My bf and I went through a hard patch. He has no one for family love and as a Hispanic family that I have, they love him like his own. He admit he’s a bit jealous of how my mom is sweet to me. His mom is a drug abuse and alcoholic. She told her two sons (my bf and his brother) that they were failed abortions when they were 8, The mother “Sania” was raised by her father who was in WW2 military and a stepmom who was always flying and both parents didn’t give her love but only money. Sania became a drugie and the husband stole 30K and left her because Sania was cheating on him with another drugie. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Both drugies didn’t care about the kids but instead they put them in a room and locked them with no food like animals. At Age 16 my bf escaped the house with his brother and came to their step grandma because she was all they had/knew. One day, his grandma who raised them since 16 died and Sania came, not to see the old lady dying but to steal some jewelry because she was known for being a drug abuse. She brought her pets (2 big dogs, 3 jellyfish, 2 birds and 1 fish) and car, her 2 kids because she became pregnant of the drugie age 25, and she brought her new Puerto Rico bf too, as if she was moving in. My bf wanted me to be with him through hard times but I had school and he didn’t, I had my job but he quit his. I was exhausted and I was there in the hospital when I could, and so were some of my fam members. My family didn’t have to see him, they did it out of heart. You must know I do not drive because of my mental illness. And I can’t take Ubers because I don’t trust them if I have a seizure. Anyway, The operated day I was at home didn’t wanted to see him because I was exhausted emotionally and who knew if all my emotions came out and I could have a seizure. He got mad and broke down and spoke to Sania that I wasn’t there. The next day, I came to the hospital and Sania in front of him, his brother, said quietly “fat cow” quietly that only I could hear. I’m 5’8 and I weight 149 so Im in a good shape. I said “sorry for not coming to the operation”. Then she said out loud “everything that your boyfriend said and what you’ve done is a disappointment, we will talk later”. I said “yes”. Acting as if she was my mom. My bf didn’t defend or said anything to her. He stayed quiet looking at his grandma in hospital bed. Don’t forget I apologized the same day of the operation for not seeing him through text. His mom spoke bad about me to him and telling him to dump me, until I dumped him. I couldn’t take hearing all his problems it was causing me anxiety. He apologized to me 3 months after his grandma death. And his mother left our city and I didn’t want him back until he brought me flowers, we hanged out and it felt normal. He joined an academy. So I accepted him back. It turned out he was going to another girl’s house behind my back with 2 more guys. I know I shouldn’t have checked his phone but he was being secretive. He stopped talking to her and I never knew if he cheated but he was “30 min from Orlando” at least that’s what the message said with hearts. And he met her parents. We’re together it’s been up and down. But we’re loving each other and going on dates. I’m still with him and he’s taking bout kids with me and we’re only 21/22🤨.

First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words and support from the last post. A lot has happened since then, and a bunch of context is needed, so I hope you'll bear with me as I explain the details.
***
Back during the peak of the blinking crisis, I remember having a lot of difficulty sleeping. It was common for me to average only four or five hours a night, and the little sleep I did get was marred by terrible nightmares. One in particular recurred many times.
I was only eight, but somehow I was in the driver's seat of our family's old SUV. My arms were long enough to steady the wheel, but my legs didn't quite meet the pedals. It didn't matter though, since the car seemed content to continue on at a constant pace. I looked over and saw my mom in the passenger seat. Her face was a blurry likeness pieced together from the dozen or so picture's I'd seen of her over the years. I tried to bring her into focus, not only because I missed her dearly, but because she was speaking—pleading, even. She waved frantically at me, then brought her leg up and slammed it down on the floor mat several times. I didn't understand what had her so upset until she pointed out the front windshield, and I saw we were hurdling directly toward a giant tree that had fallen in the middle of the road.
Panicking, I stomped for the brake, but my seatbelt protested and pulled me back like an invigorated dog on a short leash. I sat up and tried clicking it off, but it wouldn't budge. My breaths became hollow cries, and I felt my heart beat against the bars of its bony prison. I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the left, then right, attempting to swerve off the road, but it was as if whatever kind of glue was locking up the seatbelt was also fixing the steering wheel in place.
"Mom! what do I do!?" I yelled, tears streaming from my eyes. She was yelling back at me, but it was as if there was a divider between us, and neither of us could hear each other. I turned back just in time to see the giant Oak tree meet the front bumper, and then I jolted awake with a piercing pain in my chest that radiated up through my throat in the form of a giant scream. My little legs kicked under the covers and tears rained down on my pillow until my dad ran in and knelt at my bed.
"Lauren, are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
I grabbed my pillow and hugged it so my face was covered, then effused a "Mmm-hmm" in a long wheeze while rocking to either side.
"Oh, honey," he soothed and brushed my hair, then the tears from my face when I would allow it.
Time would pass in silence, and when I began to get the sense that my dad was ready to leave, I'd chirp out, "stay" in that way children do when they're embarrassed about wanting something.
"Always," my dad would reply; then he'd post up on the floor with my large tomato plushie as a pillow.
One night in particular, it was deep in the night, and I had woken to a tapping sound outside my window. I was so afraid that a monster had snuck into my room while I wasn't looking that I made him lay next to me and face outward. I'd peek my eyes open every minute or so to check and make sure my dad was there, staking out the room. Eventually, he rolled in close and said something that I still remember to this day.
"Hey, baby, guess what." he whispered.
"Mmm" I mumbled.
"I think you scared the monster away."
I tried to picture this through the fog of my fatigue. Something seemed off about the statement, like it wasn't logically possible, but before I could piece together the words to express that, my dad cut back in.
"It was scared because it realized you're a superhero. And you know what your greatest superpower is?"
I shook my head, making sure to rub my forehead against his shoulder so he could sense it in the dark room.
"You're greatest power is that you get to tell the monsters what to do. Because the monsters are only as strong as the stories you tell about them. And there's all kinds of stories. Happy ones. Sad ones. Scary ones. Tell me, this monster you think snuck in, would you say he's part of a scary story?"
"I don't know," I said, confused. "Maybe"
"Hmm," he hummed, contemplating. "Well, I want you to remember this. You have the ability to tell any kind of story you want. Maybe there are monsters, but that means there's heroes and angels, too, right?"
I was beginning to doze off to the comforting sound of my dad's deep voice, but I gave another affirmative "Mm-hmm".
"So, if you're ever scared, honey, just dream up a better story. A story that will bring you peace. Do you understand?"
But I was already out.
***
I woke up the next morning to the feeling that someone was in the hotel room with me. The drapes were drawn and the only sound was the AC unit blowing cold air, but when I looked toward the dark corner of the empty coat rack, my mind conjured the face of my dad, smiling at me, chanting that same, awful line—Oh, Lauren… you know who we are.
I was no longer a child, but it took a couple minutes of cold focus before I muscled the courage to ascend from the safety of my covers and flick on the lamp light. The small amber radius extended to where my dad's feet would have been if he was standing there. But there was no one. I let out a sigh and collapsed back onto the mattress, thinking back on all those years growing up. The same man who had helped me conquer my fear of the dark was now the monster hiding in its shadow.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the clock read 10:15. My meeting with Trent was in three hours. I moaned and stretched my arms back until they knocked against the headboard, then I collapsed back onto the mattress, meditating, gathering energy like a compressed spring. All at once, I jumped up and glided over to the drapes, opening them in a single, fluid motion. I grimaced at the sunlight, but the warmth felt good against my face. I stopped by the nightstand and gulped down the final few swigs of a bottle of Mello Yello that I had purchased from a vending machine the previous night, then undressed and hopped in the shower.
The warm water wasn't enough to wash away the previous night's memories. When I closed my eyes to lather my hair, I was back in my living room, standing opposite the demon that had taken on my dad's form. His smile. His laugh. It was like someone in my head was flipping a switch between the man I loved growing up and a terrible monster. But the fear was more powerful. I heard something drop onto the tile floor on the other side of the curtain. The noise made me gasp, and I opened my eyes while shampoo was still streaming down my face. I swiped the shampoo out of my now burning eyes and squinted at the curtain, trying to see through it, but I couldn't make anything out. "I-is anyone," I started, trembling, afraid to finish the sentence. I reached out and pinched the end of the curtain. My heart was in overdrive. I swallowed, then pulled it toward me and peeked out. I scanned the room, but I couldn't see anything out of place.
It wasn't until after I finished showering and wound myself up in one of the hotel's too-small towels that I saw what had made the noise. I bent down and picked up the stub of a razor blade that had fallen onto the tile right next to the puffy, gray shower rug. It wasn't mine, and I was pretty sure hotels didn't keep unguarded razor blades just laying around. When I held it up, it occurred to me that if it had simply fallen a few inches to the left, it would have been buried in the rug, and perhaps I would have stepped on it. I stared at myself in its steely reflection. Cold. Lonely. Small. What if I—was all I was able to think before the blade blinked out of my hand.
I threw on some clothes, packed up the few belongings I had into my purse, then checked out of my room. I didn't feel safe going back home after what happened, but I also didn't want to go anywhere else. I got in my car and drove aimlessly up and down the town's streets, focusing only on the car ahead of me. Anytime I started to travel down an avenue of thought, I'd make a turn, or speed up, or hit the brakes: anything to keep my mind distracted. It was sweltering outside, but I'd turn the heat on for minutes at a time until I felt drenched, then toggle max AC until I was cool, then back to heat. I repeated the basic driving tenet "10 and 2", "10 and 2", "10 and 2" like a mantra—a chant to focus my attention on a single point, and then I pictured that point disappearing. I began to think that maybe I wanted to disappear.
I fully intended to keep going that way until 1:00, but after about thirty minutes, my meandering route had led me to St. Mark's Catholic Church, where a large group of people were gathered around a long line of tables in front of the building. I slowed down. At the front of the venue was a large, white cardboard sign which read, "Plant a Seed, Share the Joy". I wasn't sure what that meant, but my boredom had come to a head, and I rationalized that if there's any place on God's green earth that would be safe, it was this one. I parked along the closest side-street, then walked over to the church.
Rows of white tables were covered with cardboard boxes filled with small plants that were wrapped up in individual paper pots. I watched from a distance as people behind the tables carefully removed the plants, one by one, and offered them to passersby. I continued down the line, a sheep in the herd, and allowed myself to sink into childhood memories. I had somehow made it out the other end near the Narthex when I heard a woman's voice call to me.
"Hey, deary, have you gotten one yet?"
I turned and saw a small, gray-haired lady with rose-colored glasses. "Oh, no," I started, attempting to decline, then paused. The old lady grabbed one of the plants and held it out for me.
"Here," she said. "Come on, I won't bite."
As far as you know, I thought, and stumbled forward with a sigh. "Thanks," I said and took the plant. "What is this all for, anyway?"
"It's a giveaway," the old woman responded. "Staff have been growing these plants—tomatoes and garlic, mainly—so they could offer them to members of the Parish. The idea is to have the members grow the produce, then donate it to St. Mark's Food Pantry to give to those in need."
"Oh, that's actually pretty cool." I replied and inspected my plant which was at present nothing more than a small green stem. "So which kind is this one?"
"That one is—" the old lady stopped and inspected the other plants near where she had grabbed mine—"tomato."
"Tomato," I repeated. "Well, thanks again."
"Of course, dear." the old lady beamed. "We're all responsible for each other."
I nodded, then continued back through the crowd toward my car when, through the large vestibule windows, I saw a Priest speaking to a young couple. It had been a little over a decade since I had attended a service (I stopped going during High School when I started studying other religions), and I didn't recognize this Priest. He was short (just over five feet tall), bald, and African American. He wore the customary black robe and white collar, and there was something in his smile and the way seemed to be affirming the couple that made me yearn to speak with him. I considered for a moment, a bit embarrassed to be stepping back into church after all this time, but the thought of being able to burn ten minutes talking with someone who might have some insight into my situation was too tempting to pass up.
I waited near a portrait of Mary Magdalene, my tomato plant in hand, staring off at the pristine series of stained glass images portraying the death and resurrection of Jesus. About a minute in, the Priest met my eyes; he smiled, his way of telling me he knew I was waiting, then finished up with the couple and made his way over. He had a bit of an accent when he spoke—it was Ugandan, from best I could tell—and a proclivity for laughing at the end of his sentences.
"Hello, Miss, I don't believe I've had the privilege," he said and held out his hand. He leaned in as he spoke, and his smile tugged on the corners of his eyes which were already marked with use.
I shook his hand and returned what I'm sure was a weak smile. "No, I don't think so. My name's Lauren. I used to come here when I was little. It's—been a while."
"Well, I see you picked a good day to visit. If you're into gardening, that is." He remarked with a laugh and gestured toward the plant. "It's nice to meet you, Lauren. My name's Martin—Father Martin, if you prefer."
"Father Martin," I repeated, "I have a friend named Martin. It's a good name."
He laughed and said, "Thank you, I'll pass that one along to my mother. She loves the praise."
I laughed back. He carried himself in such a carefree way that I was put immediately at ease. Almost to the point where I forgot what I wanted to talk to him about. "Um," I started, attempting to word my question in a way that didn't sound like I needed psychiatric help. "I have a couple of religious questions for you, if you have time."
"That's what I'm for. Ask away."
"They're about… miracles. Like the ones in the Bible. I was wondering, do you think that miracles still happen today?"
"Miracles, huh," he started. "You mean like water into wine?"
"Kind of, yeah,"
"Hmm…" he contemplated. "Well, I haven't seen them, myself. You know, I may be a Priest, but I also have a degree in Physics. I think God made the world according to laws, right? But I do think God has the power to intervene. Yes. I just have never seen it… like … you know, the biblical type of miracles. To me, there are miracles happening all around us—miracles we can't see."
"Exactly," I responded, thinking about how no one else could see the blinks, "those kinds of miracles. What are those miracles we can't see?"
One of Father Martin's eyebrows raised and he rubbed his chin. "Well, I think the greatest miracle is the miracle of God's love which was perfected in Christ and offered to each of us. It's his power to heal even the most troubled mind. By coming into alignment with God's will for us, we can see the true purpose of this existence."
No, he's not getting it, I thought. I scrambled to my other entry-point. "What about the story of Job? God made a bet with the Devil that Job would stay faithful to him no matter what the Devil did to him. Do you think that kind of situation is possible?"
Father Martin's expression drooped into a concerned frown. "There's quite the difference between miracles and the story of Job. I suppose I see what you're getting at, though. Job's suffering is in some ways the antithesis to positive miracles. In this life, we are tested, sometimes to the point of losing everything, but even that person who has more reason to hate God than anyone else can once again find peace and eternal happiness through faith. In fact, it's often the person who is lowest in the pit of suffering that needs the Light of Christ more than anyone else."
I thought back on the first night that I prayed. It was in my moment of greatest helplessness that I reached out to God, and I thought I had found my answer in Him. But now, after what happened last night, after all these years of chaos—not merely losing things that were important to me, but my very sanity—I needed more than just blind faith. I couldn't just sit idly by and hope things would get better. I smiled at the Priest and said, "Thank you, Father, this has been very insightful."
"Of course, sister. I'm sorry if I couldn't have been of more help."
"No, I think I understand now. I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared."
Father Martin nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, will you let me leave you with a prayer?"
I was a bit taken off guard by the request, but I accepted. "Sure, Father."
I watched as he made the sign of the cross, then he lifted his hands and closed his eyes. "Dear God, I am so happy to have had the privilege of meeting with Lauren today, especially on a day such as this where we are offering gifts for those who need them. You have heard her desire to confront the things that are troubling her. I ask that you bless her with strength and peace and a clear conscience, that she may overcome these challenges. God, bless us with your spirit, that we may see your hand in our lives. Amen."
"Amen," I said.
As I was leaving, Father Martin called out to me and said, "Oh, just so you know, this Friday at 7 we are having a barbecue at the Parish Center. I would love to see you there, if you're able and wanting."
Turning back, I smiled and said, "Oh, ok, thanks Father. I'll think about it."
The priest nodded, and with a smile, he sent me off.
***
I walked into the Deli at 1:00 on the dot. The customers who had arrived for the lunch rush were already cleaning up their trash and heading out. I dodged past a few of them on my way down the long, narrow path leading to the front counter. While I waited behind a couple of elderly folk who were picking which soup they wanted to pair with their Ultimate Grilled Cheese, I looked around for Trent. He hadn't sent me a picture or any way of contacting him throughout the day, so I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I figured I'd see some man half-hidden behind a newspaper, scouting me out. Maybe I watch too many movies, I thought.
"Ahem, ma'am. You're up." croaked the teenager behind the register.
"Oh, right, sorry" I replied and stepped up to the counter. "Uhh," I muttered, scanning the menu for something that looked edible. "Could I just get…" I made sure to mouth every syllable as they were words of their own.
"We have a deal—the try two combo. Sandwich and a soup for $9.99." the cashier repeated for what was probably the fiftieth time that day.
"Yes, that sounds good. I'll do the Italian sandwich and potato soup. And a drink, please."
After I paid for the food, I wandered around the tables, hoping to find someone who looked like a Trent. I was picturing a short guy, runner's build, with long brown hair, tucked somewhere neatly away in the corner. So I was not prepared when the Hulk's stunt double growled my name from a table smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. He had a pale, square face that was spotted with freckles and a sinking property that comes with the lethal combination of stress and age. His hair was relatively short. Probably it was brown or auburn, but since it was slicked back, it looked almost black. And he wore what looked like janitor coveralls. There was even a cloth tag pinned to his chest which read, "Trent".
"Lauren?" He repeated.
"Yes, that's me." I said and took a seat across from him. I saw a brown tray on the table in front of him, and on the tray was a large, white soup bowl. It was empty and beginning to crust along the edges. He must have been here for some time already. "I didn't know where you'd be, so I was worried we might miss each other. I'm glad you found me though." I said while looking over Trent more thoroughly. His large hands were stretched out in front of him on the table. He wasn't wearing a ring, so he probably wasn't married. And his face, it was stern. He seemed like a no-bullshit kind of guy. Then I saw his eyes. They were sapphire blue—probably the most stunning I'd ever seen.
"We only spoke on the internet, so I hope you don't mind, but I usually run a preliminary test on anyone I meet who claims to have abilities such as yours." Trent said while reaching into his pocket and removing a device that had the size and shape of an electric razor. "All you have to do is look into it. It takes maybe five seconds. Ten at most."
"Oh, um, sure," I said reluctantly. "Do I just—" I asked while reaching for the device.
Trent clicked a button and released the cylindrical head which opened, revealing a glass circle about the size of an iris. "I'll hold it, just look into the center. A red cross should appear, then it'll take the picture."
"Okay…" I replied and did as he instructed, leaning my head forward to look into the device. Sure enough, a red cross appeared. "Is it…" was all I got out before the light turned blue and I saw a gray fog disperse and billow throughout the inside of the tube, extending for what I perceived to be miles. My jaw went slack and I couldn't breathe for maybe five seconds. Then Trent reshuttered the device and turned it over.
"Damn, 72." He said with a hint of shock. "That's the highest I've scanned to date." He looked back at me, more relaxed now, and muttered to himself. "How have you been able to function for this long? At this level, you should basically be half in, half out."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a mixture of pain and frustration and fatigue and impatience which all poured out at once. "Listen, Trent," I said as sternly as I could, "I came here because you said you knew what was wrong with me and that you could help me. I get you have to make sure I am who I said I am, but now it's your turn to pay up. How do I know you know anything about my condition? You said my mom might still be alive. What does that even mean? I saw her die right in front of me. I want answers."
I waited for Trent to respond, but he only lifted his head. I turned around and saw a girl holding a tray of food.
"Um, hi, sorry to interrupt. I have an order 36 for Lauren."
"Oh, yes, thank you." I said. The worker placed the tray down on the table in front of me, and when I saw the food, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Trent must have also realized this, because he folded his arms and said, "go ahead and eat. I'll explain while you do."
I wanted to protest, but my salivating mouth made other plans. "Fine," I said. I grabbed the metal spoon off the tray and started on the soup, bracing against the steaming heat of the potato chunks.
As I ate, Trent moved all of the items on his tray off to the side, then he flipped the tray over so it was raised slightly off the table. He took his cup and placed it face down in the center, then he rolled up a few of his used, blue mayonnaise packets and charted a track across the tray.
"What are you doing?" I croaked out between bites.
Trent ignored me and continued by ripping up a napkin into strips and placing them alongside the mayonnaise packets. Finally, he snapped ten toothpicks in half and stuck them in the tomb of a dozen overlayed napkins. "It's your diorama," he said at last.
"It's my what?"
"From the story you sent me. Your diorama. When I read about it, it gave me a good idea of how to explain the 'blinking'."
I pointed at the cup in the center. "Is that supposed to be a pyramid? Because I'm pretty sure you're in the wrong geometric neighborhood with that one."
"It's an analogy," he said.
"Of an analogy," I quipped back.
"Look," he picked out one of the toothpicks and held it out in front of me. "This could be a person, an animal, a crowbar—whatever you want. The point is, this diorama is a stand in for our universe. This is everything that exists, that we can see. Okay?"
"Okay,"
"Now, me," Trent placed a hand over his heart. "I'm not in the diorama. I don't exist in the universe."
"In the universe where a cup is a pyramid, or the actual universe?" I said, unable to control myself.
Trent grimaced.
"Sorry, keep going. I get it."
"Things pop into," Trent threw the toothpick back onto the tray, "or out of," he picked the toothpick back up, "our universe at will, based on forces," he patted his chest again, "that exist in other realms" he gestured to the room, "that are connected to our universe," he tapped two fingers against the tray. "These things could be objects, like, say, a toothpick, or entities, like the one you encountered yesterday. The blinking experience that you described aligns with the typical experience of a moderate Antenna. That's what I call people like us—Antennas; because we can pick up on signals others can't."
"We—you mean you see the blinking, too?"
"Yes, but not to the same extent as you. If all the blinks are gathered in a giant picture that you can see, I'm traversing the image through binoculars, maybe even a microscope, depending on where we are."
I thought about this. I guess it was possible there were other people like me out there, but since I had never met anyone, I didn't really consider the idea until now. And then for him to say my ability was somehow much stronger than his… "But," I started, "I haven't even seen that many blinks since I was a child. It's just more focused and malicious now."
"Yeah," Trent scratched his head, "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying. And, look, that's all well and good, but I don't want to give you the false impression that I'm some kind of religious leader. I like to look for logical, scientific explanations for things. So that's the frame I'm coming at this from."
I took a sip from my drink. "That's fine," I said, "the truth is that's why I reached out to you in the first place. I wanted an explanation I could understand. An explanation that was directly related to what I'm going through."
"Then we should get along just fine."
I was scooping out the last potato that was stubbornly gliding along the bottom of the bowl when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the old man from the line shooting up from his bench and standing in army-erect form. I felt a tingling sensation tickle the back of my neck. I didn't want to turn toward him. I knew what I'd see if I did. "Trent," I whispered, trying to tip him off.
"Huh?" he grunted. Then when he saw my expression, he snuck his right hand under the table and said, "Do you see it? Is it here?"
I cocked my head to the left, signaling toward the old man that was now facing us, but Trent didn't seem to notice him: his eyes just kept scanning the entire front of the restaurant. Then I saw the old man take a step in our direction.
"Lauuurennnn, oh Lauuuurennnn, I've been looking for you, Laurenn." The old man said in a low, gravelly voice that gave the impression he was gurgling liquid tar. I turned and saw his face. It was cold and expressionless, and a butter knife was poking out of his left fist. When I met his eyes, he smiled that horrible smile."You're a slippery bitch, you know that?" He spat. "Why can't you just stay put? Don't you get tired of running from your old friend? Or have you forgotten about me?"
"Trent," I mumbled out. "Right there."
"And this guy. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. If that's not clear, you really are a lost little lamb."
"Quick, give me your hand," Trent instructed.
I was silent, my eyes still pinned to the old man.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk," the demon possessed senior wagged his finger at me, taking a step, then another step, shortening the distance as much as he could while I was entranced. Then, suddenly, he sprinted forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man his age.
"Trent!" I screamed.
"Lauren, give me your hand!"
I spun around and grabbed Tren'ts outstretched arm just as the old man lifted the butter knife over his head like a pickaxe. Then I saw Trent pull out what looked like a toy gun from under the table and point it at the demon.
"Got you," Trent remarked. I braced for a gunshot, but there was no noise. After a couple seconds, I looked back and saw the old man sitting in the booth opposite his wife, his hand tremoring as he reached for his large drink.
"What did you?" I asked, but Trent was already pulling me out of my seat. "Come on, we have to go," he said, "the effect is temporary, he'll be—"
Before he could get out the last word, I saw the cup-pyramid on Trent's tray blink out of existence. The sound of a plate shattering rang out from a table up ahead. The lone woman standing there slowly turned around, smiling, with a fork in one hand and a piece of the broken plate in the other. Trent shot her with the toy gun as we ran past and then barreled through the front door.
"Where—are we going?" I asked between gasps.
"My van. It's loaded with kit."
"And then where?"
"Your house" replied Trent who stashed his gun back in his pocket and took out a key fob.
"My house? But that's where he—it appeared."
"Yeah, and that's where you banished it."
Trent waved me into the passenger seat of his RAM 3500 Promaster. I noticed right away the dash which looked more like it belonged in a new limited-edition EV than a cargo van. The ignition kicked on automatically, and I heard the beep of a sonar ping precede an English woman's voice calling out like some auxed-in GPS saying, "scanning for anomalies". Trent shifted the van into gear, and I heard the wheels sputter as we accelerated backward and whipped out of the small parking lot.
"What's your address?" Trent asked. I gave it to him, and then speaking to his dash, he said, "Car, take us to ****."
"Redirecting to ****," replied the British woman. "Currently detecting 31 novel emergences. Updating pings every 300 milliseconds. Chance of contact: 0.23%"
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"The van has sensor equipment which can detect blinks. It's much more accurate than either of us."
"And it sees 31?"
"Yes, that's not as many as it sounds." Trent said and tore past a car that blinked out of existence right as we turned onto the main street.
We drove on for another couple minutes, the Englishwoman updating the number of novel emergences every ten seconds or so. Her constant babbling eventually became a comforting background noise, and I was able to think again.
"In the message you sent me, you said my mom may still be alive." I looked at Trent to see if he would react to me bringing her up, but he remained stolid. "What did you mean by that?"
Trent thumbed his steering wheel. "I shouldn't have sent that." He said at last.
"Shouldn't have… What do you mean? You can't just say that now."
Trent took one hand off the wheel and turned toward me. "Look, we're going back to your house because we need to determine your origin point. All Antennas have them. It's a place of high energy where many realms intersect, kind of like a station, and it's the place where you first acquired your abilities. Based on everything you wrote, I'm guessing that place is where the forest where the accident happened when you were a young child. But I need to confirm it. Once I confirm that that's the place…" Trent hesitated.
"Then… what? You want us to go back there? To the place where my mom died, or at least where I think she died until you told me she might be alive but are now taking it back? That place?"
"It's the only way to—"
"Now detecting novel agent," the Englishwoman interrupted. We both perked up as she gave another update. "Net anomalies: 437. Novel Agents: 1. Chance of contact: 78%."
"Shit," Trent muttered. "Car, course correct."
"Attempting course correct to avoid collision. Attempts made: 10, 50, 75, 79… No alternate route detected. Chance of contact: 96%."
"Time until contact?"
"Time until contact: 13 seconds."
I shuddered. Looking out the front windshield, I saw cars pop out of existence left and right, opening up a clear path to the four way intersection ahead. In a blink, the streetlights all turned green, and then they vanished completely. It was as if the entire world was being stripped down bare, and all that remained was the road, boxed in by the rows of buildings along either side. In the distance I could see a large tanker barreling toward us.
"Trent,"
"I know," he replied and clicked a different button on the console which opened a new toggle for the shifter labeled "TD". He pushed the stick forward, engaging the new mode, then pressed the accelerator all the way to the ground. "You're going to want to hold on."
"What are you doing!?" I yelled, grabbing onto my seatbelt.
"No time to explain. Car, release phase lock."
"Phase lock released."
I watched in horror as the color drained from the road and buildings and sky, transforming it all into a dim tunnel, with only the headlights of the oncoming semi-truck visible up ahead. I had the sudden thought that this was all a dream, just like the ones from my childhood. I looked over and no longer saw Trent, but my mother. And then I realized this wasn't a dream. This was hell. I was being forced to relive the worst moment of my life, over and over again. Just when I thought I had escaped, I was pulled right back into that car, helpless as we approached but never arrived at our impending fate. I closed my eyes right as the lights engulfed the windshield and braced for the usual pain in my chest, for the feeling of breaking.
But it didn't come.
"Shift" was the last word out of Trent's mouth, and then I was infused with the sensation of being at the pinnacle of a roller coaster. I was suspended there for what felt like hours, but somehow I knew that not even a second had passed. Everything inside the van: the dashboard, windows, ceiling, doors, even Trent himself began to radiate enigmatic particles. They were a mass of constant motion, like raindrops falling through the air but never landing. I looked down at my hand, but it was gone. Diffused into an unknowable number of untraceable particles. The world outside, once devoid of color, was now nothing but color. When I tried to focus on a particular spot in the infinite geometric folds of whatever realm we were traversing through, I could sometimes detect a trace of our world.
The old lady from the church. She appeared as if through a window, standing behind a table, holding out a plant. Only this image was so much brighter. And the plant she was holding was pure gold. Then I'd catch a glimpse of the razor blade. It was large, many hundreds of times larger than the van, and surrounded by darkness. These ghostly images appeared like holograms or reflections that caught the light at just the right angle, then dissipated.
I stayed there, looping between the archetypes of my life for a long, long time.
***
I knew we were returning when I felt the first sense of motion. Breath filled my lungs for the first time in what felt like a day. I blinked. And then we were back in town, driving down the same road with the blue sky above. People were jogging on the sidewalk past the little street shops. The streetlights were active. I checked the side mirror and saw the tanker had just passed by.
I looked over at Trent, who met my eyes. We shared a look of knowing, and unknowing. For some reason, that was enough, and we continued on in silence.
***
We agreed to stay the night at my house.
Trent had parked a couple blocks away in front of a couple vacant houses so as not to arouse suspicion from the neighbors. Then he lugged a large duffel bag with his equipment in and set it up in the living room. He scanned the scrapbook which contained the newspaper clippings from the accident several times and confirmed that was likely my 'origin point'. I simply nodded and then went back out onto the back porch. I sat there for hours, basking in the sun. Something had changed in the past day, but I couldn't pick out what it was. Too much had happened. I had too little time to process any of it.
When the sun set, I went inside and Trent told me about his plans for the next couple days. He said he needed to run a few errands in the morning, then meet up with a couple of his associates. After that, we could begin our drive to Southern Illinois. He said it was likely that the entity that was chasing me had first tied itself to me during my childhood accident. For whatever reason, we came into contact, and now it didn't want to leave. Trent would help me get rid of it. He didn't go into many details regarding how that was to happen, but I don't think in my tired state I would have been able to understand much anyway. He had a plan, and that was enough for me. At least for a while.
After our meeting, I made sure Trent had enough pillows and blankets like a proper host, then I retired to my room. I laid down on my twin bed and stared up at the cream-colored ceiling. Then I turned and saw the participation awards for my junior soccer league stashed on my dresser. I pictured myself on the field, running with the ball, out ahead of everyone except the goalie. I took a shot, but it was blocked. Then I ran back to defend. How can such a simple game be so much fun? Was the last thought I had before drifting off to sleep.
I woke up only once during the night. It was still dark out. The room was warm despite the small, flower petal fan churning away, shifting the hot, humid air from one pocket of the room to the next. I waited in apprehension, sensing that something had disturbed me. I saw the tomato plushie peeking out at me from the slightly ajar closet door where I had stashed it so many years ago. I felt like I was missing something. Something important.
And then I heard it.
There was a tapping at my window.

Part 1
First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words and support from the last post. A lot has happened since then, and a bunch of context is needed, so I hope you'll bear with me as I explain the details.
***
Back during the peak of the blinking crisis, I remember having a lot of difficulty sleeping. It was common for me to average only four or five hours a night, and the little sleep I did get was marred by terrible nightmares. One in particular recurred many times.
I was only eight, but somehow I was in the driver's seat of our family's old SUV. My arms were long enough to steady the wheel, but my legs didn't quite meet the pedals. It didn't matter though, since the car seemed content to continue on at a constant pace. I looked over and saw my mom in the passenger seat. Her face was a blurry likeness pieced together from the dozen or so picture's I'd seen of her over the years. I tried to bring her into focus, not only because I missed her dearly, but because she was speaking—pleading, even. She waved frantically at me, then brought her leg up and slammed it down on the floor mat several times. I didn't understand what had her so upset until she pointed out the front windshield, and I saw we were hurdling directly toward a giant tree that had fallen in the middle of the road.
Panicking, I stomped for the brake, but my seatbelt protested and pulled me back like an invigorated dog on a short leash. I sat up and tried clicking it off, but it wouldn't budge. My breaths became hollow cries, and I felt my heart beat against the bars of its bony prison. I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the left, then right, attempting to swerve off the road, but it was as if whatever kind of glue was locking up the seatbelt was also fixing the steering wheel in place.
"Mom! what do I do!?" I yelled, tears streaming from my eyes. She was yelling back at me, but it was as if there was a divider between us, and neither of us could hear each other. I turned back just in time to see the giant Oak tree meet the front bumper, and then I jolted awake with a piercing pain in my chest that radiated up through my throat in the form of a giant scream. My little legs kicked under the covers and tears rained down on my pillow until my dad ran in and knelt at my bed.
"Lauren, are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
I grabbed my pillow and hugged it so my face was covered, then effused a "Mmm-hmm" in a long wheeze while rocking to either side.
"Oh, honey," he soothed and brushed my hair, then the tears from my face when I would allow it.
Time would pass in silence, and when I began to get the sense that my dad was ready to leave, I'd chirp out, "stay" in that way children do when they're embarrassed about wanting something.
"Always," my dad would reply; then he'd post up on the floor with my large tomato plushie as a pillow.
One night in particular, it was deep in the night, and I had woken to a tapping sound outside my window. I was so afraid that a monster had snuck into my room while I wasn't looking that I made him lay next to me and face outward. I'd peek my eyes open every minute or so to check and make sure my dad was there, staking out the room. Eventually, he rolled in close and said something that I still remember to this day.
"Hey, baby, guess what." he whispered.
"Mmm" I mumbled.
"I think you scared the monster away."
I tried to picture this through the fog of my fatigue. Something seemed off about the statement, like it wasn't logically possible, but before I could piece together the words to express that, my dad cut back in.
"It was scared because it realized you're a superhero. And you know what your greatest superpower is?"
I shook my head, making sure to rub my forehead against his shoulder so he could sense it in the dark room.
"You're greatest power is that you get to tell the monsters what to do. Because the monsters are only as strong as the stories you tell about them. And there's all kinds of stories. Happy ones. Sad ones. Scary ones. Tell me, this monster you think snuck in, would you say he's part of a scary story?"
"I don't know," I said, confused. "Maybe"
"Hmm," he hummed, contemplating. "Well, I want you to remember this. You have the ability to tell any kind of story you want. Maybe there are monsters, but that means there's heroes and angels, too, right?"
I was beginning to doze off to the comforting sound of my dad's deep voice, but I gave another affirmative "Mm-hmm".
"So, if you're ever scared, honey, just dream up a better story. A story that will bring you peace. Do you understand?"
But I was already out.
***
I woke up the next morning to the feeling that someone was in the hotel room with me. The drapes were drawn and the only sound was the AC unit blowing cold air, but when I looked toward the dark corner of the empty coat rack, my mind conjured the face of my dad, smiling at me, chanting that same, awful line—Oh, Lauren… you know who we are.
I was no longer a child, but it took a couple minutes of cold focus before I muscled the courage to ascend from the safety of my covers and flick on the lamp light. The small amber radius extended to where my dad's feet would have been if he was standing there. But there was no one. I let out a sigh and collapsed back onto the mattress, thinking back on all those years growing up. The same man who had helped me conquer my fear of the dark was now the monster hiding in its shadow.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the clock read 10:15. My meeting with Trent was in three hours. I moaned and stretched my arms back until they knocked against the headboard, then I collapsed back onto the mattress, meditating, gathering energy like a compressed spring. All at once, I jumped up and glided over to the drapes, opening them in a single, fluid motion. I grimaced at the sunlight, but the warmth felt good against my face. I stopped by the nightstand and gulped down the final few swigs of a bottle of Mello Yello that I had purchased from a vending machine the previous night, then undressed and hopped in the shower.
The warm water wasn't enough to wash away the previous night's memories. When I closed my eyes to lather my hair, I was back in my living room, standing opposite the demon that had taken on my dad's form. His smile. His laugh. It was like someone in my head was flipping a switch between the man I loved growing up and a terrible monster. But the fear was more powerful. I heard something drop onto the tile floor on the other side of the curtain. The noise made me gasp, and I opened my eyes while shampoo was still streaming down my face. I swiped the shampoo out of my now burning eyes and squinted at the curtain, trying to see through it, but I couldn't make anything out. "I-is anyone," I started, trembling, afraid to finish the sentence. I reached out and pinched the end of the curtain. My heart was in overdrive. I swallowed, then pulled it toward me and peeked out. I scanned the room, but I couldn't see anything out of place.
It wasn't until after I finished showering and wound myself up in one of the hotel's too-small towels that I saw what had made the noise. I bent down and picked up the stub of a razor blade that had fallen onto the tile right next to the puffy, gray shower rug. It wasn't mine, and I was pretty sure hotels didn't keep unguarded razor blades just laying around. When I held it up, it occurred to me that if it had simply fallen a few inches to the left, it would have been buried in the rug, and perhaps I would have stepped on it. I stared at myself in its steely reflection. Cold. Lonely. Small. What if I—was all I was able to think before the blade blinked out of my hand.
I threw on some clothes, packed up the few belongings I had into my purse, then checked out of my room. I didn't feel safe going back home after what happened, but I also didn't want to go anywhere else. I got in my car and drove aimlessly up and down the town's streets, focusing only on the car ahead of me. Anytime I started to travel down an avenue of thought, I'd make a turn, or speed up, or hit the brakes: anything to keep my mind distracted. It was sweltering outside, but I'd turn the heat on for minutes at a time until I felt drenched, then toggle max AC until I was cool, then back to heat. I repeated the basic driving tenet "10 and 2", "10 and 2", "10 and 2" like a mantra—a chant to focus my attention on a single point, and then I pictured that point disappearing. I began to think that maybe I wanted to disappear.
I fully intended to keep going that way until 1:00, but after about thirty minutes, my meandering route had led me to St. Mark's Catholic Church, where a large group of people were gathered around a long line of tables in front of the building. I slowed down. At the front of the venue was a large, white cardboard sign which read, "Plant a Seed, Share the Joy". I wasn't sure what that meant, but my boredom had come to a head, and I rationalized that if there's any place on God's green earth that would be safe, it was this one. I parked along the closest side-street, then walked over to the church.
Rows of white tables were covered with cardboard boxes filled with small plants that were wrapped up in individual paper pots. I watched from a distance as people behind the tables carefully removed the plants, one by one, and offered them to passersby. I continued down the line, a sheep in the herd, and allowed myself to sink into childhood memories. I had somehow made it out the other end near the Narthex when I heard a woman's voice call to me.
"Hey, deary, have you gotten one yet?"
I turned and saw a small, gray-haired lady with rose-colored glasses. "Oh, no," I started, attempting to decline, then paused. The old lady grabbed one of the plants and held it out for me.
"Here," she said. "Come on, I won't bite."
As far as you know, I thought, and stumbled forward with a sigh. "Thanks," I said and took the plant. "What is this all for, anyway?"
"It's a giveaway," the old woman responded. "Staff have been growing these plants—tomatoes and garlic, mainly—so they could offer them to members of the Parish. The idea is to have the members grow the produce, then donate it to St. Mark's Food Pantry to give to those in need."
"Oh, that's actually pretty cool." I replied and inspected my plant which was at present nothing more than a small green stem. "So which kind is this one?"
"That one is—" the old lady stopped and inspected the other plants near where she had grabbed mine—"tomato."
"Tomato," I repeated. "Well, thanks again."
"Of course, dear." the old lady beamed. "We're all responsible for each other."
I nodded, then continued back through the crowd toward my car when, through the large vestibule windows, I saw a Priest speaking to a young couple. It had been a little over a decade since I had attended a service (I stopped going during High School when I started studying other religions), and I didn't recognize this Priest. He was short (just over five feet tall), bald, and African American. He wore the customary black robe and white collar, and there was something in his smile and the way seemed to be affirming the couple that made me yearn to speak with him. I considered for a moment, a bit embarrassed to be stepping back into church after all this time, but the thought of being able to burn ten minutes talking with someone who might have some insight into my situation was too tempting to pass up.
I waited near a portrait of Mary Magdalene, my tomato plant in hand, staring off at the pristine series of stained glass images portraying the death and resurrection of Jesus. About a minute in, the Priest met my eyes; he smiled, his way of telling me he knew I was waiting, then finished up with the couple and made his way over. He had a bit of an accent when he spoke—it was Ugandan, from best I could tell—and a proclivity for laughing at the end of his sentences.
"Hello, Miss, I don't believe I've had the privilege," he said and held out his hand. He leaned in as he spoke, and his smile tugged on the corners of his eyes which were already marked with use.
I shook his hand and returned what I'm sure was a weak smile. "No, I don't think so. My name's Lauren. I used to come here when I was little. It's—been a while."
"Well, I see you picked a good day to visit. If you're into gardening, that is." He remarked with a laugh and gestured toward the plant. "It's nice to meet you, Lauren. My name's Martin—Father Martin, if you prefer."
"Father Martin," I repeated, "I have a friend named Martin. It's a good name."
He laughed and said, "Thank you, I'll pass that one along to my mother. She loves the praise."
I laughed back. He carried himself in such a carefree way that I was put immediately at ease. Almost to the point where I forgot what I wanted to talk to him about. "Um," I started, attempting to word my question in a way that didn't sound like I needed psychiatric help. "I have a couple of religious questions for you, if you have time."
"That's what I'm for. Ask away."
"They're about… miracles. Like the ones in the Bible. I was wondering, do you think that miracles still happen today?"
"Miracles, huh," he started. "You mean like water into wine?"
"Kind of, yeah,"
"Hmm…" he contemplated. "Well, I haven't seen them, myself. You know, I may be a Priest, but I also have a degree in Physics. I think God made the world according to laws, right? But I do think God has the power to intervene. Yes. I just have never seen it… like … you know, the biblical type of miracles. To me, there are miracles happening all around us—miracles we can't see."
"Exactly," I responded, thinking about how no one else could see the blinks, "those kinds of miracles. What are those miracles we can't see?"
One of Father Martin's eyebrows raised and he rubbed his chin. "Well, I think the greatest miracle is the miracle of God's love which was perfected in Christ and offered to each of us. It's his power to heal even the most troubled mind. By coming into alignment with God's will for us, we can see the true purpose of this existence."
No, he's not getting it, I thought. I scrambled to my other entry-point. "What about the story of Job? God made a bet with the Devil that Job would stay faithful to him no matter what the Devil did to him. Do you think that kind of situation is possible?"
Father Martin's expression drooped into a concerned frown. "There's quite the difference between miracles and the story of Job. I suppose I see what you're getting at, though. Job's suffering is in some ways the antithesis to positive miracles. In this life, we are tested, sometimes to the point of losing everything, but even that person who has more reason to hate God than anyone else can once again find peace and eternal happiness through faith. In fact, it's often the person who is lowest in the pit of suffering that needs the Light of Christ more than anyone else."
I thought back on the first night that I prayed. It was in my moment of greatest helplessness that I reached out to God, and I thought I had found my answer in Him. But now, after what happened last night, after all these years of chaos—not merely losing things that were important to me, but my very sanity—I needed more than just blind faith. I couldn't just sit idly by and hope things would get better. I smiled at the Priest and said, "Thank you, Father, this has been very insightful."
"Of course, sister. I'm sorry if I couldn't have been of more help."
"No, I think I understand now. I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared."
Father Martin nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, will you let me leave you with a prayer?"
I was a bit taken off guard by the request, but I accepted. "Sure, Father."
I watched as he made the sign of the cross, then he lifted his hands and closed his eyes. "Dear God, I am so happy to have had the privilege of meeting with Lauren today, especially on a day such as this where we are offering gifts for those who need them. You have heard her desire to confront the things that are troubling her. I ask that you bless her with strength and peace and a clear conscience, that she may overcome these challenges. God, bless us with your spirit, that we may see your hand in our lives. Amen."
"Amen," I said.
As I was leaving, Father Martin called out to me and said, "Oh, just so you know, this Friday at 7 we are having a barbecue at the Parish Center. I would love to see you there, if you're able and wanting."
Turning back, I smiled and said, "Oh, ok, thanks Father. I'll think about it."
The priest nodded, and with a smile, he sent me off.
***
I walked into the Deli at 1:00 on the dot. The customers who had arrived for the lunch rush were already cleaning up their trash and heading out. I dodged past a few of them on my way down the long, narrow path leading to the front counter. While I waited behind a couple of elderly folk who were picking which soup they wanted to pair with their Ultimate Grilled Cheese, I looked around for Trent. He hadn't sent me a picture or any way of contacting him throughout the day, so I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I figured I'd see some man half-hidden behind a newspaper, scouting me out. Maybe I watch too many movies, I thought.
"Ahem, ma'am. You're up." croaked the teenager behind the register.
"Oh, right, sorry" I replied and stepped up to the counter. "Uhh," I muttered, scanning the menu for something that looked edible. "Could I just get…" I made sure to mouth every syllable as they were words of their own.
"We have a deal—the try two combo. Sandwich and a soup for $9.99." the cashier repeated for what was probably the fiftieth time that day.
"Yes, that sounds good. I'll do the Italian sandwich and potato soup. And a drink, please."
After I paid for the food, I wandered around the tables, hoping to find someone who looked like a Trent. I was picturing a short guy, runner's build, with long brown hair, tucked somewhere neatly away in the corner. So I was not prepared when the Hulk's stunt double growled my name from a table smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. He had a pale, square face that was spotted with freckles and a sinking property that comes with the lethal combination of stress and age. His hair was relatively short. Probably it was brown or auburn, but since it was slicked back, it looked almost black. And he wore what looked like janitor coveralls. There was even a cloth tag pinned to his chest which read, "Trent".
"Lauren?" He repeated.
"Yes, that's me." I said and took a seat across from him. I saw a brown tray on the table in front of him, and on the tray was a large, white soup bowl. It was empty and beginning to crust along the edges. He must have been here for some time already. "I didn't know where you'd be, so I was worried we might miss each other. I'm glad you found me though." I said while looking over Trent more thoroughly. His large hands were stretched out in front of him on the table. He wasn't wearing a ring, so he probably wasn't married. And his face, it was stern. He seemed like a no-bullshit kind of guy. Then I saw his eyes. They were sapphire blue—probably the most stunning I'd ever seen.
"We only spoke on the internet, so I hope you don't mind, but I usually run a preliminary test on anyone I meet who claims to have abilities such as yours." Trent said while reaching into his pocket and removing a device that had the size and shape of an electric razor. "All you have to do is look into it. It takes maybe five seconds. Ten at most."
"Oh, um, sure," I said reluctantly. "Do I just—" I asked while reaching for the device.
Trent clicked a button and released the cylindrical head which opened, revealing a glass circle about the size of an iris. "I'll hold it, just look into the center. A red cross should appear, then it'll take the picture."
"Okay…" I replied and did as he instructed, leaning my head forward to look into the device. Sure enough, a red cross appeared. "Is it…" was all I got out before the light turned blue and I saw a gray fog disperse and billow throughout the inside of the tube, extending for what I perceived to be miles. My jaw went slack and I couldn't breathe for maybe five seconds. Then Trent reshuttered the device and turned it over.
"Damn, 72." He said with a hint of shock. "That's the highest I've scanned to date." He looked back at me, more relaxed now, and muttered to himself. "How have you been able to function for this long? At this level, you should basically be half in, half out."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a mixture of pain and frustration and fatigue and impatience which all poured out at once. "Listen, Trent," I said as sternly as I could, "I came here because you said you knew what was wrong with me and that you could help me. I get you have to make sure I am who I said I am, but now it's your turn to pay up. How do I know you know anything about my condition? You said my mom might still be alive. What does that even mean? I saw her die right in front of me. I want answers."
I waited for Trent to respond, but he only lifted his head. I turned around and saw a girl holding a tray of food.
"Um, hi, sorry to interrupt. I have an order 36 for Lauren."
"Oh, yes, thank you." I said. The worker placed the tray down on the table in front of me, and when I saw the food, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Trent must have also realized this, because he folded his arms and said, "go ahead and eat. I'll explain while you do."
I wanted to protest, but my salivating mouth made other plans. "Fine," I said. I grabbed the metal spoon off the tray and started on the soup, bracing against the steaming heat of the potato chunks.
As I ate, Trent moved all of the items on his tray off to the side, then he flipped the tray over so it was raised slightly off the table. He took his cup and placed it face down in the center, then he rolled up a few of his used, blue mayonnaise packets and charted a track across the tray.
"What are you doing?" I croaked out between bites.
Trent ignored me and continued by ripping up a napkin into strips and placing them alongside the mayonnaise packets. Finally, he snapped ten toothpicks in half and stuck them in the tomb of a dozen overlayed napkins. "It's your diorama," he said at last.
"It's my what?"
"From the story you sent me. Your diorama. When I read about it, it gave me a good idea of how to explain the 'blinking'."
I pointed at the cup in the center. "Is that supposed to be a pyramid? Because I'm pretty sure you're in the wrong geometric neighborhood with that one."
"It's an analogy," he said.
"Of an analogy," I quipped back.
"Look," he picked out one of the toothpicks and held it out in front of me. "This could be a person, an animal, a crowbar—whatever you want. The point is, this diorama is a stand in for our universe. This is everything that exists, that we can see. Okay?"
"Okay,"
"Now, me," Trent placed a hand over his heart. "I'm not in the diorama. I don't exist in the universe."
"In the universe where a cup is a pyramid, or the actual universe?" I said, unable to control myself.
Trent grimaced.
"Sorry, keep going. I get it."
"Things pop into," Trent threw the toothpick back onto the tray, "or out of," he picked the toothpick back up, "our universe at will, based on forces," he patted his chest again, "that exist in other realms" he gestured to the room, "that are connected to our universe," he tapped two fingers against the tray. "These things could be objects, like, say, a toothpick, or entities, like the one you encountered yesterday. The blinking experience that you described aligns with the typical experience of a moderate Antenna. That's what I call people like us—Antennas; because we can pick up on signals others can't."
"We—you mean you see the blinking, too?"
"Yes, but not to the same extent as you. If all the blinks are gathered in a giant picture that you can see, I'm traversing the image through binoculars, maybe even a microscope, depending on where we are."
I thought about this. I guess it was possible there were other people like me out there, but since I had never met anyone, I didn't really consider the idea until now. And then for him to say my ability was somehow much stronger than his… "But," I started, "I haven't even seen that many blinks since I was a child. It's just more focused and malicious now."
"Yeah," Trent scratched his head, "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying. And, look, that's all well and good, but I don't want to give you the false impression that I'm some kind of religious leader. I like to look for logical, scientific explanations for things. So that's the frame I'm coming at this from."
I took a sip from my drink. "That's fine," I said, "the truth is that's why I reached out to you in the first place. I wanted an explanation I could understand. An explanation that was directly related to what I'm going through."
"Then we should get along just fine."
I was scooping out the last potato that was stubbornly gliding along the bottom of the bowl when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the old man from the line shooting up from his bench and standing in army-erect form. I felt a tingling sensation tickle the back of my neck. I didn't want to turn toward him. I knew what I'd see if I did. "Trent," I whispered, trying to tip him off.
"Huh?" he grunted. Then when he saw my expression, he snuck his right hand under the table and said, "Do you see it? Is it here?"
I cocked my head to the left, signaling toward the old man that was now facing us, but Trent didn't seem to notice him: his eyes just kept scanning the entire front of the restaurant. Then I saw the old man take a step in our direction.
"Lauuurennnn, oh Lauuuurennnn, I've been looking for you, Laurenn." The old man said in a low, gravelly voice that gave the impression he was gurgling liquid tar. I turned and saw his face. It was cold and expressionless, and a butter knife was poking out of his left fist. When I met his eyes, he smiled that horrible smile."You're a slippery bitch, you know that?" He spat. "Why can't you just stay put? Don't you get tired of running from your old friend? Or have you forgotten about me?"
"Trent," I mumbled out. "Right there."
"And this guy. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. If that's not clear, you really are a lost little lamb."
"Quick, give me your hand," Trent instructed.
I was silent, my eyes still pinned to the old man.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk," the demon possessed senior wagged his finger at me, taking a step, then another step, shortening the distance as much as he could while I was entranced. Then, suddenly, he sprinted forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man his age.
"Trent!" I screamed.
"Lauren, give me your hand!"
I spun around and grabbed Tren'ts outstretched arm just as the old man lifted the butter knife over his head like a pickaxe. Then I saw Trent pull out what looked like a toy gun from under the table and point it at the demon.
"Got you," Trent remarked. I braced for a gunshot, but there was no noise. After a couple seconds, I looked back and saw the old man sitting in the booth opposite his wife, his hand tremoring as he reached for his large drink.
"What did you?" I asked, but Trent was already pulling me out of my seat. "Come on, we have to go," he said, "the effect is temporary, he'll be—"
Before he could get out the last word, I saw the cup-pyramid on Trent's tray blink out of existence. The sound of a plate shattering rang out from a table up ahead. The lone woman standing there slowly turned around, smiling, with a fork in one hand and a piece of the broken plate in the other. Trent shot her with the toy gun as we ran past and then barreled through the front door.
"Where—are we going?" I asked between gasps.
"My van. It's loaded with kit."
"And then where?"
"Your house" replied Trent who stashed his gun back in his pocket and took out a key fob.
"My house? But that's where he—it appeared."
"Yeah, and that's where you banished it."
Trent waved me into the passenger seat of his RAM 3500 Promaster. I noticed right away the dash which looked more like it belonged in a new limited-edition EV than a cargo van. The ignition kicked on automatically, and I heard the beep of a sonar ping precede an English woman's voice calling out like some auxed-in GPS saying, "scanning for anomalies". Trent shifted the van into gear, and I heard the wheels sputter as we accelerated backward and whipped out of the small parking lot.
"What's your address?" Trent asked. I gave it to him, and then speaking to his dash, he said, "Car, take us to ****."
"Redirecting to ****," replied the British woman. "Currently detecting 31 novel emergences. Updating pings every 300 milliseconds. Chance of contact: 0.23%"
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"The van has sensor equipment which can detect blinks. It's much more accurate than either of us."
"And it sees 31?"
"Yes, that's not as many as it sounds." Trent said and tore past a car that blinked out of existence right as we turned onto the main street.
We drove on for another couple minutes, the Englishwoman updating the number of novel emergences every ten seconds or so. Her constant babbling eventually became a comforting background noise, and I was able to think again.
"In the message you sent me, you said my mom may still be alive." I looked at Trent to see if he would react to me bringing her up, but he remained stolid. "What did you mean by that?"
Trent thumbed his steering wheel. "I shouldn't have sent that." He said at last.
"Shouldn't have… What do you mean? You can't just say that now."
Trent took one hand off the wheel and turned toward me. "Look, we're going back to your house because we need to determine your origin point. All Antennas have them. It's a place of high energy where many realms intersect, kind of like a station, and it's the place where you first acquired your abilities. Based on everything you wrote, I'm guessing that place is where the forest where the accident happened when you were a young child. But I need to confirm it. Once I confirm that that's the place…" Trent hesitated.
"Then… what? You want us to go back there? To the place where my mom died, or at least where I think she died until you told me she might be alive but are now taking it back? That place?"
"It's the only way to—"
"Now detecting novel agent," the Englishwoman interrupted. We both perked up as she gave another update. "Net anomalies: 437. Novel Agents: 1. Chance of contact: 78%."
"Shit," Trent muttered. "Car, course correct."
"Attempting course correct to avoid collision. Attempts made: 10, 50, 75, 79… No alternate route detected. Chance of contact: 96%."
"Time until contact?"
"Time until contact: 13 seconds."
I shuddered. Looking out the front windshield, I saw cars pop out of existence left and right, opening up a clear path to the four way intersection ahead. In a blink, the streetlights all turned green, and then they vanished completely. It was as if the entire world was being stripped down bare, and all that remained was the road, boxed in by the rows of buildings along either side. In the distance I could see a large tanker barreling toward us.
"Trent,"
"I know," he replied and clicked a different button on the console which opened a new toggle for the shifter labeled "TD". He pushed the stick forward, engaging the new mode, then pressed the accelerator all the way to the ground. "You're going to want to hold on."
"What are you doing!?" I yelled, grabbing onto my seatbelt.
"No time to explain. Car, release phase lock."
"Phase lock released."
I watched in horror as the color drained from the road and buildings and sky, transforming it all into a dim tunnel, with only the headlights of the oncoming semi-truck visible up ahead. I had the sudden thought that this was all a dream, just like the ones from my childhood. I looked over and no longer saw Trent, but my mother. And then I realized this wasn't a dream. This was hell. I was being forced to relive the worst moment of my life, over and over again. Just when I thought I had escaped, I was pulled right back into that car, helpless as we approached but never arrived at our impending fate. I closed my eyes right as the lights engulfed the windshield and braced for the usual pain in my chest, for the feeling of breaking.
But it didn't come.
"Shift" was the last word out of Trent's mouth, and then I was infused with the sensation of being at the pinnacle of a roller coaster. I was suspended there for what felt like hours, but somehow I knew that not even a second had passed. Everything inside the van: the dashboard, windows, ceiling, doors, even Trent himself began to radiate enigmatic particles. They were a mass of constant motion, like raindrops falling through the air but never landing. I looked down at my hand, but it was gone. Diffused into an unknowable number of untraceable particles. The world outside, once devoid of color, was now nothing but color. When I tried to focus on a particular spot in the infinite geometric folds of whatever realm we were traversing through, I could sometimes detect a trace of our world.
The old lady from the church. She appeared as if through a window, standing behind a table, holding out a plant. Only this image was so much brighter. And the plant she was holding was pure gold. Then I'd catch a glimpse of the razor blade. It was large, many hundreds of times larger than the van, and surrounded by darkness. These ghostly images appeared like holograms or reflections that caught the light at just the right angle, then dissipated.
I stayed there, looping between the archetypes of my life for a long, long time.
***
I knew we were returning when I felt the first sense of motion. Breath filled my lungs for the first time in what felt like a day. I blinked. And then we were back in town, driving down the same road with the blue sky above. People were jogging on the sidewalk past the little street shops. The streetlights were active. I checked the side mirror and saw the tanker had just passed by.
I looked over at Trent, who met my eyes. We shared a look of knowing, and unknowing. For some reason, that was enough, and we continued on in silence.
***
We agreed to stay the night at my house.
Trent had parked a couple blocks away in front of a couple vacant houses so as not to arouse suspicion from the neighbors. Then he lugged a large duffel bag with his equipment in and set it up in the living room. He scanned the scrapbook which contained the newspaper clippings from the accident several times and confirmed that was likely my 'origin point'. I simply nodded and then went back out onto the back porch. I sat there for hours, basking in the sun. Something had changed in the past day, but I couldn't pick out what it was. Too much had happened. I had too little time to process any of it.
When the sun set, I went inside and Trent told me about his plans for the next couple days. He said he needed to run a few errands in the morning, then meet up with a couple of his associates. After that, we could begin our drive to Southern Illinois. He said it was likely that the entity that was chasing me had first tied itself to me during my childhood accident. For whatever reason, we came into contact, and now it didn't want to leave. Trent would help me get rid of it. He didn't go into many details regarding how that was to happen, but I don't think in my tired state I would have been able to understand much anyway. He had a plan, and that was enough for me. At least for a while.
After our meeting, I made sure Trent had enough pillows and blankets like a proper host, then I retired to my room. I laid down on my twin bed and stared up at the cream-colored ceiling. Then I turned and saw the participation awards for my junior soccer league stashed on my dresser. I pictured myself on the field, running with the ball, out ahead of everyone except the goalie. I took a shot, but it was blocked. Then I ran back to defend. How can such a simple game be so much fun? Was the last thought I had before drifting off to sleep.
I woke up only once during the night. It was still dark out. The room was warm despite the small, flower petal fan churning away, shifting the hot, humid air from one pocket of the room to the next. I waited in apprehension, sensing that something had disturbed me. I saw the tomato plushie peeking out at me from the slightly ajar closet door where I had stashed it so many years ago. I felt like I was missing something. Something important.
And then I heard it.
There was a tapping at my window.

I will try to provide as much detail as I can remember
This was an online monster card game I played back around 2010 ish which has definitely shut down by now. I would really like to find this out as Its one of the first video games I played and it was with my dad. I haven't seen any mention of this game ever since I last played it which would have been over a decade ago and my memory from then is very fuzzy
So this game was a monster card game, the cards had cartoon monsters such as zombies, slimes, mummies and skeletons for example. The monsters would be mishmashes of all kinds of monsters which made the cards look unique from eachother for example one would have a zombie head, skeleton arm and slime leg stuff like that. The background of the cards could also be different.The art style for the cards was a classic 2000s cartoon style with the sharp edges and boxy shapes. It is VERY reminssant of the MEOW animated music video by cyriak which is the closest thing I can compare it too. I would spend a lot of time simply looking through peoples cards because I loved the artsytle so much, there may have been a section on the website where you could look at newly made cards and such.
The point of the game from what I can remember was to battle with your cards. The battle system wasnt anything crazy and was simply a spinning wheel and if you landed on red your opponent would get to keep your card and vice versa if you won. There was definitely some sort of power system but I am unsure how it worked as I was too little to understand. Either way some cards where extremely powerful and usually where owned by those who had memberships. Me and my dad where not very good at this game and often had little to no cards :(
Another thing I remember is the way you would log into the website which is engraved in my mind, you didn't have a word password it was a symbol password. So for example the password could be a scorpion shape, skull, fire and brain. A rectangular board with all the symbols would display then you'd click on your symbol password.
There was a membership system which I never got but from what I remember it made cards more unique looking and gave them fancier boarders and more unique monsters parts. There was also a monster card making system for members which I unfortunately never got to try.
I really hope someone out there can find this as it would make me so incredibly happy to look back at this. It was one of the first games I ever played and I loved playing it with my dad together :) he'd love to rediscover it too

My brain developed quite late, the youngest memories I have, i only might have two i can remember before 10 years old but i can only associate them with feeling, like for example i might have been about 6 and i told my speech therapist that my father yelled at me for writing the T wrong and lost his temper by making me feel he was threatening me because i had tears in my eyes. I can remember it to great detail if i look at a person and feel it, when i get high enough i can figure out everything, and there isn’t much but a blur to any side, its stopping us because it was meant to be made like that, we are discouraged of finding out whatever our future is as the past doesn’t exist, present is all we have and the moment we find it out we could be snapped off our world without milliseconds. We just make egotistical rules and create distractions as most of them know, all we have is now, and this will be their only chance in this lifetime, in a way consciousness isn’t real (quite literally) and we’re just imagining and experiencing random thoughts because it’s empty, it’s nothing that floats out its never that can react except for your body because it was simulated that way, nature was meant to melt with everything it is and ever will be and we can’t stop that. Who knows, we might have a parting the Red Sea and that god has always been leading someone that could bend the present universe to bury the highest aligations and protests. Long story short, this is what i wrote the last time i got high
I watch myself like a bystander, knowing what im doing and feeling guilty for it because I know I could’ve done better but im usually present in my character, that’s how my game goes in this installation of a universe
Feelings my feelings and figuring out what life was about. Since we were all once hunting and focusing on our feeling for instinct by listening to footsteps and trusting your gut and mind. We no longer have the instinct for these type things because we have been forced to shift our minds to experience the world like it should’ve began. Now, these feelings have shifted into these intensely small and fuzzy version of it by putting it into things we call society and politeness, we have turned unnatural and tamed into ourselves with the upsetting news that we will forever have trust issues, because that is our new instinct, messing with our brains by forming actual words and creating standards that have shaped us into what we call “phases” as we learned about the human body and its purposes, our curiousity has brought us here, but that doesn’t mean that the universe will give us a pass, we’re most definitely getting tickled with asteroids straight from Jupiter and even Neptune

Hi everyone,
I was wondering if there is any negative side to just randomly doing pull-ups during the day. I am able to do 20-25 after a climbing session, so is it ok to do like 15 without warming up or could this be harmful? I find it hard to go to the climbing gym at the moment since I have lots of work to do and I kinda don't have the motivation to do a full workout at home. Doing a couple of pull-ups whenever I leave my room for example doesn't take a lot of time and motivation and I don't want to get out of shape until I have time to go to the gym again.

Hi I’ve been asking some questions about the nature of improvising on guitar in the jazzguitar subreddit regarding memorising notes on the fretboard and within scales, against remembering patterns and shapes to form chords and play scales. Meaning that for example, to play C major (also a bit mystified by your notes being different ((b flat)) from the bottom string there is a pattern formed by playing a couple/few notes each string making up octaves. That pattern can then be used starting on any other root note to play a major scale in the key of that root note. Similarly with held chords. Knowing these patterns and shapes makes playing/improvising at speed viable without having to “think” note by note. I’m wondering how it works with trumpet? I have a rudimentary understanding of notes being created by lip vibration(?) and valves; valve slides not so much. Is there an equivalent way of “thinking” when improvising on trumpet? Or must you be able to quickly “think” note by note? For example playing 16th notes at 200bpm how do you ensure you hit notes in pitch, key, and chord at such a tempo? I hope that makes sense, I’m very interested to know.

Simulation theory is a philosophical concept that suggests reality as we perceive it might be a simulated or artificial construct rather than an objective, independent existence. Proponents argue that advanced civilizations could create realistic simulations, and if such simulations are numerous, the odds are that we are living in one. It's a thought experiment rather than a scientifically proven theory.
Simulation theory posits that our reality may be akin to a computer-generated simulation rather than an independently existing, fundamental reality. This idea stems from the possibility that technologically advanced civilizations could create highly realistic simulations populated with conscious entities. If such simulations outnumber actual realities, the likelihood of being in a simulated existence increases. However, it's crucial to note that this is speculative and lacks empirical evidence. It's more of a philosophical concept than a scientific theory at this point.
The concept of a simulated reality has roots in philosophical and scientific discussions over time, but the modern articulation of simulation theory is often credited to philosopher Nick Bostrom. In 2003, Bostrom presented a paper titled "Are You Living in a Computer Simulation?" where he formulated the simulation argument, outlining the idea that advanced civilizations could create ancestor simulations, and the likelihood of us living in one of these simulations. While Bostrom popularized the contemporary discussion on simulation theory, it's essential to acknowledge that similar ideas have appeared in various forms throughout history.
Philip K. Dick, a science fiction writer, explored themes related to reality, identity, and the nature of existence in many of his works. While he didn't explicitly propose simulation theory, some of his writings, such as "Ubik" and "A Maze of Death," delved into the blurring boundaries between reality and illusion. Dick's stories often questioned the nature of perception and the subjective experience of reality, influencing discussions on topics that align with aspects of simulation theory. While not a proponent of the formal simulation theory, Dick's ideas have contributed to the broader exploration of reality in science fiction literature.
Philip K. Dick's works frequently explore the concept of alternate realities, simulated environments, and the fragility of perceived truths. In novels like "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" (the basis for the film "Blade Runner"), he delves into the nature of consciousness and the artificial creation of beings that question the boundaries of humanity.
Dick's narratives often involve characters experiencing a shifting, uncertain reality, prompting readers to question the nature of their own existence. While not explicitly framing his stories within a simulation theory context, Dick's exploration of these themes has influenced the broader cultural conversation about reality, perception, and the potential for simulated experiences.
Several other writers have explored themes related to simulated realities, alternate dimensions, and the nature of existence. Some notable examples include:

1. Arthur C. Clarke: In his "Odyssey" series, particularly "2001: A Space Odyssey," Clarke touches on themes of extraterrestrial influence and the evolution of human consciousness, hinting at the possibility of a higher intelligence shaping human experiences.
   
2. William Gibson: As a pioneer in cyberpunk literature, Gibson's works like "Neuromancer" and "Virtual Light" delve into virtual realities, cyberspace, and the blending of human consciousness with technology.
   
3. Stanisław Lem: The Polish science fiction writer explored philosophical and existential questions in works like "Solaris," where the nature of reality is profoundly questioned in the context of an alien planet.
   
4. Isaac Asimov: While best known for his contributions to robotics and artificial intelligence, Asimov's stories often touch on the impact of advanced technology on human perception and reality.
   
5. Greg Egan: A contemporary science fiction writer, Egan's works such as "Permutation City" and "Diaspora" explicitly engage with ideas related to simulated realities, consciousness, and the nature of existence.
   

These authors, among others, have contributed to the rich exploration of these themes in science fiction literature. Each brings a unique perspective to the question of what it means to exist and the potential complexities of reality.

1. Neal Stephenson: In "Snow Crash," Stephenson blends cyberpunk elements with a virtual reality metaverse, exploring the implications of a digital realm on society and identity.
   
2. H.P. Lovecraft: While primarily known for cosmic horror, Lovecraft's stories often involve encounters with incomprehensible entities and dimensions that challenge the sanity of those who perceive them, hinting at the fragility of human understanding.
   
3. Douglas Adams: In "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" series, Adams uses humor and absurdity to comment on the arbitrary and chaotic nature of the universe, prompting readers to question the reliability of their perceptions.
   
4. Greg Bear: In "Queen of Angels," Bear explores the intersection of neuroscience and virtual reality, raising questions about the malleability of consciousness and the potential for constructed realities.
   
5. Rudy Rucker: A mathematician and science fiction author, Rucker's "Ware Tetralogy" delves into the world of artificial intelligence, uploaded consciousness, and the blurring of boundaries between the physical and digital realms.
   

These writers have made significant contributions to the exploration of reality, consciousness, and simulated experiences within the realm of speculative fiction. Their diverse perspectives and imaginative storytelling continue to influence discussions about the nature of existence and the possibilities of alternate realities.

So as the title says I'm i. A miserable marriage. The problem is I have zero options so we are stuck. We've been together for 12 years. Married for 8. I dont know how we've made it this far. A lottttt of accepting it because its never going to change . I can't accept it anymore. Weve had the same fight for probably 7 years. . Helping around the house. He thinks because he works 8 hours that's enough and I should be able to handle our 5 children 3 dogs and 2000 sq ft house on my own. I've stayed home with this last babg due to health problems that I'm getting surgery for in 2 days. So up until my 8th month of pregnancy I was working our entire relationship. So this has been an issue since then. But he recently switched careers from construction to hospitality management of a large gas station /convenience store . Hes making great money. His construction job was morning's. This is 4pm-1am. So he gets home at by 130am. And instead of relaxing and trying to go to sleep he says up until 3-4am. Then proceeds to sleep until 1p... wakes up very very slowly. Comes out and sits in the living room . Than goes to the bathroom for a half hour. OK so by then we are already at 2pm. Then comes back out and relaxes more before he goes to work. Then gets a shower and leaves by 330.pm Allllllll the while I'm putting kids on the bus, cleaning, taking kids to appointments, taking care of the animals. Extra. All while he gets his beauty sleep.
I know he has a problem. And has for years. I used to not let it bother me until the past probably 10 months..when we do have set which is very very rare like once every 2 months , he doesn't cut. Hes never ever ever had an issue with that. I mean clearly we have 5 children. Njt I said im not good enough for you. Thats what it is your mind is over stimulated with watching porn that what we do isn't satisfying him mentally and emotionally. Clearly now physically. And it makes me feel like there's something wrong with me. I've tried initiating sex and cjdde time so many times I've given up I used to stay up for him when he'd get home for like an house to spend time together where he's actually awake. Ice asked him so come to bed with .e at like 2-230. He says I'm not tired. I said I know just lay with me until I go to sleep. Or cuddle or talk because I miss that. He said no im not tired. I said you can come back out here afterwards. And he just continues to sit in the chair watching TV and eating.
Hes gained like 30 lbs I've become unattractive to him. Just being honest. But also if he tried to make me happy in any way shape or form maybe I'd feel more fire to keep pursuing him. But I'm not being fulfilled in any way what so ever so I feel like I've given up . Most of the time we are in the car in silence. I've asked him to wake up earlier to have breakfast with me . Either go out or make it at home. He won't get up. I've asked for help with home projects. He won't get up for that. I've asked for help folding laundry since he's sitting anyway..he won't. When I push for help it gets him so frustrated and defensive that he snaps and tells me why should he do anything when I don't. Which is clearly a lie. He said you're home all day so you can do it. I said I do what are you talking about?! Its not spotless but I maintain during the day doing big cleaning projects in every room ill spend 3-6 hours cleaning one room. Than the next day do the others and so on. I do all the grocery shopping and cooking. Which ok again im home so I can do all of that. But seriously I'm overwhelmed. I'm getting major surgery in two days and I finally saud yesterday. You know I'm done being angry when you don't do things to help me with the house and kids or even being present. What's said is im more disappointed than anything and that's really ashamed because I expect better out of you because I know you can do better. I said im sick of being let down. Im sick of being alone. Im sick of cleaning up after everyone Including him because he goes to bed and leaves plates cups wrappers truly everything so I wake up and usually take care of it. So I stopped numerous times. Including lately to see if it bothers him enough to do anything. But it doesnt doesn't. I didnt speak to him for 3 solid days. And it didnt bother him , he didn't even try to reach out to me. I feel like the marriage is unrepairable but with me staying home I've become dependent which I absolutely hate. But I'm stuck. I can't leave because I can't afford an apartment or house. If I stay here and he leaves he wouldn't be able to afford to help with the kids nor would he ever see them. I've even asked him to put them on the bus for me to sleep some and also him spend time with his kids. And I wake up to him yelling at them and I flip out of him because I refuse to allow my 12,7,5 year old girls wake up to being yelled at and sending them off to school after being yelled at all because he has no patience.
I don't know what to do. I'd never cheat on him but I understand why people do. Im so freaking lonely I can't take it. I've had my tunes removed so no more babies. Our final one is an absolute joy always happy just goes with the flow. So it's not the added stress of a baby. Sbe just turned a year old. And since than we've had six 6 times. I have physical needs, emotional and mental needs and none of it is being met. Hes being a bad example to the kids of not only a husband and father but just responsibilities. He screams at them for their shoes being left out in the middle of the floor but he does the exact same thing to where he's telling them to put his away also. Like really?! He won't do counseling. I've tried. I've threatened divorce and I get told I'm being dramatic and am I taking my mental health meds because I'm acting crazy. I'm truly not though. I'm just depleated and defeated. And feeling stuck. I literally get messages from old friends who see pictures of my face and see my post on fb not including him or really any happiness and it actually makes them feel bad for me.. they say I'm too good for this, that i deserve better that they would treat me so good and have actually asked me out on dates just to feel excitement again. And I've been so tempted but I would feel so guilty.
Please someone help me with some advice. I know there's many couples who have gone through this. I need guidance. I have no family support other than oh im sorry you're dealing with this . No where to go with 5 kids.
Tl;dr Husband won't do anything to be helpful at home or with the kids. Says be works his 8 hours and that's enough . Won't do anything but leave me more of a mess to clean causing me more stress. Taking care of the house and kids completely by myself. His mom comes over to help me some times and she's o frustrated seeing him be like this towards me. Shes tried to talk to him with no result. I dont want to give up on my family. I dont know what else to do, serious talks don't work

I've recently taken an interest in early period basket hilted broadswords from the mid 1500s to the beginnings of the english civil war, vastly preferring their appearence over the later more famous 18th century broadswords associated with the jacobites and such. Examples being as the kind found on the mary rose and the thames sword, swords that essentially retained the look of arming swords with prominent quillons just with better protection for the hands.
My question is were early period basket hilts just arming swords with added protection and larger, hollow pommels, or were the blades different as well? Were older arming swords of the previous century modified by blacksmiths and given the more enclosed hilts or were they completely new swords with different blade shapes and profiles? Also what are the best 16th century broadswords on the market?

so for context me and my ex started dating in january 2023. it was a really good and healthy long distance relationship (NY to FL) and i took many trips to see her and i even went on vacation with her family. we ended in october 2023 in a pretty bad way, but we’ve decided to stay friends. i’ll be honest i never really lost feelings for her, just kind of forgot about them. we started to get close as of recently like facetiming and snapping and stuff but two days ago she got back together w this guy that had ghosted her in april. she still texts me all the time and still wants to facetime me all the time, like for example, she told me that she wants to call today but her bf is coming over so she will call me once he leaves. i have a feeling she still finds me attractive because i catch her staring at me on facetime and also when i send her a snap i look good in she responds with a “🫢” face (not the emoji). anyways we talked yesterday and i asked her if the guy knows about our friendship, she said no. for context he’s a co worker of hers and he knew that we were together for 8 months so if he sees my name in her phone he will know who i am. i told her that if he finds out we’re talking even if it’s completely platonic he will probably break up with her as it is always a red flag if you are still friends with exes if your in a relationship. she said and i quote “im not gonna tell him and if he finds out im just gonna say it’s a different (my name).” i told her that it makes me feel weird and she said “listen it’s not a big deal stop worrying about it.” more context, before i knew about her and this kid, while they were still talking she texted me stuff saying “if you lived here in FL things would be different” (aka if i lived there we’d still be tg) and she also wrote a poem on her spam insta that she stated i was the good path for her yet she always takes the bad paths etc etc (she sent me a screenshot of it and said “you are the good path that i wrote about”) this was all while they were first talking. i know she actually likes this kid because of the way she talks about him but i also don’t know if she still likes me.

I'am 36 and still look young and I'am in good shape (do a lot of training). I get sometimes hit on by younger women in their early 20.
For example at work there's this girl who always greets me in an exaggerated way with a huge smile. I never talked to her, always just greeted back. Also during the day I sometimes get big smiles from young women. Sometimes they greet me on the street even strangers. There's even this older women with her bike who always yells at me "oh there's this beautiful man". I don't know if she has mental problems. It's always the same when she sees me🤦
Last week in the train there was this girl who came to me asking me if I could help her with the timetable of the train station. It was nothing. Then sometimes I get ask for cigaretts although I'm not even smoking. I always see two girls riding their bike in my neightborhood and when they drive by BOTH smile at me (one of them is younger like 17 or so). Last month I was at the hospital. There was this younger nurse that took care of me for a day. At home again she added me on facebook. I wrote her a normal friendly message back and she blocked me (i have no idea why).
I don't know what do to. It drives me crazy, but I don't want to look like a creep if I approach them🤦Or do you think it's ok if I would approach them?

I'm going to start HRT soon - and I'm excited for all the changes, like smoother skin, less muscle, feminine body and face shape. But not really the breasts.
For example, I currently find my penis disgusting to look at - it's gross and dangles everywhere. When I imagine myself with

• really big breasts, like Kim Kardashian big. Even my mum has breasts too big for my liking (that's a really strange thing to write).
• really saggy breasts,

I find it disgusting/dysphoric.
Having breasts also seems inconvenient and intrusive - all the bouncing seems annoying, as does having to wear another piece of clothing everyday.
At the same time, I think I would feel weird looking at myself if I was 100% flat. It wouldn't fit the rest of my female body. My ideal world would be breasts that could be attached and detached magnetically. Put them on only for showy times (formal events, beaches), and take them off when I'm just working/chilling/exercising. Or atleast, have very small breasts.
Am I actually trans?? Is this a normal trans feeling? It doesn't feel like it. I hear so many trans girls giddy about breast growth, and here I am, pondering if I even want it.
I was excited about SRS and living as a woman my whole life. But what's the point of that if it's going to induce more dysphoria?

Bonus 15 Taiwan:

1. A classic blue and white porcelain vase featuring detailed floral and dragon motifs.
2. A pale blue glazed bowl with delicate, incised decorations, typical of refined ceramic art.
3. A double gourd shaped vase with a crackle-glazed celadon finish.
4. An earthenware pot with a three-color glaze (green, brown, and cream) and lion head motifs.
5. A porcelain plate with intricate, multi-colored enamel paintings of flowers and birds.
6. A brown stoneware teapot renowned for its use in brewing tea and retaining its flavor.
7. A black-glazed tea bowl with oil spot markings, favored for tea ceremonies.
8. A large plate with a thick celadon glaze and subtly incised lotus patterns.
9. An elegantly simple ceramic pillow finished in a pure white glaze.
10. A jar featuring an intricate design of mythical creatures and waves in cobalt blue on white.
11. A white porcelain sculpture of Guanyin, known for its ivory-like finish.
12. A vibrant, three-colored glazed ceramic camel figure, often used as a tomb offering.
13. A storage jar with a green lead-based glaze, used for storing grains or wine.
14. A vase with a stunning peach bloom glaze, showcasing a modern interpretation of classic techniques.
15. A vase with a white and black slip design, typical of the folk kilns of a renowned ceramic style.

Hello all. I really like British pence and pound coins, all their diversity and even how different pound issuing entities exist, somewhat similar to the euro – if I am not mistaken. If I am, correct me please.
I am talking about Jersey pound, Guernsey pound, Manx pound, Gibraltar pound, Falkland pound and St. Helenian pound.
However, I have some confusion regarding all these different "pounds". For example, this subreddit's info mentions British coins, Channel islands coins, Isle of Man coins and Gibraltar coins – bot not Falkland Islands coins and St. Helenian coins. Why is that? Are the latter two different – legal status-wise – from the others mentioned? If so, how?
All the denominations (except for 1 pound coin) of these various pounds look to be same in size and shape like British coins. My intuition tells me that coins from one territory could be used in other territory. For example, Gibraltar 20 pence coin could be used as a legal tender in Falkland islands, and St. Helenian 50 pence coin could be used in the UK. However, is that so? Wikipedia article says that "coins of the Manx pound are not legal tender in the UK" but other way around it is OK, so British coins can freely circulate in the Isle of Man.
How is it with the other particular pounds? Are British coins legal tender in all of Channel Islands, Isle of Man, Gibraltar, Falkland Islands and St. Helena (and Ascension and Tristan da Cunha)? If just some of these, which ones?
Other way around: which of those particular pound coins are legal tender in the UK? And what about the usage across territiories (Jersey pound in Gibraltar etc.)?
Say that someone brings Isle of Man pound coins to the UK and wants to use them as a payment. (Let's put aside the idea that the cashier might accept it as a curiosity or a collector's item.) Could he go to the bank and exchange them one to one to UK coins?
Thank you for clarifing this for me.

Welcome to Reading The Big Book of Cyberpunk!
Each week we (u/FarragutCircle and u/fanny_bertram) will be reading 5-ish stories from Jared Shurin’s The Big Book of Cyberpunk, which includes a curated selection of cyberpunk stories written from 1950 to 2022! We’ll include synopses of the stories along with links to any legally available online versions we can find. Feel free to read along with us or just stop by and hear our thoughts about some cyberpunk stories to decide if any of them sound interesting to you.
Every once in a while, we reach out to people who have more insight, due to being fans of the author or have some additional context for the story. (Or we just tricked them into it.) So please welcome u/RuinEleint who will be sharing their thoughts on "The Yuletide Cyberpunk Yarn, or Christmas_Eve-117.DIR" by Victor Pelevin!
“Deep Eddy” by Bruce Sterling (published 1993; also available in his collection Ascendancies: The Best of Bruce Sterling)
Deep Eddy is acting as a data courier to the Cultural Critic in Düsseldorf, right as the city goes through a Wende (a sort of anarchist “Purge”).

• Farragut’s thoughts: We’ve read Sterling before in Science Fiction. Eddy is a misguided libertarian creep who won’t stop hitting on his German bodyguard and is too dumb to understand the philosophical points that the Cultural Critic is making (for that matter, I’m too dumb to understand, too). He survives his time in Germany, but has learned nothing of value for his punk attitude. What’s the point of rebelling if you don’t understand why? The naivete and creepiness were a little too much for me.
  
• fanny’s thoughts: This did not work for me. Eddy is creepy and annoying. He keeps hitting on the bodyguard and she makes it VERY clear she is only there in a professional context. Eddy also seems to generally not have any clue what he is doing. He is libertarian and against something but no one seems to know what. He doesn't even seem to know what he delivered to the Cultural Critic.
  

“The Yuletide Cyberpunk Yarn, or Christmas_Eve-117.DIR” by Victor Pelevin (1996, translated from Russian by Alex Shvartsman)
A corrupt mayor’s computer is infected by a virus that causes chaos in Russia.

• Special Guest Ruin: This was a fascinating story to read. The way the narrative segued from a discussion on poetry to a darkly comedic look at a Russian city was remarkable. The author seems to like to start or lead with a theme or themes which seem to be only tangentially related to each other such as for example the name of the computer virus, or Gerasimov and his dog. But both elements circle back into the story and are crucial to its structure. As for the content of the story itself, I amused myself by imagining the events as being a movie that blended the stylistic elements of Tarantino and Wes Anderson. So we have brutal, bloody violence in increasingly absurd settings and the way it is all described makes it easy to imagine it all taking place amidst the highly stylized sets and characters we would expect in a Wes Anderson movie. Overall, I really enjoyed this story.
  
• Farragut: We’ve read Pelevin before in Modern Fantasy. First of all, this is a fantastic title for a story, period. Second of all, I just enjoyed Pelevin’s style here (via Shvartsman’s translation), with an omniscient narrator telling us about a completely ridiculous situation. It gets a little cagey with the identity of the perpetrator and the ending, but I’m very curious as to how darkly I should read it (now that I think about it, it’s directly connected to the original, so I should read it very darkly indeed). Shvartsman’s occasional footnotes were very helpful, however, especially with the context surrounding Gerasim(ov) and Mumu.
  
• fanny: Ruin's review is so good, I am not sure what to add. The style of this story fit the elements so well. It starts with a poem whose themes carry through the story. The footnotes were a really great addition and helped contextualize. The narrator keeps upping the ridiculousness until we get to the end and everything gets wrapped up.
  

“Wonderama” by Bef (1998, translated from Spanish by the author)
Lalo (or is it Eduardo?) wakes up every day in the most awesome life in 1974, but it’s revealed to be a lie and ends tragically.

• Farragut: Bef is a Mexican SF writer, a crime writer, and a graphic novelist, and honestly his whole bibliography sounds cool as heck. Told in a series of diary entries with some small interruptions, we follow a kid whose life is like a Mexican kid’s sugar-fueled dream. The reason for its inclusion in this thematic section of the anthology becomes clear however, and I yelled, “Noooo!” at the ending. Sigh. It’s very good!
  
• fanny: I am a sucker for diary entry style stories and this was no exception. Lalo’s life seems almost perfect, but it feels so off. The story feels progressively more off until we start to question everything. Also, yelled “Nooo!” at the ending. Very good. Absolutely loved.
  

“comp.basilisk FAQ” by David Langford (1999) (link to story)
A FAQ-style story that clearly describes a bizarre future where images on the web and TV are banned due to the risk of death.

• Farragut: Langford is famous for having the most Hugo wins (29), mostly for the Fan Writer category, but also Short Story (not this one) and Best Related Work (not this one either). This is a delightful story that made me think of it as a precursor to qntm’s later story “Lena” from Week 5 (though obviously only in general form). Apparently I love the faux-nonfiction style where some of the horror and plot is between the lines. The final FAQ about Microsoft was darkly funny.
  
• fanny: This was fun and very short. The FAQs related to basilisk and writing were great. It goes between funny, dark humor, and just dark. I liked the commentary on technology and software. I also really appreciate the standard response answers explaining they should post someone else. This is something I deal with often and this was great.
  

“Spider's Nest” by Myra Çakan (2004, translated from German by Jim Young; also available in the anthology The Apex Book of World SF 3 edited by Lavie Tidhar)
Spider, uh, does something? Is looking for drugs, maybe? But something else happens instead?

• Farragut: Çakan is a German writer from Hamburg, and after reading this story, I’d say Shurin made hamburger out of me, too. The main thing I got out of this story was that Spider really wanted something, maybe. I thought it was drugs, but he got angry at his dealer and then got super weird with his friend’s girlfriend? And then there was a Silver Spider, who wasn’t him, but maybe he plugged himself in to replace her? What is happening?
  
• fanny: Spider definitely wanted drugs from his dealer, Ant. I think. Ant got annoyed at something then Spider got into a voyeur situation (maybe). There is a Silver Spider in his dreams that makes him feel better. I couldn't tell if this was dream or drug induced or technology induced. The end is super weird and makes even less sense than the story. Spider might have done a murder on himself? I have been confused before in this anthology, but not to this level.
  

That’s it for this week! Check back the same time next week where we’ll be reading and discussing "The Last American" by John Kessel, "Earth Hour" by Ken MacLeod, "Violation of the TrueNet Security Act" by Taiyo Fujii, "Twelve Minutes to Vinh Quang" by T. R. Napper, and "Operation Daniel" by Khalid Kaki.
Also posted on Bochord Online.