: " Look, it would mean a whole lot to us if you just came out with us tonight. There's no harm if you don't want to go."
Milo: "Will there be booze?"
Anthony: "You bet. And it would really be good for you to let yourself go from a shitty work-week. I mean, this sort of night only comes once a millenia! I mean, you said you have the next couple days off right?"
Milo: "Well, Yeah. Ok. You guys *bought me in." He said smilingly somewhat a little beshevelled and perplexed. "Where do you guys even *Meet anyways?"
Jessie: "Don't worry about all the details. We usually don't go to these sorts of meetings but because this is such a Big Solstice, and we thought about how you weren't going to be spending, er... would probably be spending the Holiday alone drinking, We'd invite you to come along for the Night. It'll do you good."
After a couple drinks and some pretty self explanatory conversations the three of them took to the night's highways and freeways traveling North to the Daybreak Groves of Northern Salt Lake City. And after a nervous bit of encounters of meeting festive gowers at this particular area connected to a Hall in the eaves of the Western side of the Grove, Milo, Anthony and Jessie attended a meeting of which Milo had not seen the likes of before. Everybody was drunk, and getting avasted in their high on different kinds of endeavorous mentions throughout the party. About a hundred people might of been there, all seeming to weave in and out of each other's fancy and congregation as the party went on. Milo didn't know anybody but the two and tried to keep to his feet as party seemed to get wilder and more crowded. Stumbling at each others feet, Jessie suggested that Milo take one of his "wake me ups" (A Homemade Cocaine Pill Jessie seemed to pull right out of his ass at this moment) and Zing! Milo was awake and aware as he had been before they all started drinking. Trudged through the night the party seemed to get crazier, as other partiers seemed to partake in an assortment of other drugs too. Milo seemed to notice, but didn't seem to care. Starting to get a little scared by these Oh-So-Party-Ers, Milo started to wonder where this all was going. Not entirely sure of the aura, but somehow aware of the scent of the premise. When the party's attention was spikingly grabbed by the sudden bang of a grand Gong that had been prepared for the event. The Party quieted down and focused attentive gaze toward the Honorable Sermon whom Milo seemed to reckognize. He eventually gathered that the meeting taking place was that of a grand spectre and was a very rare occasion. The gathering seemed to be normal until the Party started chanting in unison, and Milo gathered that this was a commonality to the direction this sort of meeting or gathering or "I don't know what the hell is going on.." Milo seemed to murmer to himself unabashedly. Everyone, Even J&A seemed to be in congruence with the chants and ready for the approaching moment in the party of such a Night. Everyone but Milo, seemingly, was ready for what was coming out behind the side doors, several men in robes, continuing to chant. Milo was perplexed and entirely sober now.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________- And Milo was very afraid. The chanting grew very deep and Milo tried to forget what he had witnessed. Something about that adulterated screaming that seemed to shock him out of reality and into the very brink of losing his mind and start storming toward the doors, and yet he waited. Suddenly everybody was making hand to hand gestures and seemed to be eating the remains of whomever had been slayed there. When he was afixed gathering his gaze among the Party, Jessie tapped on his shoulder and said, "Here, Eat this." and handed him a handful of ________________ Afraid but ever trying to either impress or otherwise be part of the crowd Milo then ate, chewing exhausterably. Waiting unabridged moments between what just had transcribed to be a horrific turn of events into a very exhilerated and seemingly instinctual moment of somehow preconceived but not really understood modes of continuation Milo couldn't help but go through the exhilerated jammer of the continuing excitement that had been going all around him. Really feeling the _____ go through his system and how it began to invigorate within him upheaving a total amount of comfort. It seemed that all that had just transpired, whatever means was not meaningless but necessasary and he felt as if the whole universe was beginning to make clearer sense to himself. He couldn't help but yell out with ecstacy "Oh God! How I Feel!" when suddenly everybody in the Hall stopped what they were doing and began to stare at him. Stopping the feverishly fiend-like moans and displayed offerings and eatings that were commencing, and just looked blankly at him. The tone then became a very hallow one, as Milo felt the sudden Joy turn into Extreme Fear. "Wha--What? What are you all staring at!? What's the matter?!" and a sudden but not unheard of form of abrupt and distinct laughter came from behind the crowd. A laughter not unknown by Milo, in fact almost Long awaited and most assuredly completely related, in some unconventional sense, to him. And the crowd started to disparce;
"So. Milo. You have commited Cannabilism. A Crime absolutely unforgivable and absolutely unwelcomed amidst my presence." Satan then sat on a warped arcanic throne Milo had not noticed being in the Hall among the crowded Great Hall. "And what do you have to say for yourself?"
Milo: "I...Uhh.."
The Devil: "Begon from my presence!"
and MIlo had suddenly no ability to hold himself up from his legs. He just abruptly fell. And when he hit the ground, he seemed to transperse through it entirely. Falling and screaming for his life out of dead lungs unable to gasp for air. As he descended into the Earth he fell from a very high heighth and plunged deep into an abyssal darkness. His mind couldn't stop from screaming. All the while falling from such an un grasping fate. Before he saw light creep in. Milo couldn't do anything but scream in fear, slowly beginning to regain slight breathed slim gasps of hope as the light crept in. From Like the distance of a grand stadium a spec of light preceeded to come as a star toward him, and still screaming he fell throughout the black void. As the Light began to gain focus, his screams never ceased, seeing beings of amoeled amoeba like amorphous glowing eyes, unfocusable and beyond sight, stare at him in his falling. The light then grew fonder, but not his residing fear and only minutely lived torment seemingly outstretched in his now overlapping reoccurring memory of why he was there and he felt so full of shame. The stage then became clear as it was indeed a stage, and suddenly without realizing that his descent was over he was now senter of that stage, fixed in the spotlight, alone and seperated from the darkness. Without realizing, too, that he had now stopped screaming, He was gut pain starvingly famished with guilt deep down in his gut and heart. And someone he knew walked into the spotlight with him. It was his Mother, and she looked into his eyes with the most horrific tormented pained look. "Why did you hurt me, Son?" Without bringing himself to reach any justifying answer he began fearfully screaming, "NO! NO! NO!!!" and then out stepped his Mother and In stepped his Brother, with that same famished glare of dissappointment and pain. His brother then said nothing, just gave a look that broke all Milo's concentration. Then in came his ________________________ Met with the most horrific sound and bellow, and suddenly the darkness that seemed to be black, aside from the amorphous Red eyes, Wasn't darkness because it was absent light, It was darkness because it was a collected army of disembodied hands. All assorted and grasping at Milo. AS HE FEVERISHLY CONTINUED TO SCREAM "NO! GOD PLEASE SAVE ME!" THE ENTIRE SCENE DISSAPPEARED AS HE BLINKED HIS EYE.-
"What the Hell?-" Milo was perplexed
Satan: "Hell is right, Milo. And Hell, Isn't Pretty is it, Milo?"
Milo felt the sudden swoop of euphoria and relief as the world around him suddenly formed back into the Hall. Milo was overwhelmed in the sudden illusionary feeling of forgiveness that formed: "Oh GOD! Oh GOD! oh my God!"
Satan: "So now that you've seen what you are intended for, and now are most certainly aware of the facts that you are destined to head towards and the unquestionable fact that I have the power to save you from her, you have a very important decision to make. I can offer you a place in my kingdom where you would be a more rich, and much more happy and prospiring man with all the dignity and power and confidence to live guilt free without worry. Or I can send you back to live in Her."
Milo: "Please, Please, Oh God, Tell ME WHAT I WOULD NEED TO DO!"
Satan: "All you have to do is bow to me, and fear me, let me love you and I will show you wonders that the most daring would not dare to sacrafice."
Milo Bows, Vowing to Satan that he will forever be in debted and will do exactly as He wishes.
Satan: "You must consider me in your always and everything. If you whisper an utterance of who I am in ill temperment I will banish you to ill gotten woes and dark repute. You can not tell anyone about me, or my connection to you, this is a sactimonious relationship, remember you are in debted to me and me alone. You will refer to me as your Master, and when I call upon you you must subdue and do as I command you to do exactly how I command you to do it and when I command you to do it you will do it promptly without any further questioning or snicker or abolishing whims whatsoever."
Milo: "Yes, Master."
Satan: "Well," Satan Claps," Further you will disengage with this "Yes Master" stuff, you will almost look apon me as an equal, but whatever I say Goes, When I say it. And even Further you will love yourself, and treat yourself with respect and dignity. You are given a second life, and will live it as if you never had lost your first one. You will be overjoyously gathered in your splendor to see the world anew, and will gain a great amount of feats and features you have yet to imagine. Is that clear?"
Milo: "Yes, Mas-- Yes, My Love.""
Satan: "That's good. now begon from my sight."
Epilogue: And our Dearest Milo did live on in a more splendorous World he had not yet dreamed of. Filled with never ending adventure and non aquitting appreciation. Booze, Drugs, Friends, Lovers, Family even ordinary Jobs like his Postal Delivery Job was forever at his whims and wishes and grattitude. Fear subsided in him. He had never again known fear like the experience of Hell and her womb. An occasional mishap or failure was no hangnail considering the alternative and otherwise Dark Dismaying Hell that hath and still awaits for our dearest Milo. Unable to let go of the memory, our dearest Milo never had a Nightmare again. For now he would be able to further into whatever he may endeavor into, and one day find a companion and hopefully start a family.
END

It's been hard to find time to write this past week, but I'm chugging along, however sluggish. I also want to give a huge thanks to u/icallshogun for telling me how to use new-old reddit, because it's already saved me a bunch of time posting this single chapter.
I have a bad habit of last minute editing before I post chapters. I'll usually go over once or twice and switch up a few things. I didn't this time. Why am I telling you this? No idea. Enjoy.
A little PSA: if the next chapter button is missing, it's most likely in the comments (either that, or the next chapter isn't out yet), because sometimes reddit likes to say posts are more than 40k even when they aren't, making them impossible to edit. I just had this problem adding the link to chapter 12.
Many thanks to u/SpacePaladin for making NoP!
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Chapter 13: A million miles away
- Memory Transcription Subject: Arlene Brandy, Human Refugee
Date [Standardized Human Time]: October 20th, 2136
The refugee center crested the horizon, with UN banners draped from the second story, and signs marking some of the nearby buildings as temporary housing. I wondered how exactly they convinced people to hand over entire buildings for use. One of them wasn’t even an apartment building, it was offices.
There were more humans around, of course, with the venlil population extremely sparse, only a few brave enough to be anywhere near the ‘den’. I grabbed the door, and opened it, revealing the main lobby, which to my utter surprise, had a venlil at the desk along with a human.
It feels so weird to point out when people are human or not, but that’s just how it is now. I ambled towards the pair, keeping my movements slow and calculated, not to scare the guy. He noticed, and let out a chuckle.
“No need to worry about me ma’am. I’m quite used to humans by now.”
I relaxed, blushing a little. “That makes sense.”
“What do you need?” The venlil asked.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to get one of those datapads. I have family at home I need to get in touch with.”
“And you are?”
“Arlene Brandy.”
“Uh huh.” He clicked at the computer for a moment. “Well, you’re a little late to the party. We just got five hundred or so new residents, so we’re out of new pads, but I’m sure you can find someone willing to let you borrow theirs.”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. You’re staying at Golden Ridge apartment 113, correct?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ll have one sent to your door when we get a new shipment.”
“Thank you.” I turned to leave.
“Wait, we wont get more for a few paws yet. Why don’t you try asking to use someone else’s?”
I turned back around to the desk. “Can I use yours?”
"Sorry, mine doesn’t connect to the Earth networks.”
“Shit.”
“Please try not to swear so much, there are children around.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The guy at the desk was so comfortable around me that it started making me uncomfortable. While the human at the desk didn’t even register me. I bet he was playing solitaire.
I entered the common room. People ambled, walked, teetered, and even ran around, from door to door and table to table. Seating was plentiful, but there weren’t any free spots, because the place was so packed. There really were a lot of them. Refugees, I mean. This was only a tiny fraction too.
How many more? Is there an end to it?
I searched for someone to approach, but found nothing. Everyone was grieving. I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to know it was there. My stomach turned in a horrible spiral, and I soon found myself bent over a toilet, ejecting breakfast. I was drooling over the bowl like a rabid dog, eyes watering and legs quaking. My diaphragm expelled one last gust of air, in a horrible coughing fit that lasted uncomfortably long.
I don’t know how I found the bathroom without help, it wasn’t marked very well. I’ve always been good at that sort of thing I guess, whatever ‘that sort of thing’ is.
On my way out, I washed my hands twice, not that it made a difference. The common room was still full of chatter and sobbing, quiet and boisterous both in their own right.
A man in a dress shirt sat alone at a table with his head in his hands. A mother cradled a baby in her arms, rocking him to sleep. In the corner of the room sat a group of people sitting on the ground playing monopoly. A boy ate a droopy sandwich next to a parent, munching listlessly. They all looked so tired. So tired that it could suck the breath right back out of you.
At one of the tables was a man with burns on his arms, and another bandaging him up. He winced when the bandages touched the splotches where blisters used to be, dry and scabbed. There was a good chance the burns were inflicted on purpose, by them. Monsters.
He locked eyes with me, his empty like all the rest. My head jerked away, embarrassment on my face like dye, the mask doing little to hide my frenzied posture. I power walked to another part of the room, behind a group of people conversing. I took off my coat so I wouldn’t overheat in the stuffy room… and also to blend into the crowd.
Staring at burn victims? What is wrong with you?
I looked down at myself. My boots were brown, my pants were black, and my shirt was as well, with a picture of an album cover on the front. My hands were twitchy, and my arm was still bandaged. I could’ve, should’ve lost the dressings by then, but I hadn’t got around to it. I put my coat back on
Since I wasn’t getting anywhere, I decided to take a trip down the hallways, into the dorms, where it was less crowded.
Down the halls, past a few turns, was an open door, with warm light spilling out, and cheerful discussion taking place inside. Taking a peek, I saw a group of 3 people, one of whom was a venlil, playing cards. The funny thing, is it was one of those grungy decks with pictures of naked ladies on them. Well, I don’t know if it was funny, but it stuck with me.
“Hello?” Spoke the venlil.
The other heads turned in my direction. I was discovered. A pang of cold crawled through my spine.
“O-oh, hi.” I tried and failed to act like I hadn’t been watching them for several seconds.
“Hey there, are you one of the new arrivals?” Asked the girl sitting next to the venlil.
“Uh, no, I’ve just been living in a different spot.”
“No wonder you look like shit.” Spoke a middle aged guy with scars. There was an ankle monitor on his leg, though I certainly wasn’t going to question him about it.
“Ben! Don’t be rude.” The girl replied.
“I’m not being rude. We all look like shit. Some of us are shit right now.” Ben mumbled.
“Well you don’t have to be so nihilistic about it.” She turned back to me. “Wanna join us? We could use a fourth.”
“No thanks. I’m trying to get in touch with my family.”
"Well if they’re here, I can find them. I know everyone here.” Said the girl, with a big grin.
"They’re on Earth. I just need to use someone’s datapad. The guy at the desk said we were out of new ones.”
“Did you break yours?”
A nervous laugh escaped me. It felt so weird to have a normal conversation. The last time I talked to a human was only a few days ago, but it felt much longer. Years maybe… or not. My shoulders felt tight, probably from the extra weight. I swallowed a lump that had been growing in my throat since leaving Earth, and my stomach got heavier as a result.
What did she lose?
I cleared my throat. “N-no, I never got one in the first place.”
“Well, no worries. You can use mine if you want. I’m Taylor by the way.” She smiled.
I didn’t smile back. The mask would’ve hidden it anyway. “Thanks. I’m Arlene.”
She handed me the weird alien phone, which I soon realized I didn’t know how to use.
The venlil piped up. “Want me to do it for you?” He stood up.
“Yes please.” I handed him the datapad.
He started tapping away at the device. “These things are super outdated. The interface is really clunky, especially the UN comms.”
I loomed over his shoulder, watching him type in a bunch of stuff into text boxes. “You have to login to make calls?”
“No, this is just the path the call will be taking. Where are you calling?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Where is that?”
“North America.”
*“*Okay, there we go.” He handed the datapad back to me. “Just type in the phone number and you’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” I started punching in the number.
“No problem. I’ve had to do it for Taylor a million times by now.” He chuckled.
“Hey, I know how to do it now!” She replied.
“Then why didn’t you show her how?”
Taylor snorted. “Because then you wouldn’t be useful anymore, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Whatever you say.” He flicked his tail.
“Hey, enough with the snarky tail language.” She crossed her arms.
“What did he say?” Ben asked.
“He said I was a goober.”
I looked up from the datapad. “You have a tail sign for ‘goober’?”
“Of course we do, why wouldn’t we?” He shrugged.
Ben raised his eyebrows, and Taylor laughed. I was still wearing the mask.
"Hey, do you mind if I uh… you know.” I pointed to my face.
“Oh please, you couldn’t possibly be uglier than Taylor.”
“You better be careful Talnek. You’d get a beating if you insulted a lady where I come from.” Ben stated.
Taylor punched Ben in the shoulder. “He’s just messing!”
I removed the mask, and set it down on a table. “Is it alright if I make the call outside?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t manage to brick the thing.” Talnek said, sitting back down at his cards with a snicker.
Taylor shot him a dirty look.
“Thanks again Taylor.”
She grinned like a little kid. “No prob bob!”
I stepped into the hallway, holding the datapad up to my face, and pressed the call button.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang…
Until the display lit up with the face of my dad. My lips curled up in a smile.
“Hey dad.”
“Ope!” He flinched, then grinned. “Hey there sweetie. Havin’ fun up in space?”
“Nevermind that! Are you guys okay? Did Luke make it back alright?”
“Oh we’re doing fine yet. Luke got discharged because of injuries. He got pretty banged up in a crash, but he’s alright.”
“Is mom around?”
"Sorry kiddo, she’s out of town getting gas for the generators.”
My eyes widened. “Generators? Is the power out? Have you been able to get dialysis?”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t worry yourself. We’ve got diesel running the place.”
My hands left marks of sweat on the device. “You are getting your blood cleaned, right?”
“Yes, I am. Even if I wasn’t, your pa’s still got some fight left in ‘em.” He patted his bicep.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Jesus dad, you had me worried for a second there.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be. Try to have fun up there. No use worrying about somewhere you’re not.”
A sigh escaped me. “I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl! How are the aliens treating ya?”
I frowned. “Well, if I’m being honest, most of them are assholes.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’ve met a few that don’t mind me, but I can count them on one hand.”
“Well that’s better than nothing, ain’t it?” He raised an eyebrow in a joking manner.
I smiled a little. “I guess so.”
“So, tell me about these nice aliens then.”
“Sure- Hold on, is Luke there?”
“He’s sleeping right now. Doctor’s got him on the good stuff.”
“Is it that bad?”
He shouldn’t have enlisted. Asshole. He’s such an idiot. He could have died! “I wanna meet aliens” my ass.
*“*The doc says he’ll be up and at em in a few days, but the pain is still kicking him.”
*“*Is he alright? Like, is he shellshocked?”
Dad frowned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” He looked past the camera. “He’s pretty bitter about the whole thing.”
My blood ran cold. I knew what it sounded like when he was downplaying something. “Dad. Is he gonna be okay?”
His expression softened. “Luke’s a strong boy. He’ll be okay.”
“He better. I’ll kill him if he’s not. You be sure to tell him that.”
Dad laughed. “Sure, sure. Back to the aliens, if you will.”
“My bad.” Warmth filled my face. “So there’s this guy who lives in my apartment building, right? I come back home after a day of trying, and failing, to get my hands on any materials, craft materials are super expensive here for some reason, by the way, and he’s coming home at the same time, so I say hi to him, and he jumps me!”
Maybe things would get better.
“Their claws are sharp! He scratched me up pretty bad, look.” I raised my arm to the camera, and my dad gasped in response.
"Whoa, that’s a lot of bandages.”
“Yeah, right? I may have put too much actually. Anyway, he charges me, and so I put him in a headlock, and I yell at him to calm down. It might have been a misplay on my part, I have to admit. What, with the venlil thinking we want to eat them and all that jazz.”
Dad nodded, eyes full of stars. This was nice.
“Well, he starts crying, and now I felt like an ass, so I try to calm him down, but he’s not having any of it. So I hand him a doll I made, but that didn’t do much either, so I ended up just having to leave him there. Would you believe it if I told you he came knocking on my door the next day? He wanted to learn felting!”
He burst into laughter, having to wiping a tear from his eye. “I have to say, you have the strangest way of making friends.”
Maybe I was worrying over nothing.
“Oh, I forgot to mention, so, I was trying to get wool, right? But there’s obviously no sheep here on venlil prime.”
“Oh, don’t tell me.”
“So I went around offering free haircuts.”
Dad started wheezing like he had sand in his lungs. He struggled to point a finger at me. “S-so…” He burst into another fit of laughter. “You went around with shears, offering haircuts to the fluffy aliens who think you want to eat them?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right. I give damn good cuts too.” I grinned, face full of mischief.
“So this friend of yours took you up on the offer? What’s his name?”
“Meba. And yes, I sheared him.”
“Okay, Meeh Baah? Are you pulling my leg?”
“Nope, that’s his real name. It means ‘little person’ in venlil, apparently.”
“You’re kidding! That is priceless! What happened then?”
“I sheared him, and then we went inside, and I taught him how to felt, and he got all flabbergasted when he saw me eat vegetables. He did this,” I held up a pointer finger, closing my eyes. “and then he said ‘You can’t eat vegetables, you’re a predator.’”
“Uh huh.”
“So after that, to skip to the good part, he has me follow him to work to *‘*protect him from humans’, and on the way back, just as we’re getting back to the apartments, he collapses in the hallway, hyperventilating and shaking.”
Maybe I could finally calm down.
“Oh no, was he okay?”
“Yeah, I brought him inside and calmed him down, but then the exterminators barged in! He stuffed me into a closet to hide me.”
Dad’s face swelled with disgust. “Ah yes, I’ve heard of them.”
“Well, they mess up the whole apartment, and they only leave because Meba is friends with their boss.”
“He’s buddy buddy with those folks?”
“Well, I don’t really know, but he used his connections to protect me, so I don’t mind. I was scared shitless the whole time. I barely kept myself still.”
“But you’re okay, right? They didn’t hurt you?”
"No, I was fine. I kind of blew up at him though. We made up though, and now he’s even comfortable around me with the mask off!”
“Mask?”
“The UN makes everyone wear masks in public so we don’t scare people.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“Yeah… it’s kinda scary sometimes.”
Home was still there.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure the rest of em will fall for your charm soon enough.”
“Yeah. After all, who could hate such an enchanting young lady?” I made a not so dignified face.
Dad shot a silly look right back, making us both laugh at our shared stupidity.
“So, since everything’s intact, when should I come home? I should be able to pretty soon.”
He smiled. “Hey, don’t worry about that. You should stay up there until the power comes back in… oh I don’t know, it should be on in a week or two. No reason to come back when the town is still out of whack.”
“What? But I can help out. Isn’t there work to be done?”
His eyes were warm. “Arlene, just have fun. We’ll be fine. Come home when it’s more comfortable.”
What?
“But I miss you guys.”
“I know, I miss you too.” He glanced off to the side for a moment. “But just wait a little longer. I want to roll the red carpet out for you. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Fine, but I expect a royal welcome.”
“Of course.” He grinned. “I better let you go, I have to make dinner.”
“Oh.. okay. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me about what’s going on in town.”
“Nothing crazy, just the usual but with flashlights instead of street lamps. Say hi to Meba for me.”
“Okay. Bye dad.”
“Bye kiddo. Try not to worry yourself so much.”
“I’ll try. I love you,”
“I love you too.”
He hung up the call, and home was gone again.
I popped back into the room to give Taylor her datapad back.
“How’d it go?” She asked.
“Good. I think.” I grabbed my mask, and handed her the device.
She smiled. “I’m glad. Want to stay for a bit? Today is pizza day.”
“I’m good. I should probably head out. Thanks though.”
“Wait a second, here.” Taylor handed me a card.
I turned it over in my fingers. It was off white with gold lettering. A business card. Very… eccentric.
“What’s this?”
“My info, so you can get in touch with me when you get a datapad. I’m kinda the self appointed caretaker of this place. If you need anything, anything at all, I’m your gal.”
I took another look at the card. “Thanks. It means a lot.”
“You’re welcome! See you later.”
“See you.”
---
I sat on the bench by the office, legs crossed, working on a mini venlil, my third one actually. Yes, I was building an army. An army of little venlil that I would use for… something. Each one measured no more than four inches tall, with floppy yarn tails, and bits of blue yarn affixed for eyes.
They say the one who folds a thousand paper cranes will be granted a wish. What do you get for one thousand woolen venlil?
“Arlene?” Meba was walking towards me. His eyes were unfocused, and his tail was motionless, like a doll’s. He dragged his feet on the ground, and his bag weighed on him like a heap of iron. To put it bluntly, he looked like shit.
“Oh hey there. Done with work?”
“Yeah. What are you making?” His voice was monotone.
“More mini venlil.”
He leaned over. “It looks like me.”
“It is made out of your wool. It would be worrying if it didn’t resemble you.”
“I guess. Does this one have a name too?”
“Not yet. Do you have any ideas?”
He thought for a moment, ears swiveling like satellite dishes. “Mulek.”
“Mulek it is. Is that a common name?”
“It was my father’s name.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Oh, speaking of which, my dad says ‘hi’.”
“He’s the… rancher, right?”
“Yeah.” I got up off the bench. “He’s not as scary as he sounds. If you met him, you’d realize his head is just full of muscles and fart jokes. Ready to go?”
He flicked an ear, and we started walking. The sheer complexity of venlil body language never failed to impress me. Not the ear flicks, those were easy, but the tail signals were insane.
“Hey, Meba?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your job?”
“I’m a computer scientist. Why do you ask?”
“You look really tired. Six hours, sorry, I mean a claw and a half. It’s a long shift for venlil right?”
“Yes, but my job isn’t very physically demanding.”
“It isn’t taking a toll on you?”
“No.” He lied. I mean fuck, did he think I was stupid? I wasn’t, I think. If it wasn’t his job, it was something else.
“Really?”
“Yes, I just didn’t sleep well.” His eyes were drooping in real time.
Fine, be like that. If you won’t open up, I’ll just help another way.
“Do you want me to carry you?”
Meba stopped in his tracks. “C-carry me?”
“You aren’t very heavy. I could give you a piggyback ride the rest of the way.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“C’mon, I could use the exercise.” I crouched down, beckoning him over with my hands.
"Arlene, I can walk on my own.” He sounded offended.
"At least let me carry your bag.”
Meba sighed. “Fine.”
I stood up and grabbed his bag. “And away we go!”
We arrived at the station, just in time to catch the tube. Meba yanked his bag out of my arms to swipe his card through the terminal. This particular transport was packed to the brim with people, more than a few of them human. Meba visibly stiffened. He sat down, I remained standing.
“You okay?”
“Y-yeah. It’s just a-a lot.” He most definitely wasn’t, he was trembling like a leaf.
I stood between him and the crowd. “Better?”
“A l-little… thanks.”
“Hey, why don’t you work on the scarf, take your mind of things?”
“S-sure.” He grabbed the yarn ball from his bag, along with the crochet hook. Slowly, he removed the clip that was stopping it from unraveling, and stuck the hook through, starting right where he left off. He was definitely getting faster.
The tube rattled.
Outside, the city still breathed.
Kids coming home form school, people like us, coming home from work.
Same old same old.
In my mind, I pictured a fleet, swooping through star systems, making daring maneuvers, shooting down other vessels. So many lights. I imagined the metal stretching, and the hull creaking as it moved. I imagined the little people inside, scurrying around like ants, each wholly insignificant, but still, moving that massive shape.
I turned around to check on Meba.
He was still shaking, like a wet dog in the snow.
God, I miss Milo. Too bad they don’t let dogs on venlil prime.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you gonna be alright?”
He looked up at me, with his funny little eyes. They were full of anger.
“Yes. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He let out a breath, clenching his jaw. “It’s so s-stupid it makes me sick.”
“Sorry?”
“There’s no t-threat. I shouldn’t be scared.”
I gave him a gentle shake. “Hey, it’s no big deal. You’re doing well.”
“I’m doing h-horrible. I hate these stupid instincts.” He growled. “H-how is this supposed to be an evolutionary advantage? I can b-barely think straight.”
“Take a deep breath.”
“B-brahk this.” He muttered. “You k-know, we’re famous for being w-weak. The b-best in the whole brahking f-federation.”
I frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“We c-can’t run, and w-we can’t fight.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“I can’t even c-control myself. I h-hate it.” He let the scarf slide back into his bag.
“Meba, you’re the bravest venlil I’ve met.”
“What d-does that say about us? That I’m one of t-the ‘brave ones’? It’s brahking p-pathetic.”
“Don’t say that about yourself.”
“Brahk! What else am I supposed to say?” He hissed, head finding its way into his paws. “It’s horrible. Horrible, horrible, h-horrible.”
I sat down next to him, and put my arm around his shoulder.
“This is s-so stupid.” He muttered.
“Tell me what happened?”
“No.”
A sigh escaped me. This was exhausting. “Okay.” I pulled him close.
He removed his paws from his face to look at me. “How am I gonna t-talk to Gram’s friend like this? I can’t even h-handle being around a few random humans. How am I going to deal with him e-eating in front of me?”
“You saw me eating, didn’t you?”
“That’s… d-different.”
“We don’t have to go if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“N-no. I need to d-do this. I can’t keep b-being scared all the t-time.” He clutched at his fur.
I bent over to grab the work-in-progress scarf from his bag, and offered him the half finished garment.
Meba received the scarf, with eyes full of ash. “Thanks…” He continued weaving.
But before he could get into a groove, the brakes forced us to brace ourselves. We were home.
The ground still rumbled as we left the station, even with the rubbery pavement dampening the vibrations. The scent of rain was in the air, carrying with it a special tint from the alien soil. Wind was billowing now, whipping my hair and pushing against my thick greatcoat. Meba was somehow unbothered by this, thanks to his wool I assume. There weren’t clouds overhead, but that would change. My hands hid in their pockets.
‘Twas too cold madam!’ Said lefty.
‘Not for I! It’s simply more comfortable in here.’ Said righty.
We passed the yard, heading up to the second floor, and my apartment. I shivered.
*“*I think it’s gonna rain soon.”
*“*Huh? Why do you say that?”
*“*It smells like rain.”
He tilted his head, ears flopping along with it. “I thought human noses weren’t very strong?”
*“*Well, not for most things, but we can smell when it rains from quite a ways away.” I opened the door, and stepped inside, yanking my feet out of their shells. “Come on in.”
Meba followed with no hesitation, even when I deposited the mask on the coffee table. He plopped down on the couch, deflating for a few seconds before digging around in his bag for the scarf. I grabbed some snacks from the kitchen, and brought them to the couch. I plopped down beside him, and flipped the TV to a random channel. Hopefully lazing about would help both of us.
After a few minutes of zoning out to The Exterminators of all things, I managed to doze off somehow. Sights and sounds melded into goop, as my brain ceased exact function. Facts became obscured, no concrete understanding remaining. Static resonating with time stretching like putty, everything subjective, only in the moment.
A tower, in the desert, numbly stalking around crumbling balconies, arms like swarms, legs like chicken wire. No need to blink. Down below is something terrible, but it doesn’t matter. It is safe here. But snow falls, the sky tearing like an old t-shirt, is it? The weave becoming tighter, it stretches along the north, through to the south, a taut little line of cotton. Now I’m tearing too. The tower isn’t crumbling, but folding. ‘Here’s the sun’, I think, mind reeling back to wakefulness, a snout by my face. Milo?
“Who?”
“Huh?” I tried to sit up, bringing a hand to the kink in my neck. My mouth was dry with viscus saliva, the aftermath of a nap. When I made it about half way up, my skull collided with Meba’s freakishly solid face.
I fell back, gripping my forehead with a groan.
Meba jumped back, startled. “A-are you okay?”
"Ugh…” I curled up into a ball to further cradle the lump growing on my head. “Owwie…”
He started hyperventilating, almost jogging in place.
I grabbed him by the arm. “I’m fine. That just hurt like hell. What is it?”
The squirming stopped. “Sorry for waking you up. I just wanted to know if you think this is long enough.” He held up the scarf to my face, which was still partially covered by my other hand.
Jeez, more than enough. That thing must be at least 80 inches. How long have I been out?
“Yeah, need me to help you finish it off?”
“Yes please.”

I had an interview with Monique Pym from RELIQA last week to discuss the upcoming release of their phenomenal debut album, Secrets of the Future (out May 31st).
Here are some of the main takeaways from our chat:
From High School Garage Band to Nuclear Blast Signees
"It's kind of a fun fact that we're actually a high school band. I'm so surprised that it's such a rarity these days. We're all quite some years out of high school now, but all of us [have] known each other since we were about 12-13 years old... We did have a different drummer, his name was Shannon. As we were coming up, all five of us including Ben were all high school friends. So it's all very in the family with Reliqa.
We started the way any band starts really, you know, just like being loser teenagers jamming in the garage and stuff like that. The difference, I suppose, is that we grew out--I hope--of our loser phase. And I mean, we're still losers (laughs), but we grew out of a lot of stuff and we started taking it a bit more seriously. Small gigs turned to interstate gigs turned to touring turned to [where] we are now sort of thing, and it was all a very natural progression for us."
That's a Rap: Taking Inspiration from Doja Cat
"As some people know, if you've listened to our music, I like to rap. AI do try to follow a lot of artists who just have that very natural flow to them. There's something so conversational about [Doja Cat's] "Attention," which I think came out right in the heart of the writing process of 'Secrets of the Future'. And so if I was writing a rap, or writing some lyrics that were going to lean into like sort of faster, more speaky, talky vocals, I would constantly come back to that song and constantly come back to Doja [Cat].
I just thought it's such great storytelling and she's got such a competence behind her that I admire so much. It's just sick and I would gladly make music like that, but there's also some beauty to taking a song that's so not like metal and weaving it into something heavy. That's sort of the goal there."
Finding Their Signature Sound
"We made a few experiments happen in the songwriting process for the album. And what resulted is something that I think... goes on quite naturally from the diversity of our sound; the natural diversity that we like to sort of chase in our music, but it is a lot more sure of itself. And we have a lot of competence in that sound now, and hopefully, we're sort of developing something quite signature.
It'll take a few years to know what that signature really is. Because, of course, a signature is defined as well by the fans who receive it and how they react to it. And of course, we're still quite early in our career. So it's hard to know what that signature is, but what we're creating feels quite signature, and I think that we're gonna stick with this for some time and see where it takes us."
TL;DR: Monique rules and her choice of influences (Spiritbox, System of a Down, Void of Vision, King 810, Deadlights, and more) were super interesting. RELIQA's debut LP bangs and they're destined for big things.
Listen to our full chat here (Spotify).

Monetization is okay, but do not lock behind a paywall, if you make an audio using this script please post the link or comment as I would love to hear it! There are a total of 4 speakers however only 2 are needed for a majority and for the next couple of parts. The monsterboys are a bluejay demon and a garden snake demon.
[SFX]
("Spoken" noises)
*Tone Changes / Suggestions*
-------- Listener "speaks", longer pause in spoken audio
[Sounds of a party, after a few seconds a loud clock chimes 12]
Earth Archmage 1: [Bangs staff on ground to quiet everyone after the chimes] Witches of Earth! Tonight is a very special occasion! One of our own has trained to test the limits of their magic and potential!
Earth Archmage 2: Yes! One Witch of Earth has decided to try and summon a familiar, if successful, they will rise in the rankings of magic and become a mage with more power and a new title! [Cheering]
Earth Archmage 1: Come forward, step into summoning circle and show us your strength!
[Listener walks into the circle]
Earth Archmage 2: Announce your name and title, show us your magic, how you are connected to the earth itself!
Earth Archmage 1: If the summoning works, we will be able to give you a new title based on how your magic manifests!
[Sounds of vines growing]
Earth Archmage 2: Ahh, this one can grow small vines, interesting.
Earth Archmage 1: I wonder how much stronger they will become after this.
Earth Archmage 2: Quickly, place your hand on the summoning circle and push your magic into the ground, if you are strong enough a demon will appear and weave themselves into your soul.
Earth Archmage 1: The familiar will aid you in any ways you need for the rest of your life, you souls will be one, for as long as you live.
[Listener places hand on circle, magic sounds] [Two explosions, one after another] [Smoke] [Crowd gasping]
Earth Archmage 2: *Surprised* Ohhhh, this is... amazing.
Earth Archmage 1: *Surprised but calmer* I think... we are looking at one who has the potential to become the next Elementalist...if they so desire that is.
Earth Archmage 2: (Clears throat) Dispel the smoke, take your earthly forms and reveal yourselves to your new mage!
[Smoke clears]
Snake: [Stretching] Ahh, the earthly realm again, it has been so long since someone has called to me. A mage, you said? With two familiars?
Bluejay: [Cooing] Their magic must be very strong, I'm excited to finally be tied to a mage, even if it means I am also tied to a snake demon.
Snake: *Slightly offended* What'ssss that supposed to mean, birdie?
Bluejay: [Wings flapping] I-I meant no offense, just being honest, don't expect me to like you.
Snake: *Raising voice* You inexperienced little bird, I sssshould...
Earth Archmage 2: Enough! At least pledge yourselves before your mage passes out from the amount of magic it took to summon you!
Earth Archmage 1: (chuckling softly) Poor thing is frozen in shock, hurry up now, before they realize how much of a handful both of you will be and rejects you.
[Both demons fall to their knees and stay there]
Both demons speaking: My mage, the power of your magic has freed me from the flames of hell, for this, I pledge myself to you. My body and soul are yours. I swear to aid and protect you in all things for as long as you live in this earthly realm. I give you my sigil and my mark, so you may command and call on me as you see fit. [Magic sounds]
Snake: *Pleased* My sigil has appeared in their left eye, and the mark of a snake trails up their left arm. Our bond will be strong.
Bluejay: *Excited* Well my sigil is in their right eye and the mark of a bird is on their right wrist. Obviously the bond between us will be stronger.
[Angry hissing] [Staff bangs on ground]
Earth Archmage 1 and 2: With the acceptance of the sigils and marks, this Witch of Earth has proven themselves strong enough to rise in the ways of magic! With this, their magic will grow and change, therefore, we give them the new title of... Mage of Vines!
[Cheering] [Listener passes out]
Earth Archmage 1: Oh the poor thing. I can only imagine how exhausting it must have been to summon two familiars.
Earth Archmage 2: *to the demons* Get your mage home. Your souls and minds have bonded, you should know the way. Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.
Both Demons: Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.
[A bit of time passes, door closes]
Bluejay: That took longer than I thought, our new home is a bit out of the way. You know I could have taken my full animal form and flown us here instead of walking.
Snake: [Sigh, slight hissing] And I explained that I don't want to run the risk of you dropping our sweet mage from the sky.
Bluejay: [Offended cooing] I would never! I would drop you before I drop my mage!
Snake: *Whispering* Our mage. And keep your voice down! I'll admit it sounds very musical to listen to but if you wake them up I ssssswear....
[Surprised hiss and wing flaps]
Bluejay: Seems you already did that, Coils.
Snake: Well, strike. How are you feeling, sweet mage? Here, this is your room, correct? Let me lay you down.
Bluejay: It's okay, you don't need to thank us. We are here to serve. Don't push yourself too hard. You're probably going to be in pain for the next few days, you used a lot of magic.
Snake: Well yes, we can feel your emotions as if they are our own, but just let us do this for you. It is no trouble at all. Is there anything you need?
Snake: Our names? Oh right, you...passed out before we could tell you. You can call me (make something up)
Bluejay: My name is (make something up). Can we have your name?
Bluejay: Such a musical sound.
Snake: It is beautiful.
Snake: Hmm? Oh, you heard that? Yes I have been a familiar before, to another earth mage. I'm...surprised you were able to summon both of us as only a mage.
Bluejay: Yes, the archmages seemed surprised too, is that rare or something?
Snake: Oh right, you're new to this too. Well...yes. It's not unheard of but usually someone is only able to summon another familiar when they are an elementalist. And even then, most choose not to, the archmages weren't lying when they said you have the potential to become an elementalist. You summoned both of us as a mage, do you have any idea what that tells about your power?
Bluejay: (Slight laugh, cooing) All you can tell right now is that you're tired? Well, it's been an exciting day, why don't we all go to sleep? We can talk more in the morning, set some boundaries, talk about how our relationship will work...
Snake: Or we could just see how it evolves on its own and talk as things come up. Whichever is more comfortable for you, sweet mage.
Bluejay: Very true, we are here for you, whatever you need.
Bluejay: You...want us to cuddle you while to sleep? Both of us?
Snake: You don't have to beg, of course we will. Here. let me just... [Coils around listener] There, you will be safe and warm with my tail wrapped around you.
Bluejay: You just want to steal our mage's warmth for yourself, I'll give warmth with my wings. Come here, my mage. Let me cover you with my soft feathers. [Wing flapping] I'll even hum softly to lull you to sleep. (Soft humming)
Snake: (Laughs) Yes, we promise we will not hurt each other while you try to rest. We will be...civil to each other while bound to you. Right?
Bluejay: Of course, of course. We wouldn't want to cause stress to you. Not sure if we will ever be friendly exactly but we can at least tolerate each other for your sake.
Snake: Then we should go to sleep as well. We need our energy to take care of our mage for the next few days, and it's pretty late.
Bluejay: Any breakfast requests? I get up pretty early, Ill cook if you clean up, Coils.
Snake: We can agree on that at least. As long as there is something I can eat at the table.
Bluejay: I wouldn't starve you, I eat some meat as well so that is not an issue.
Snake: Hmm, I'll have to catch something and make sure we can all eat it too. What's your favorite type of animal meat, sweet mage?..... Oh, they're asleep.
Bluejay: (Yawns) We can ask in the morning. Let's get some sleep as well.
Snake: Sounds good to me. Good night.

First Chapter Previous Chapter
Mrs. Vilonte stood alone in the bathroom. In her hands, she cradled the urn containing her husband's ashes. The weight of it was surprisingly light, almost inconsequential, like the flutter of a moth's wing against her palm.
There was a tinge of sadness that grazed her heart. She had spent years by his side, experiencing the highs and lows of marriage. And now he was dead. The memorial service had been sparsely attended, with only a handful offering their condolences.
One photographer seemed overly eager to capture a shot of the grieving widow shedding a tear. But Mrs. Vilonte despised tears—seeing them, feeling them trickle down her face. The moment she felt her eyes sting and tears threatening to spill, she brushed them away before they had a chance to fall.
Now, the house was quiet. But mixed with that lingering sadness was a sense of relief, a subtle liberation that whispered to her from the shadows. He had betrayed her. His infidelity had cut deep.
She unscrewed the lid of the urn. The ashes inside seemed to shimmer in the faint light. Without hesitation, she emptied the contents into the toilet bowl and pulled the lever, watching as they spiraled downwards, swallowed by the rushing water.
XXXXXX
She once cherished two joys during her drives to Gabrielle's violin lessons. One was soaking in the serene landscape while indulging in her beloved soft jazz on the radio. The other was the comforting presence of her daughter beside her in the front passenger seat.
Now, she glanced at the vacant seat, and a wave of melancholy washed over her. Shaking off the emotion, she turned her attention back to the road, gripping the wheel tighter as she accelerated. After a stretch of driving, she eventually arrived at the mansion.
She had often wondered how the maestro accumulated such immense wealth. However, after meeting his benefactor and experiencing the allure of that wealth herself, she began to understand the price he had paid–the soul.
Was striking a deal with such a malevolent entity truly worth it? This question haunted her thoughts daily, and still, she had no definitive answer. The allure of luxury was intoxicating like the addictive sweetness of sugar. The more she indulged in it, the stronger her craving became, leaving her caught in a cycle of desire and uncertainty.
The mansion was as elegant and grand as she remembered. In the front yard, a splendid water fountain glistened under the sunlight. Surrounding the mansion was a manicured garden bloomed with vibrant colors and lush foliage.
Before stepping out of the car, she pulled a handgun from the glove compartment and carefully concealed it in her purse. Today was the day she planned to confront him, intent on demanding him to undo the unfortunate turn her life had taken.
The front door was unlocked and it swung open effortlessly as she entered. It slammed shut behind her without her even touching it, and there was no wind to explain it.
“Ah, Mrs. Vilonte,” a familiar male voice greeted warmly, “It's been far too long since our last meeting. You look lovely as ever!”
She looked up to see the young Salerno, leaning casually against the railing at the top of the split staircase. His smirking face drew a scowl from her. She resented his mocking compliment about her looking “lovely as ever.” She wore the same black dress she'd worn since her husband's memorial, now creased from sleep and carrying a faint scent of dried scotch.
“You've had your fun, Salerno,” she retorted, her voice tinged with restrained anger. "I shouldn't have broken our agreement, and I've learned my lesson.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, and I assure you, it won't happen again.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I want my life back.”
Salerno's face was solemn, shrouded in silence. Unexpectedly, he erupted into mocking laughter.
“That's not the nature of consequences, my dear,” he remarked. “You must live with what you've done. Forgiveness is not in my nature.
“You've stripped me of my wealth–”
“It wasn't yours to begin with.”
“I have nothing left!”
“Oh, that isn't completely true. You still have your family.”
“You've torn my family apart! My husband is gone, my son imprisoned and now my daughter, too! You've taken her from me.”
“But soon you'll be reunited.”
“What do you mean?”
He motioned for her to ascend the stairs. “You've arrived just in time to witness something miraculous. Something beautiful!”
Confusion clouded Mrs. Vilonte's face until she heard an agonized moan coming from an upstairs room, followed by a cry she knew all too well.
“Gabrielle,” she gasped.
Salerno nodded. “You're about to be a grandmother to another child.”
The haunting images from the field of mirrors flooded back. The abomination—a monstrous entity—was on the brink of entering their world, and who knew what kind of hell it would bring. Suddenly, a powerful force propelled her towards the stairs, her movements no longer under her control. Before she knew it, she stood face to face with Salerno on the top landing. His grin exposed jagged, menacing teeth, and his eyes were pools of darkness. With talon-like fingers, he grasped her shoulders, their sharp points piercing her skin.
He led her into the master bedroom, where Gabrielle lay in a fitful sleep on a queen-size bed, her movements restless. Her eyes were closed, and sweat had matted her hair to her head. Beside her sat Victoria, whose skin showed signs of decay, and she moved with a robotic, disjointed motion as she wiped the sweat from Gabrielle's face with a cloth. When Victoria moved aside, Mrs. Vilonte shivered, finding herself staring into Victoria's empty, hollow eye sockets.
Salerno leaned in close to her ear, his voice a low whisper as he said, “My children are everywhere, and this newborn will join them, serving me in this world. You should feel honored to be part of something extraordinary, something greater than yourself.”
Slipping free from his hold, she quickly made her way to her daughter's bedside, sweeping aside stray locks from her face. The moment her fingers made contact with her skin, Gabrielle began to calm down.
“Gabby, it's Mom,” she whispered gently, a wave of relief washing over her as her daughter's eyes fluttered open in response.
“Did you enjoy the concert, Mom?” Gabrielle asked, faintly.
“Well, it was an unforgettable performance, that's for sure.”
“Didn’t I do a phenomenal job?”
“Let's talk about it when we get home.”
“Home?”
“Yes, you're coming home with me now.”
“I can't... the baby is going to arrive soon,” Gabrielle gasped, her voice strained with pain. "It hurts too much to move.”
“You’ll have to endure it! We need to get out of here!”
Mrs. Vilonte tossed aside the blanket and firmly grasped her arm, pulling her out of the bed. Gabrielle staggered and lost her footing, sliding down onto the floor. She reached for the edge of the bed, trying to soften her sudden fall.
“Run, run, but wherever you hide,” Salerno sang, “you'll never escape this hell.”
Mrs. Vilonte quickly drew the handgun from her purse, aiming it at him as he approached. Her eyes darted between Salerno and Victoria, the gun wavering between the two.
“Stay back! Just let us go.”
Salerno chuckled. “Mrs. Vilonte, really now? Violence won't solve your problems.”
A deafening bang echoed through the room. He staggered back, pressing a hand to his belly as blood began to seep through his white shirt. His mouth opened, releasing a plume of black smoke that coalesced into the silhouette of a large goat standing upright on its hind legs.
The creature glared at her with red eyes before the smoke dissipated. Then, as if the inevitable march of age had finally caught up to him within seconds, his vitality began to wane. His once smooth skin transformed into a web of wrinkles. His dark eyes dimmed, replaced by a cloudy haze. His jet-black hair turned a shocking shade of white, contrasting starkly with the pallor of his skin. His cheeks began to sink.
Salerno, aged and frail, sank to the floor, his hand stubbornly pressed against his wound as if hoping to halt the flow of blood. “Run, run, but wherever you hide, you'll never escape this hell.”
Mrs. Vilonte seized her daughter's arm, hauling her upright, all the while keeping the gun trained between Salerno and Victoria. Victoria lay collapsed on the floor, reduced to a heap of decomposed skin devoid of bones and muscle.
A deep rumble echoed through the room, causing it to tremble and sway. Cracks snaked across the walls, paint peeling away in tattered sheets. Twisting, blood-red vines crept from the fractures, weaving their way across walls and ceiling. Acting quickly, Mrs. Vilonte seized Gabrielle, who had collapsed to the floor, teeth clenched in pain from another surge of agony. She pulled her up by the arm, forcing her to her feet and pushing her towards the door.
The mansion, once a symbol of pride when she'd taken her daughter for the maestro’s lessons, was transforming into a nightmarish scene. Blood oozed from the decaying walls, while a noxious sulfuric odor filled the air, nearly suffocating Mrs. Vilonte and making each breath a struggle.
She didn't pause for rest or allow Gabrielle a moment to catch her breath until they were safely out of the house and speeding away in the car, putting as much distance as possible between them and the area.
“Mom, stop the car,” Gabrielle groaned in pain from the back seat.
“Hold on tight, honey. We'll go to the nearest hospital.”
“I can't wait anymore!”
“It won't be long. Twenty minutes.”
“I can feel the baby wanting to come out.”
Mrs. Vilonte looked up at the rearview mirror, where she saw Gabrielle's sweaty face scrunched up in pain, gripping her rounded belly with both hands.
“I know this isn’t easy,” she said, “but you need to hold out a little longer. We'll be at the hospital very soon.”
“STOP THE CAR!”
The car came to a sudden stop, jolting Mrs. Vilonte forward and almost throwing Gabrielle off from her seat.
“The baby is coming! Mom, help me!” Gabrielle cried.
“The baby…”
Mrs. Vilonte couldn't shake the thought that this creature couldn't possibly be human. The horrifying acts that it could be capable of frightened her, and the idea that it shared a bloodline with her sickened her even more. Her hand moved to the handgun resting on the passenger seat beside her, considering the one extreme solution she could think of for such an unusual situation.
It wasn't ideal, but she saw no other option.
She took hold of the gun and stepped out of the car, approaching the rear passenger side. Opening the door, she found her daughter propped on her elbows, lifting her dress to reveal the widening canal. Gabrielle let out a menacing growl as she pushed.
Mrs. Vilonte crouched to inspect closer, and instantly felt the unsettling, malevolent presence. The entity seemed to be trying to claw its way out from the depths of the abyss. It inched towards the light, its growls growing louder like a ravenous animal. As Gabrielle pushed further, its red, snouted face broke through, its eyes snapping open to lock onto hers with an intense, black-eyed glare.
Startled, she stumbled back, her hands grasping for the handgun that had slipped from her trembling fingers. As she aimed at the creature before her, an unseen force encircled her hands. She fought to maintain control, but the force twisted the weapon, redirecting it towards her. Suddenly, she found herself staring down the barrel of her gun.
The trees came alive with a flurry of motion as a group of birds took flight, their wings beating frantically against the sky. The once-quiet canopy echoed with the sound of panicked chirps and the movement of feathers, as the startled birds scattered in all directions, seeking refuge from the sudden disturbance caused by a blast.
XXXXX
In the forest of another realm, beyond the physical world, her skin melded seamlessly with the tree's bark, as vines snaked their way around her, ensnaring her limbs. Fungi blossomed from her mouth, rendering her voiceless as her tongue was entwined.
The goat-like creature approached her, brandishing a small mirror, coercing her to confront her distorted reflection. Little remained of her once recognizable features. Worms and roaches had taken residence in the hollow cavity where her nose and right eye had been. With her one remaining eye, she gazed into the mirror, waves of anguish coursing through her being as she beheld the grim reflection of what she had transformed into.
Then, as her ghastly reflection faded, a young man with dark hair and eyes as deep as coal materialized, wearing a black suit, standing with poise on a stage, holding up a violin. Upon closer look, she realized it to be the very violin Gabrielle had once owned.
“Behold what my child has become,” the entity proclaimed. “Are you not as proud of him as I am?”
XXXXX
A bright light beamed down on the young man standing center stage, his violin poised in his hands. His fingers glided over the strings, and with each passing note, the audience, their eyes fixed on him, was drawn deeper into his spell. It wrapped around the listeners' hearts and pulled them into a trance-like state. And as the last notes hung in the air, the audience were suspended in silence and left breathless. Then, they leaped to their feet in thunderous applause.
With a twisted smile, he relished the adulation. He knew he had sway over them, puppet master of their actions. He could simply issue a command, and they would eagerly comply, ready to enact his darkest fantasies. He imagined directing his willing servants to get up on the roof of a towering building and leap into the abyss below, willingly offering themselves as sacrifices.
He envisioned chaos unleashed upon the streets, cars overturned, windows shattered, and buildings engulfed in flames. All at his behest. The world lay at his fingertips, ripe for manipulation and destruction, as he thought about the countless ways he could bring about humanity’s demise.
After his final bow, the young man turned to face the audience, expressing heartfelt thanks for their attendance, eliciting both laughter and warm affection from the crowd. But, amidst the resounding applause, one figure remained still in the front row, confined to a wheelchair. He stared straight at her face which was hidden behind a thin black veil.
Though her body remained motionless in the chair, incapable of even the slightest movement, her one good eye was very much alive, fully engaged with her surroundings. And there was something else in her gaze. He could sense it from the stage, and it made him chuckle. It was an aroma he found intoxicating – the unmistakable stench of fear, seeping from every pore like primal pheromones.
The audience clamored for an encore, yearning to satisfy their insatiable thirst for more music. Their fervent cries echoed through tears. Lifting his violin once more, he hushed the audience with a single motion. The moment the red bow touched the strings, pandemonium broke loose. The spectators lost all self-control, leaping from their seats, clutching their heads, and tearing at their hair in a wild frenzy. They were completely entranced, surrendered to the power of the music.
As his crescendo intensified, a raging fire surged within them, mirrored by the frantic speed of his fingers on the strings. With each chord, they tore at their garments, sinking nails and teeth into one another's flesh. Chaos exploded, mingling with the scent of blood and the sound of rending flesh.
Mrs. Vilonte remained seated in her wheelchair, an impassive observer amidst the chaos, her voice silenced, her limbs still. She bore witness to the madness, her mind ensnared within its chaos, forever lost to its depths.

First Chapter Previous Chapter
Mrs. Vilonte stood alone in the bathroom. In her hands, she cradled the urn containing her husband's ashes. The weight of it was surprisingly light, almost inconsequential, like the flutter of a moth's wing against her palm.
There was a tinge of sadness that grazed her heart. She had spent years by his side, experiencing the highs and lows of marriage. And now he was dead. The memorial service had been sparsely attended, with only a handful offering their condolences.
One photographer seemed overly eager to capture a shot of the grieving widow shedding a tear. But Mrs. Vilonte despised tears—seeing them, feeling them trickle down her face. The moment she felt her eyes sting and tears threatening to spill, she brushed them away before they had a chance to fall.
Now, the house was quiet. But mixed with that lingering sadness was a sense of relief, a subtle liberation that whispered to her from the shadows. He had betrayed her. His infidelity had cut deep.
She unscrewed the lid of the urn. The ashes inside seemed to shimmer in the faint light. Without hesitation, she emptied the contents into the toilet bowl and pulled the lever, watching as they spiraled downwards, swallowed by the rushing water.
XXXXXX
She once cherished two joys during her drives to Gabrielle's violin lessons. One was soaking in the serene landscape while indulging in her beloved soft jazz on the radio. The other was the comforting presence of her daughter beside her in the front passenger seat.
Now, she glanced at the vacant seat, and a wave of melancholy washed over her. Shaking off the emotion, she turned her attention back to the road, gripping the wheel tighter as she accelerated. After a stretch of driving, she eventually arrived at the mansion.
She had often wondered how the maestro accumulated such immense wealth. However, after meeting his benefactor and experiencing the allure of that wealth herself, she began to understand the price he had paid–the soul.
Was striking a deal with such a malevolent entity truly worth it? This question haunted her thoughts daily, and still, she had no definitive answer. The allure of luxury was intoxicating like the addictive sweetness of sugar. The more she indulged in it, the stronger her craving became, leaving her caught in a cycle of desire and uncertainty.
The mansion was as elegant and grand as she remembered. In the front yard, a splendid water fountain glistened under the sunlight. Surrounding the mansion was a manicured garden bloomed with vibrant colors and lush foliage.
Before stepping out of the car, she pulled a handgun from the glove compartment and carefully concealed it in her purse. Today was the day she planned to confront him, intent on demanding him to undo the unfortunate turn her life had taken.
The front door was unlocked and it swung open effortlessly as she entered. It slammed shut behind her without her even touching it, and there was no wind to explain it.
“Ah, Mrs. Vilonte,” a familiar male voice greeted warmly, “It's been far too long since our last meeting. You look lovely as ever!”
She looked up to see the young Salerno, leaning casually against the railing at the top of the split staircase. His smirking face drew a scowl from her. She resented his mocking compliment about her looking “lovely as ever.” She wore the same black dress she'd worn since her husband's memorial, now creased from sleep and carrying a faint scent of dried scotch.
“You've had your fun, Salerno,” she retorted, her voice tinged with restrained anger. "I shouldn't have broken our agreement, and I've learned my lesson.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, and I assure you, it won't happen again.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I want my life back.”
Salerno's face was solemn, shrouded in silence. Unexpectedly, he erupted into mocking laughter.
“That's not the nature of consequences, my dear,” he remarked. “You must live with what you've done. Forgiveness is not in my nature.
“You've stripped me of my wealth–”
“It wasn't yours to begin with.”
“I have nothing left!”
“Oh, that isn't completely true. You still have your family.”
“You've torn my family apart! My husband is gone, my son imprisoned and now my daughter, too! You've taken her from me.”
“But soon you'll be reunited.”
“What do you mean?”
He motioned for her to ascend the stairs. “You've arrived just in time to witness something miraculous. Something beautiful!”
Confusion clouded Mrs. Vilonte's face until she heard an agonized moan coming from an upstairs room, followed by a cry she knew all too well.
“Gabrielle,” she gasped.
Salerno nodded. “You're about to be a grandmother to another child.”
The haunting images from the field of mirrors flooded back. The abomination—a monstrous entity—was on the brink of entering their world, and who knew what kind of hell it would bring. Suddenly, a powerful force propelled her towards the stairs, her movements no longer under her control. Before she knew it, she stood face to face with Salerno on the top landing. His grin exposed jagged, menacing teeth, and his eyes were pools of darkness. With talon-like fingers, he grasped her shoulders, their sharp points piercing her skin.
He led her into the master bedroom, where Gabrielle lay in a fitful sleep on a queen-size bed, her movements restless. Her eyes were closed, and sweat had matted her hair to her head. Beside her sat Victoria, whose skin showed signs of decay, and she moved with a robotic, disjointed motion as she wiped the sweat from Gabrielle's face with a cloth. When Victoria moved aside, Mrs. Vilonte shivered, finding herself staring into Victoria's empty, hollow eye sockets.
Salerno leaned in close to her ear, his voice a low whisper as he said, “My children are everywhere, and this newborn will join them, serving me in this world. You should feel honored to be part of something extraordinary, something greater than yourself.”
Slipping free from his hold, she quickly made her way to her daughter's bedside, sweeping aside stray locks from her face. The moment her fingers made contact with her skin, Gabrielle began to calm down.
“Gabby, it's Mom,” she whispered gently, a wave of relief washing over her as her daughter's eyes fluttered open in response.
“Did you enjoy the concert, Mom?” Gabrielle asked, faintly.
“Well, it was an unforgettable performance, that's for sure.”
“Didn’t I do a phenomenal job?”
“Let's talk about it when we get home.”
“Home?”
“Yes, you're coming home with me now.”
“I can't... the baby is going to arrive soon,” Gabrielle gasped, her voice strained with pain. "It hurts too much to move.”
“You’ll have to endure it! We need to get out of here!”
Mrs. Vilonte tossed aside the blanket and firmly grasped her arm, pulling her out of the bed. Gabrielle staggered and lost her footing, sliding down onto the floor. She reached for the edge of the bed, trying to soften her sudden fall.
“Run, run, but wherever you hide,” Salerno sang, “you'll never escape this hell.”
Mrs. Vilonte quickly drew the handgun from her purse, aiming it at him as he approached. Her eyes darted between Salerno and Victoria, the gun wavering between the two.
“Stay back! Just let us go.”
Salerno chuckled. “Mrs. Vilonte, really now? Violence won't solve your problems.”
A deafening bang echoed through the room. He staggered back, pressing a hand to his belly as blood began to seep through his white shirt. His mouth opened, releasing a plume of black smoke that coalesced into the silhouette of a large goat standing upright on its hind legs.
The creature glared at her with red eyes before the smoke dissipated. Then, as if the inevitable march of age had finally caught up to him within seconds, his vitality began to wane. His once smooth skin transformed into a web of wrinkles. His dark eyes dimmed, replaced by a cloudy haze. His jet-black hair turned a shocking shade of white, contrasting starkly with the pallor of his skin. His cheeks began to sink.
Salerno, aged and frail, sank to the floor, his hand stubbornly pressed against his wound as if hoping to halt the flow of blood. “Run, run, but wherever you hide, you'll never escape this hell.”
Mrs. Vilonte seized her daughter's arm, hauling her upright, all the while keeping the gun trained between Salerno and Victoria. Victoria lay collapsed on the floor, reduced to a heap of decomposed skin devoid of bones and muscle.
A deep rumble echoed through the room, causing it to tremble and sway. Cracks snaked across the walls, paint peeling away in tattered sheets. Twisting, blood-red vines crept from the fractures, weaving their way across walls and ceiling. Acting quickly, Mrs. Vilonte seized Gabrielle, who had collapsed to the floor, teeth clenched in pain from another surge of agony. She pulled her up by the arm, forcing her to her feet and pushing her towards the door.
The mansion, once a symbol of pride when she'd taken her daughter for the maestro’s lessons, was transforming into a nightmarish scene. Blood oozed from the decaying walls, while a noxious sulfuric odor filled the air, nearly suffocating Mrs. Vilonte and making each breath a struggle.
She didn't pause for rest or allow Gabrielle a moment to catch her breath until they were safely out of the house and speeding away in the car, putting as much distance as possible between them and the area.
“Mom, stop the car,” Gabrielle groaned in pain from the back seat.
“Hold on tight, honey. We'll go to the nearest hospital.”
“I can't wait anymore!”
“It won't be long. Twenty minutes.”
“I can feel the baby wanting to come out.”
Mrs. Vilonte looked up at the rearview mirror, where she saw Gabrielle's sweaty face scrunched up in pain, gripping her rounded belly with both hands.
“I know this isn’t easy,” she said, “but you need to hold out a little longer. We'll be at the hospital very soon.”
“STOP THE CAR!”
The car came to a sudden stop, jolting Mrs. Vilonte forward and almost throwing Gabrielle off from her seat.
“The baby is coming! Mom, help me!” Gabrielle cried.
“The baby…”
Mrs. Vilonte couldn't shake the thought that this creature couldn't possibly be human. The horrifying acts that it could be capable of frightened her, and the idea that it shared a bloodline with her sickened her even more. Her hand moved to the handgun resting on the passenger seat beside her, considering the one extreme solution she could think of for such an unusual situation.
It wasn't ideal, but she saw no other option.
She took hold of the gun and stepped out of the car, approaching the rear passenger side. Opening the door, she found her daughter propped on her elbows, lifting her dress to reveal the widening canal. Gabrielle let out a menacing growl as she pushed.
Mrs. Vilonte crouched to inspect closer, and instantly felt the unsettling, malevolent presence. The entity seemed to be trying to claw its way out from the depths of the abyss. It inched towards the light, its growls growing louder like a ravenous animal. As Gabrielle pushed further, its red, snouted face broke through, its eyes snapping open to lock onto hers with an intense, black-eyed glare.
Startled, she stumbled back, her hands grasping for the handgun that had slipped from her trembling fingers. As she aimed at the creature before her, an unseen force encircled her hands. She fought to maintain control, but the force twisted the weapon, redirecting it towards her. Suddenly, she found herself staring down the barrel of her gun.
The trees came alive with a flurry of motion as a group of birds took flight, their wings beating frantically against the sky. The once-quiet canopy echoed with the sound of panicked chirps and the movement of feathers, as the startled birds scattered in all directions, seeking refuge from the sudden disturbance caused by a blast.
XXXXX
In the forest of another realm, beyond the physical world, her skin melded seamlessly with the tree's bark, as vines snaked their way around her, ensnaring her limbs. Fungi blossomed from her mouth, rendering her voiceless as her tongue was entwined.
The goat-like creature approached her, brandishing a small mirror, coercing her to confront her distorted reflection. Little remained of her once recognizable features. Worms and roaches had taken residence in the hollow cavity where her nose and right eye had been. With her one remaining eye, she gazed into the mirror, waves of anguish coursing through her being as she beheld the grim reflection of what she had transformed into.
Then, as her ghastly reflection faded, a young man with dark hair and eyes as deep as coal materialized, wearing a black suit, standing with poise on a stage, holding up a violin. Upon closer look, she realized it to be the very violin Gabrielle had once owned.
“Behold what my child has become,” the entity proclaimed. “Are you not as proud of him as I am?”
XXXXX
A bright light beamed down on the young man standing center stage, his violin poised in his hands. His fingers glided over the strings, and with each passing note, the audience, their eyes fixed on him, was drawn deeper into his spell. It wrapped around the listeners' hearts and pulled them into a trance-like state. And as the last notes hung in the air, the audience were suspended in silence and left breathless. Then, they leaped to their feet in thunderous applause.
With a twisted smile, he relished the adulation. He knew he had sway over them, puppet master of their actions. He could simply issue a command, and they would eagerly comply, ready to enact his darkest fantasies. He imagined directing his willing servants to get up on the roof of a towering building and leap into the abyss below, willingly offering themselves as sacrifices.
He envisioned chaos unleashed upon the streets, cars overturned, windows shattered, and buildings engulfed in flames. All at his behest. The world lay at his fingertips, ripe for manipulation and destruction, as he thought about the countless ways he could bring about humanity’s demise.
After his final bow, the young man turned to face the audience, expressing heartfelt thanks for their attendance, eliciting both laughter and warm affection from the crowd. But, amidst the resounding applause, one figure remained still in the front row, confined to a wheelchair. He stared straight at her face which was hidden behind a thin black veil.
Though her body remained motionless in the chair, incapable of even the slightest movement, her one good eye was very much alive, fully engaged with her surroundings. And there was something else in her gaze. He could sense it from the stage, and it made him chuckle. It was an aroma he found intoxicating – the unmistakable stench of fear, seeping from every pore like primal pheromones.
The audience clamored for an encore, yearning to satisfy their insatiable thirst for more music. Their fervent cries echoed through tears. Lifting his violin once more, he hushed the audience with a single motion. The moment the red bow touched the strings, pandemonium broke loose. The spectators lost all self-control, leaping from their seats, clutching their heads, and tearing at their hair in a wild frenzy. They were completely entranced, surrendered to the power of the music.
As his crescendo intensified, a raging fire surged within them, mirrored by the frantic speed of his fingers on the strings. With each chord, they tore at their garments, sinking nails and teeth into one another's flesh. Chaos exploded, mingling with the scent of blood and the sound of rending flesh.
Mrs. Vilonte remained seated in her wheelchair, an impassive observer amidst the chaos, her voice silenced, her limbs still. She bore witness to the madness, her mind ensnared within its chaos, forever lost to its depths.

"This excellent tension-filled episode keeps you on the edge of your seat. There is a lot going on in “Erigah” but good pacing weaves the drama, action, character exploration, worldbuilding and even humor together into a tight, entertaining package. Returning to a focus on the season’s big story, the episode evoked the high-stakes drama of some of the more martial Trek episodes, especially from the Dominion War arc of Deep Space Nine, which got plenty of nods throughout.
The full ensemble of stars and guest stars elevated the material with a few standouts, especially Tara Rosling as the effective president T’Rina, Eve Harlow as the anguished Moll, and Tig Notaro as the always hilarious Jett Reno. Instead of taking the lead in every situation, Sonequa Martin-Green’s Captain Burnham was the glue holding it all together, with an assist from Anthony Rapp’s Stamets, the guy keeping his eye on the big Progenitor prize. The political maneuvering and debates in “Erigah” are some of the best of a franchise tradition as the episode asked big moral questions, but didn’t force a single point of view, leaving the viewer to ponder their own path… again, very Star Trek."
Anthony Pascale (TrekMovie .com)
Link:
https://trekmovie.com/2024/05/09/recap-review-star-trek-discovery-gets-cool-under-pressure-in-erigah/
Quotes:
"The world-building in this episode was rich and rewarding, as the season pivots to the Breen and Primarch Rhun as the real big bads. He may be mustache-twirly, but it works in this case. The Breen Civil War plot allowed us to learn more about them through learning more about Rayner and the Kelleruns, effectively layering plot and character stories. Although, it may not make sense that T’Rina – who amazingly could understand Breen – was not already briefed on all of that. But it does appear that Kelleruns are still not part of the Federation, so perhaps her files didn’t have that key intel. Together, like they were in the 24th century, the Breen are still a mysterious and very credible threat… with the gigantic ship driving that point home. However, this episode did raise the question of how the power of empires outside the Federation should be limited in the post-Burn era without their own supplies of dilithium. Speaking of interesting backstories, Reno’s resume was full of little bits, even how she used to work at a bar on Alshain IV, the butterfly people planet from the season 4 opener. Does her 23rd-century cocktail named “Seven of Limes” make sense? No? Was it funny? Yes.
One curiosity is how DS9 established Breen do not have blood (reconfirmed to TrekMovie by Disco writer Carolos Cisco), but an Erigah is a “blood bounty,” which can only be “paid with blood,” because L’ak is part of the royal “bloodline.” One can only hope something is being lost in translation. Also, it isn’t entirely clear why L’ak never reverted to his gelatinous state when unconscious and even after death. Blood and jelly nitpicks aside, fans of Deep Space Nine should have been doing the Pointing Rick Dalton meme all episode long. There were several references to the Dominion War and the Breen attack on Earth resulting in the destruction of San Francisco, which seems to ring through Federation history like Pearl Harbor or 9/11. Little canon callback moments like “Never turn your back on a Breen” are woven in seamlessly to serve the plot and characters, not just fans. And deeper cuts such as references to Thoron Fields and Duraniam Shadows may go unnoticed by most, but surely bring a little delight to hard-core Niners. They even cued the next episode’s setting in the Badlands, with an impressive peek at what it looks like in the 32nd century. It’s so welcome how Discovery has rediscovered it is part of the rich history of Star Trek.
Final Thoughts
A fantastic episode tied up and built upon plot and character threads that have been building all season long, and even some from past seasons and the franchise as a whole. The excitement level is really ramped up now for this best season of the series, with only three episodes left until it is all over."
Link:
https://trekmovie.com/2024/05/09/recap-review-star-trek-discovery-gets-cool-under-pressure-in-erigah/

Tl;dr- my coworker manipulates me. I'm a giver she takes. How do I unfurl myself from the interactions.?
She (I'll call her "Emily") is in a lower position at work than I, she in a service capacity and I am in a professional office capacity. Emily is AfroAmerican and I am white/asian. I took a liking to Emily from the beginning because she was approachable, bubbly, friendly, and kind. We shared interested in clothing and makeup. Also - humor. With time, I noticed that she seemed to request a lot of things from me either through subtle suggestions to be manipulative. Or, direct requests. Usually the former. I am a giver by nature. With time, I came to realize not only was she a taker but also and this is important, things I was sharing with her do not go undshared. I basically had to glean this from the fact that she tells me things about several of the other people in the office. I was slow to catch on. I realized had likely sharedsomething I had complained about about another service employee. I felt safe in sharing my complaint with her because she had disparaged this fellow employee and also complained about his work. Then like the day after I had shared with her my complaints, I saw her buddying up with him chewing the fat. At this time, I had to take a Stern stock and accounting of my position and realized it could be very dangerous her talking about me to staff. Apparently, she speaks with our second in charge and has told me a great great deal about her personal life and health matters. That's just one example.
So, it is at that time I basically decided to cut her off. A big part of it had to do with the fact that I would share a lot about my you know daily concerns with her on text messaging. She responded to almost none of them. I realize, she has less education than me.. but, she seems to be able to conceptualize and communicate when it's something of importance to her. Ergo, I realized it was pretty much a one-way street. I blocked herself she did something weird and passive aggressive and approached me to see if I would be interested in something and I had to unblock her to make it not an awkward communication moment. And of course, as a result - she realized I had blocked her before that moment. I pretty much haven't really communicated with her except for hello at the office and you know the occasional kind of shared conversation about things that are currently happening at the office that everyone needs to communicate about. But, today - - was different. Perhaps it was my mistake, I cracked open the door again by sending her a text message yesterday because I know she has hip surgery coming up soon and she was gone from work yesterday and I wasn't sure when the surgery was scheduled and I felt badly to not even be in communication at all at a time when she's going to be having major surgery. I guess I kind of feel like, her home life sucks with her husband and son. Her housing life sucks and I've been to her home it's not great. We're just in completely different worlds we come from different class so to speak structures. And I can't see that she's transcended her circumstances from what she came and it's understandable. So she wrote me back and said the surgery wasn't yesterday and said I was a good friend I had offered to help her you know complete her FMLA paperwork if she needed help because she had asked me about it previously and she was really bad at figuring out the details. So, fast forward today she ambushes me, tells me tomorrow is my birthday. I won't have my birthday celebrated by my husband or my son. Her mother I know has passed many years since. She goes on to say how we celebrate office birthdays and no one's ever done that for her and she wishes someone would do it. Then, she goes on to say that she doesn't want a cheesecake or this kind of cake or that kind of cake not a Frozen cake she specifically tells me what kind of goddamn cake she wants. And i, like a moron, fall for it hook line and sinker. I guess, I thought huh well there is truth in what she's saying we don't in include her in celebrations the way we do for a lot of the other staff because she doesn't actually work for our company she works for a service company. Wanting to avoid an awkward situation and wishing to have a peaceful work environment I guess I said I would make sure she got a cake. Thinking to myself, it only cost me a couple bucks for a mix cake and a couple bucks for some frosting. Bada being bad a bang how bad could it be. Then, I think crap what she talking about the way we celebrate the other coworkers? Oh, I realize she means we put streamers and signs balloons whatever on there cubicle. So, I spring into action I get some stuff delivered from the store balloons bowls she had told me she wanted cake and ice cream and she would cry if she didn't get those things. It was just the weirdest effing thing ever. And I just you melted at the idea like oh my God here's someone who doesn't have all these things and she's telling me and I'm feeling bad for her. And, I love doing those things for people. And she knows this. Previously, she tried to get me to have a party this month or next month she she was saying oh gosh we haven't had a party in a while and we should really do something. And I was quick to respond at that time I said great Emily why don't you plan that let me know. This time, I was unprepared and maybe I was vulnerable because I let her in to a little crack in my psyche because I felt a sense of sympathy maybe for her pending medical procedure. All of this is to say, I'm trying to figure out one, how to proceed in the future. Too, what is the psychological dynamic that is going on between she and i. I wish to understand what is it about her and what is it about I that makes this go forward. I'm thinking, mostly, it's because I have a manipulative narcissistic mother. I naturally respond to her manipulations easily because I care for my mother and.. she's my mother! I had realized my sensitivity to the b******* and manipulation and that's kind of why I cut things off with Emily.
So now, I had bought a cake because I was really tired and didn't want to make a cake and I thought hey okay this will be less stressful. Another co-worker, I'll call her ingrid volunteered to help me pay for the cake as she is a sucker like I am to people who need things.
So, how do I get out of this cycle moving forward, should I basically just not talk to this woman anymore except for very Kurt office interactions? Is she worthy of my sympathy? At any level?
She is psycho or she have feelings I mean? There have been times when I have told her a ton about myself and then she completely switches the subject like she didn't hear a single thing I said. Ostensibly, this is narcissistic behavior. She acts passive aggressive towards me. She tries to get me to do things for her I feel like she cracks open the door that's how we became friends in the first place she said she needed help with something and no one else would help her with it and she put in the sympathy statement and voila I ended up at her house helping her install a printer.
I don't know, I feel like such a sucker, and I don't want this behavior to continue but it's really really hard for me to just not interact with someone who has this kind of dynamic. She's she's borderline safe and friendly but then she's borderline scary ass dangerous manipulative gossiping passive aggressive. I'm almost afraid not to do s*** for her like what will she do? I mean she left something on my desk I didn't know who left it but I kind of deduced it was probably her. It was a wall sign you know the chief kind you might get at the dollar store? It's like plastic or ceramic I don't know what but I guess she had to hang on her wall and it shattered. She left on my desk taped together badly with some super glue. Later, she mentions that she had done so and told me I would be doing this for her she didn't really ask she said she knew how much I would like doing that since I loved craft projects.
I do not like fixing s*** for people it's a chore. I do it for the people in my life who I care about that do things for me. I had let it sit on my desk for several days because I was just irritated like, who the f*** do you think I am and why what I want to fix your crap for you? She was rude and passive aggressive with me at the office like wouldn't really greet me. So, that resulted in me taking it and putting in my car so that she would see there was some potential that I might be fixing it. I, have zero interest in fixing it. Also, it's really cheap. Why would anyone want to keep that?
The bigger issue is, of course, her repeated attempts to manipulate me in my sadly susceptibility to these attempts. It's so confusing. On the one hand she seems like such an innocuous person on the other hand she can make me spend a s*** ton of money in a short period of time just by suggesting some things to me. I bought a cake balloons decorations have them delivered all because I thought, "well this is terrible, she can't not have her birthday celebrated she needs to feel fit in and the class ism bothers me we have to try and make everyone feel equal."
Yes it's total bullshit. Yikes help me see reason. Just in writing this, I'm seeing how clear the pattern is: she'll compliment me she'll suck me into conversation, she'll ask for something or subtly suggest something that she needs or wants. Then she demands specifically a greater request than even began originally. I've even wondered if she's just gearing up to scam me in a much bigger way. This could be terrible.
I'm kind of feeling like just irritated about the whole thing to wear, I don't think I want to take the cake in tomorrow. I had bought ice cream bowls spoons you know party supplies. And I just realized, sitting here explaining it to you all: it makes no sense. I'm rewarding her for manipulating me. If I ever expect it to stop, I have to not follow through. With what I have promised or what she has asked me to do.

Fans always say "XYZ doesn't bring drama" so they should be out. However, Dolores is to me the best example of the other important role: being the glue to hold the group together.
In NJ, Dolores is friends with all housewives (mostly), but importantly, people from BOTH sides, which allows the housewives to act like a dysjointed solo group rather than 2 opposing groups at war. For me, a single highly disfunctional group of women is best. Without Dolores, its 2 sides having nothing to do with each other and that is never a good long term strategy with housewives.
Dolores may not always like drama, but her role in the story is not always about drama, its about bringing 2 sides together to continue the story and make it slightly more believeable, or else you get the wars that are great for a single season but rarely make a longstanding show.
Edit: Another way I look at it is "what happens if you remove XYZ". If you remove dolores, there is 0 interaction of anyone in the 2 zones except maybe Rachelle/Danielle who are both (particularly Danielle) outsiders. Its a major change and for the worse. Compared to housewives like Crystal. Crystal if you remove her from RHOBH doesnt change much because she did not hold anything together. If Crystal for example was shown to be super close with erika or kyle and helped weave the group together, she likely would have stayed.