Saying that "better" jobs exist is used as a mere excuse for some people not willing to work, like at all. Since people in the West always say that, but the truth is that they DO NOT want to work or burn some sweat, workers from poorer countries immigrating to Western countries that are desperate for employment don't care if the job is manual labor or sitting in an office cubicle for a long time, as long as it gives them a stable salary, since they exchange dollars, euros or pounds back into their local currencies to send back to their loved ones back home, so they remain indifferent if they are paid small, as like any other human, you need money to survive the contemporary society.
So, to put it, there is no point for people to talk shit or berate people who work minimum wage jobs (at the end, they will waste their own time for doing that), as they also play a part on maintenance, cleaniness or customer service and relations, it'll be completely stupid to get rid of garbage collectors or cleaners for example, as who else would tidy all of the mess up either on the streets or in your office? Robots can't do literally everything for you, as some interactions require humans to be around, like lawyers or doctors, since they need HUMANS (not robots) to have a more personal or clearer interaction with other people.
How can a robot be able to read your human emotions when you are upset, can it predict or assume if you have committed a crime, or what the verdict would be before the judge announces it? Are you going to lay off all human surgeons, doctors and nurses just to replace all of it with AI and robotics? People got to understand that jobs regardless if they are manual labor or not, have a purpose in their own way. (As why else have humans evolved through out history, it started from "manual labor" so there is zero reason to despite it so much.)
You might be surprised that jobs people consider "shit" have large salaries, for this reason: "It's niche, and no one wants to do it, only those who are willing to." as they are looking for those who willing choose to work in professions people consider "shit" by the masses.There is literally no reason for people to berate or talk shit about any job regardless if it is manual labor, minimum wage, or a white collar one, since human history they existed for their purpose prior to the industrial revolution and digital age, don't forget not all jobs can be replaced by robots and AI:

• If there are no HUMAN builders, who will construct all of the property?
• If there are no HUMAN doctors or nurses, who will treat you?
• If there are no HUMAN cops, who will enforce the law and arrest people?
• If there are no HUMAN lawyers, who will repesent you in court?
• If there are no HUMAN judges and jury, who will be present in court?
• If there are no HUMAN leaders, would would be in charge?
• If there are no HUMAN armed forces, what will the military consist of?
• If there are no HUMAN teachers, who will teach the students?
• If there are no HUMAN technicians, who will fix and maintain the equipment?
• If there are no HUMAN plumbers, who will be able to sort out the piping?

For instance, if there was an employer who was like:

• I'll give you $150,000 annually if you work hard with all that labor 365 days a year.
• I'll give you $70,000 annually if you just sat inside the office all day staring at a screen.

So, which one are you tempted to take despite "manual labor" job having a higher salary by this employer, as they consider that people don't want to do it, or are looking for a specific canididate who remains indifferent to the public opinion on job seeking?

So, people would only understand if "you've been through their shoes" as saying that someone working for minimum wage or manual labor is a "inferior" person to in comparison to somebody who is employed at a white collar job with a suit and tie, is just plain stupid. It's either that:

• Those people NEVER worked in minimum wage job in their lives, so they make assumptions of it being terrible. Only people who have worked in minimum wage jobs will TRULY know and understand what it is like first hand, rather than what people generalize the definition of that word, as they have never worked in that field, so they don't really know until they step into the same shoes as people working in minimum wage to find out first hand.
• They don't know what customer service ACTUALLY means. Other than them repeating the dictionary meaning of that word, they know nothing at all about what it is like first hand to encounter customers and being the front spectable of the general public, either nice or rude.
• Raised in a upper or top class upbringing who are brainwashed to talk crap about others. As they are from a neighborhood or familial upbringing full of rich folks who are accustomed to consider the middle class as peseants.
• They have "work experience" and "studied" listed on paper, but how does it really apply IRL? I mean, make them prove they are telling thr truth from their resume by making them apply the skills they've listed in real life, eg. You listed that you've worked for a michelin star restaurant, right? Cook me something I don't regulary encounter, but it better be good and an original recipe. If they can't apply the 'skill' they listed right there, they are liars, don't hire them.

It's like saying to garbage collectors, store clerks, couriers, uber drivers, and etc. suck, if that was the case, then they'll just walk out and NEVER come back, nowadays especially with social media, they can just brag about how they are treated, it's like a cog in a machine, if they are going to find a new one, it may not be as easy once the word spreads that the companies treat them like slaves, then people would not be interested, as they want to be treated with respect, not like an animal chained to a post.
If no one replaced those who all left, overtime they'll start to lose money and the companies who employ those sectors become defunct, even for the highest paying ones that require specific skills, still need actual humans to fill in those spots, not robots. Have you ever encountered (any of) these in real life, like at all:

• Robotic doctor, nurse, or surgeron
• Robotic police officer on duty
• Robotic CEO of a [company]
• Robotic head of an [organization]
• Robotic [President] or [Prime Minister]

You can imagine what that would do to humans, as what would be the purpose of humans existing if everything was automated, machines like all technology break down, as of now, to fix and replace their physical components within a physical body, you still need a HUMAN technician. Even the female robot living in Saudi still has a HUMAN owner, as a HUMAN created her, she did not create herself.
Put it like this, if people despite minimum wage or labor jobs so much, consider these factors:

• If there were no garbage collectors, trash will just litter the streets making it dirty and smell bad
• If there were no custodians in any public facility or street, trash and debris will just remain there
• If there was no uber driver or an uber-robot (managed by humans), who will deliver your food
• If there were no bulilders or construction workers, that means land will just remain empty
• If there were no EMTs, who in the hell will operate an ambulance
• If there are no mechanics or automotive technicians, who will repair your vehicle

I just went to my high schools band open house yesterday it was 7am-7pm
We learned and practiced marching, which we did around the track. We did this march practice til about noon with only 2 water breaks. (My apple watch said about 16,000 steps by the time we finished)After the marching we had a half our lunch before we got our instruments. I was given the third bass drum. This is the first instrument i ever played so i know absolutely nothing. To keep count we are supposed to march in place? We did this until about 6:30pm until we moved our instruments on the auditorium stage to like present to our parents what we worked on.
I hadn't sat down from 7am to 7pm except the half hour lunch.
By the end of the night my whole lower body was absolutely on fire especially my feet and hips from all the walking and marching in place?
Is this normal? Everyone seemed unbothered. What can i do to help this

I think a lot about signals. Signals that show people what groups they belong to. Signals that hide the truth. Everybody uses signals to blend, entice, or trap.
Grandma Pearl died not long after her stroke, and I've been making bad decisions ever since. Maybe my expectations are too high, or I'm just an idiot. Either way, I ran away from the group home to be with people who called themselves my "family." They were the wrong people. They used the words family, brother, sister, and love like lock picks, stealing trust, and taking self-respect.
The only person I remember using the word family correctly was Grandma Pearl. She was a small woman who toured the US as an actress before settling with Granddad above their theatrical rentals shop. I was three when the car accident took Granddad and Mom, so I don't know if they used the word "family" correctly, but I hope they did.
I was never as outgoing as Grandma, but that didn't bother her; she taught me how to watch people. How to see their signals, and how to listen. When she died. I forgot a lot of those lessons for a while.
They called it a "family". The "family" moved product. That product could be goods, drugs, or people.
The uninitiated, like me, were distracted with food and a dry place to sleep, but it didn't take long to see behind the curtain. Things got too intense with the new "family" and I ran.
I ran back to my old neighborhood. The buildings were familiar even if my home was gone. The old theatrical shop had been turned into a microbrewery.
After an appropriate amount of self-pity, thirty minutes, I wandered the alleys, picking up cans or scavenging for bits and pieces that could be recycled, used, or bartered.
I recognized old faces, but I tried to stay out of sight. It was safer that way.
The only place I allowed myself to be seen was the old Lutheran church on the park's far side. Most people who might have known me had aged out of the congregation or died. It was worth the risk because St. Lazarus had a food pantry in the basement and gave out lunches most days, so I wasn't always hungry, which was nice.
I found a dry spot near the library to sleep, which seemed like a stroke of luck until it wasn't.
I had the contentment that came with being in a familiar place. Little bits of comfort let me believe, for a moment, that I wasn't a screw-up and hadn't trusted the wrong people. That moment scurried away when Stick found me.
Stick was a scary asshole. He technically wasn't in charge of the " family," but he made it work. He got things done. I have no idea how old he was. He was all corded muscle and could clock in between twenty and fifty. He looked half-starved and moved like a stalking predator, even with his limp.
His left leg was stiff. The knee didn't bend, and anytime he sat, his left leg would be splayed to the side like a kickstand on a bike. The leg was why he walked with a cane. The cane and how he used it was why we called him Stick.
I don't know why he took the time to track me down. It's not like I was wanted. Maybe it was that I had become property. Property shouldn't just wander off.
Sometimes, you feel a person before you see them. The air is different. When Stick was around, the air felt dead and motionless. I knew I was being watched before I opened my eyes.
Stick was sitting on a milk crate, his bad leg cocked to the side and his forehead resting on his cane. I pushed myself out from beneath the ductwork of the HVAC unit I had been sleeping under and slapped the dirt off my jeans.
"I thought that was you," Stick said as his sharp grin curved up to his unblinking dark eyes.
Stick wanted my discomfort. I'd seen him play the intimidation game too many times. He'd act too friendly, and then when you were good and worried, quick movements, a hand around the back of your neck, and violence would be next. Then he'd act like the whole mind fuck was a big joke, like you were friends, and isn't it great that you can joke around with someone who "really" cared.
It worked, too. If you were the unfortunate focus of Stick's attention, you would be grateful when he smiled and said, "Just a joke, kid. Don't be so sensitive." I'd seen the pattern enough times to know Stick trained people like dogs with his hot and cold game. I didn't like the game, or the fear, so I changed the pattern.
"Hey, Stick, did you come to help pick up cans?" I asked, making sure my smile reached my eyes. I was trying to be pleasant while ignoring the burning nervousness in my gut.
It was still dark out, but I could see Stick's expressions well enough.
Stick tapped his cane on the sidewalk and squinted at me skeptically before answering. "Just checking on my little brother."
We were not related.
Stick liked to call the uninitiated his little brothers or little sisters. He forced intimacy into his language. I didn't argue the point. Interactions went best with Stick when you agreed with everything he said.
"Thanks, man," I complimented, trying to sound genuine and ignorant as I stepped forward and offered him my hand.
Stick didn't move, but I could see that this conversation wasn't going as planned for him, and I forced myself not to react to his confusion. I couldn't break character, or he would know I was playing him.
Stick tapped his cane on the ground twice, grasped my hand, and stood. He watched me. I held his stare, but in an open, naive, guileless way that I had perfected in front of the mirror as grandma gave acting advice while she put her face on.
I once asked Grandma Perl why anyone would practice acting stupid. She pointed her mascara brush at me and, in her ditsiest Minnesota Nice character, said, "It's easier to be forgiven when people think you're a little dumb, don't ya know?" Like with most things, Grandma was right.
Before I understood what had happened, Stick pulled me into his side and slung an arm around my shoulder.
"You don't have a name yet. Everyone gets a name, but they don't get to pick it." He paused and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. "I have a name for you, little brother. You are going to be called Slide." Then he held my chin and forced eye contact." Your name will be Slide because I have never seen anyone slide out of shit faster than you. I can't tell if you do it on purpose or not, and I've been watching. I watch everybody. You do, too. Hell, this might be the first time I've ever heard you talk. So let's celebrate your name, Slide." Stick's smile slipped as he pulled me out of the alley. "We'll go do something special."
I stayed silent, knowing full well what was coming. Being named meant doing something you could never take back. It was public and would put you in prison if the police ever took the time to look for you. It meant severing yourself from your life before and relying entirely on the "family." I had been absent each time naming seemed to be in the cards, but I couldn't duck out this time.
There was only one place to go at this time of night that would have an impact, the Bodega.
The Bodega was a red hole in the wall with a glass door papered over with grocery ads years outdated. Canned salmon two for one seemed to be the dominant theme. Although there were two large windows, one on either side of the door, you could barely see in. The right window was a tapestry of cigarette promotions. The left window displayed the only swath of uncovered glass with a view of the interior. From the outside, the view was of tobacco, lottery scratchers, and Old Lady Imitari.
Old Lady Imitari owned the store. She was a short, dark-haired woman who always wore a long floral tank top. Grandma Pearl loved the old woman but said Imitari looked like an old man's thumb all the years she had known her, and Grandma moved to the neighborhood with Grandad thirty years ago. Imitari was a local legend even then because the Bodega was open twenty hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and no one else worked in the store. Grandma used to make an extra strong coffee called Barako and chat with Imitari sometimes when work in the shop was slow.
I would sneak out at night and try to catch Imitari sleeping. No matter the time, I never caught her snoozing, and she always saw me peeking at her through the window. I know she saw me because she would uncross her arms and wave her flyswatter at me.
All these memories flicked through my mind as Stick smiled his too-wide smile and pushed me into the Bodega.
Imitari flicked her fly swatter at me in acknowledgment, and her attention returned to the small TV she had nestled beside the cash register, which seemed to be the old woman's only real tether to the world outside her shop.
The inside of the Bodega was just a long hallway with shelves of convenience foods, drinks, home supplies, candy, and cold meds covering every available surface from floor to ceiling. The only break in the tunnel of products was the glass counter at the back corner of the store; Imitari presided over her mini domain by casually ignoring her shoppers. I tried to make eye contact with the old woman again as Stick pushed me to the back of the shop, but after her initial acknowledgment of our entrance, Imitari's eyes stayed focused on her TV.
As casually confident as possible, I walked to the cooler and grabbed an iced tea. "Want a drink," I asked over my shoulder, my voice unusually steady, given the electric current of anxiety flowing through me.
Stick sneered and tapped his cane twice on the ground. His eyes found all the security cameras in the tiny store, a frown creasing his angular features.
I followed his line of sight and finally realized what had bothered him. The cameras were fake. They looked like security cameras, but they weren't. There were no wires or lenses, just rectangles and circles in a security camera shape.
Stick took a deep breath and tapped his cane on the ground again. " There… is … so… much… here… to… see… but… no… one… is… watching," he said with a singsong. Then his sneer turned into a cruel smile.
I knew Stick wanted an audience for what he would force me to do. The fact that the security cameras were fakes meant that whatever was going to happen would now have to be significant. An event that the neighborhood wouldn't be able to ignore. My stomach twisted with the thought.
Stick waggled his eyebrows at me. He had been watching. He had seen my thoughts, and we both knew he had something terrible in mind.
The cane twirled in Stick's hand and then tapped twice on the shop tile.
"I think I want a little bit of this," Stick said, gesturing wildly with his cane, sending a row of soup cans tumbling to the floor. "And a little bit of that," Stick added as another wild gesture sent cups of ramen spinning and knocking glass bottles of hot sauce to the floor.
I stood paralyzed, unable to run. I was trapped with nowhere to duck away to. I didn't want Stick to hurt Old Lady Imitari, and I didn't want Stick to hurt me, either. The truth was, he would hurt both of us no matter what I did. That was just the way Stick was. I'd seen him. I'd seen him show us who he was every day.
Then I realized Imitari hadn't moved. She was watching her TV and chuckling at the sitcom as if nothing had happened.
Stick glanced at me, confused. I almost felt sorry for the sociopath. His night was not going to plan.
Imitari chuckled at her TV again, and a crease formed in the middle of Stick's forehead, letting me know that he was beyond angry. He was calm, dangerous, and vicious. People had been left for dead when Stick got this way.
Stick raised his cane and flipped it so the handle jutted like a pickax. He was going to attack Imitari.
Somehow, I moved. I didn't do much, but when I slid forward and grabbed the back of Stick's shirt, the cane missed Imitari, and the sharp handle punctured the thick glass top of the counter just above a roll of Lotto scratchers.
Old lady Imitari slowly looked up into Stick's eyes and smiled. Her wide, gentle frown was replaced with a look of joy and something else, something primal, something hungry. Her pupils were blown, and I had the uneasy feeling that I was watching someone be served their absolute favorite meal.
Before Stick could pull his cane from the punctured glass, Imitari casually reached forward, grabbed the cane, and pulled the wirey man forward. Small, old, and wrinkled, Imitari stared into Stick's eyes and overpowered him.
Stick fell forward across the counter. He tried to push himself back, but Imitari's hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice.
Bones ground together as Imitari pulled Stick's hand to her mouth, and with a swift, subtle movement, she bit off the tips of Stick's pinky and ring finger like she was sampling a cookie.
I jumped back next to the cooler as a thin spray of blood arched toward me.
Stick screamed and thrashed, but Imitari's small form was static and immovable. Stick was a fly in a trap. No matter how much he struggled, punched, poked, or kicked, he could not break the old woman's hold. Then, slowly, she took another bite.
It was strangely fascinating watching the frail form of this old woman I had known for years take bite after bite out of Stick. This man, whom I thought of as a predator, a hunter, an enforcer, was crying and begging while an old woman, who looked like a wrinkled thumb in a floral top, quietly devoured him.
I was surprised by the lack of blood after the first spray. I'm sure it was Imitari's crushing grip that stanched the flow of blood. The flesh of Stick's arm looked white from the pressure.
Hand over hand, Imitari pulled Stick forward. Bones cracked as she gripped higher on Stick's arm, clamped down with her long leathery fingers, and fed the flesh and bone, one concise bite at a time, into her open smiling maw. It was rhythmical in its simplicity: chomp, crunch, chew, chew, swallow. Over and over, the pattern continued until the begging stopped.
Stick wasn't dead. He gave up. Not struggling, he laid over the glass counter like a rag doll. He watched me glassily as Imitari took bite after bite, and I knew he wasn't there anymore. Whatever made Stick Stick had either curled up and hidden in a dark corner of his mind or had been devoured with his arm.
The old woman seemed displeased that her meal had stopped struggling. She shook him, but he flopped, and his head lulled from side to side. Imitari frowned, let go of Stick's arm, and pushed down on the limp man's back. Blood gushed from the ragged stump, and Imitari lowered her mouth and drank from the wound like she was sipping from a garden hose.
Stick didn't move. He just grew pail, and eventually, his panicked, shallow breaths ended, and the blood stopped flowing.
Then Imitari stood. With a quick tug, she pulled Stick's body over the counter and let it flop to the floor at her feet. Her eyes closed. A contented smile bloomed on her face as the explosive sound of crunching and cracking bones echoed through the small shop.
The deafening sound of crunching stopped, and only the buzzing of the drinks cooler reverberated through the small space. Imitari opened her eyes and watched me, a broad smile still on her lips. At that moment, I realized I could hear the drinks cooler so well because I had crawled into it, wedged between the glass door and the shelves.
Imitari held me with her gaze as cords of pink flesh lowered from the ceiling and efficiently tidied up Stick's mess, lapping up blood and hot sauce, placing cans on shelves, and scooping up cups of ramen with whip-like tendrils. Then, the cords of flesh nudged me forward, and I stood before Old Lady Imitari.
The thing that I had always thought of as a stern old woman handed me Stick's cane. With the same benign smile I remembered from buying red hots from it as a ten-year-old, it waved me away with its flyswatter, and the cords of flesh pushed me out the door onto the sidewalk.

Heartbreak.
That’s what got me, well, out of my funk. In a sense, at least. I was in a rut. Knew it. She did too. Guess we were in a rut, really. Ran its course. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, but, well, sometimes stories end, you know?
So I did my piece. Curled up into the fetal position and fucking bawled. Days went by. Go to work. Go home. A zombie. Drank a lot more. But time wore down the edges eventually. And one day, I said “fuck it.” Packed my car, quit my job, and fucked off across the country. That was the plan anyway. Heading home. Maybe with my tail between my legs. I wasn’t sure.
It was a long drive. From the West Coast to the depths of the Midwest. From the shimmering, golden shores to undulating, aureate waves of grain. Radio stations fading in and out. Long stretches of static. Data dropping fucking everywhere. Sometimes I twisted through the AM band. Hellfire and brimstone. Vast conspiracies that always lacked imagination. What happened the fun stuff? Lizard people. Time travelers. Area 51. Not anymore. Everything’s a fucking angle. Propaganda. Switch it off.
I took a long way. Choosing county routes over the interstate. I had time to kill, so why not? Might as well see some of this country. The back parts. Dark parts. Quiet parts. Flyover parts. The “you don’t see anyone other than the locals and lost” and kinda parts. And I guess I was lost, right? In a sense. Though, I was hoping I wouldn’t become physically so. God knows I didn’t need to slip through the cracks of the Earth somewhere out near Kearney, Nebraska.
But things did get strange–shouldn’t that be expected out in these less-traveled places, though?--somewhere around Sheldon, South Dakota. I was at a rest stop, pulled over for a break, trying to get the last Clif bar to break free of the piece of shit vending machine, when I saw a black semi roll up.
Now, when I saw black, I mean completely. Utterly. Entirely. A pitch black cab with tinted black windows pulling a matching black trailer. Even the rims were black. It stood out like a oozing sludge against the golden, baked landscape. I stood there, by the vending machine, waiting for a while to see who would emerge. Of course I was curious. BUt…no one did. It just sat there–this beast of a vehicle–idling. I figured the driver must have been pulling over to take a nap or to call it quits from his shift–they can only drive so long, right? But you’d think they’d want to step out and stretch their legs.
Eventually, I managed to hit the plastic of the machine just right to free my Clif bar. I tore it open, took a bite, and returned to my car. Back on the road. I had places to be.
It was strange, though. I kept seeing the black truck after that. It passed me–somehow–on the highway a few dozen miles from the rest stop. But I caught up, a few miles outside of Sioux City. I passed right alongside it, my eyes straining to see who was driving. Naturally, the windows were tinted too and I couldn’t see a damn thing. I just couldn’t put it out of my mind. Such an odd sight. This big, beastly, pitch black truck barreling across the dull Midwest. It didn’t even have any markings. No company logo. No indication of what it was delivering, who it belonged to, or where it might be going. Well, it did have plates. Washington. But there was no way to know where it originated from.
After passing by it and getting through Blue Earth, I saw it again at a rundown motel. The Cozy Inn. I had pulled off a few hours earlier, deciding to spend the night. I was exhausted, had pulled a 10 hour day and could barely keep my eyes open. The clerk put me up in some grimy room that looked like the set of more than one true crime series. Stained sheets. Peeling wallpaper. A bathroom sink more inclined to spit out brown gunk than drinkable water.
My window faced the parking lot. I sat up for a while, curtains drawn, vaguely watching the television–playing one of those trashy true crime shows I feared I might end up on–and the parking lot. Cars occasionally came and went. I saw some of my neighbors, who looked mostly like travelers or perhaps vagrants. While a police officer was detailing a particularly gruesome scene on Murder Comes Home, I saw the black semi roll into the parking lot.
Once again, it sat there idling, headlights blazing through my window. I grew irritated. I almost got up to go outside. As I was contemplating the possible dangers of such a decision, a woman approached the monstrous truck. She looked beautiful in a miserable way, with a short fluorescent pink skirt and heels too high for the pock-marked parking lot.
She opened the passenger side door and climbed in, disappearing into the tinted darkness. The headlights went off and for a while I watched, silence save for the exploitative program murmuring in the background:
Her limbs were buried in separate spots along the roadside ditch…
My heart–broken though it was–thumped in my throat.
Her head was never recovered…
I walked outside, suddenly very concerned. I stood on the pavement in my shorts and t-shirt, facing the truck, no idea what I might do.
The door opened.
The woman stepped out.
Blood was running down her neck.
I ran up to her, “Miss, hey, Miss, are you okay?! You’re bleeding. Should I call an ambulance?” I was frantic, my eyes darting between the blood on her neck, trying to ascertain the source and the thumping truck.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just swell. Fucking grand.” Her voice was dreamy. Her eyes were glazed over as though she was in a daze.
I grabbed her arm, “I really don’t think you’re–”
She suddenly became more cogent, grasping my hand, “You don’t wanna get fucking involve in this, kid.”
I thought that was an odd thing to say–she was younger than me.
“I’m just trying to–” The headlights went on, illuminating us like a spotlight on a stage. The woman darted off, swaying as she did.
I stood there–stupid–not moving. All the lights in the parking lot went out and all I could hear was the engine idling. The driver’s side window rolled down. For a while–what seemed like an eternity, really–nothing happened. But then a hand emerged, casually, finger curling backwards, calling me over. And so I walked. What was I going to do? Be rude?
I couldn’t see inside the cab, but a voice emerged. It was deep, bone-shaking. It didn’t feel like it traveled through the air. More like it vibrated my eardrums, bouncing around my skull.
“You’re hurt.”
It took me a moment to gather myself, “Hurt?”
“Deeply. Wounded. Lost. Like a stray dog.”
I squeezed my hands together and could feel tears welling up in my eyes, “I’m just–”
“I can help.” The voice pushed inside me.
“You can?”
“Get in. Come take a little ride. You’ll feel better. Free. Happy. Complete.”
I stood in hesitation, my eyes on the hand, which was a deathly pale. It was almost translucent, but seemed so soft, gentle. I wanted to feel it on my cheek.
“Okay.”
I walked to the other side of the cab, pulled open the heavy metal door, and climbed into the plush, black seat. As soon as I pulled it shut I felt hands all over me. In my hair. On my neck. Roaming along my collarbones. Grasping my shoulders. I couldn’tj tell how many. Four? Six? Eight? Soft and gentle and cold.
I closed my eyes. I sank into the darkness. The headlights went out as the cab rumbled, pulling back onto the deserted county route.
And I felt good. So good.
Now, I don’t feel anything at all. Not scared or sad or hurt or lost. I’m found. Just like you could be found. So if you ever see a pitch black semi rolling along the highway, think about flagging it down.
And then, like me, you’ll never have to die

Long read but I'll keep it as simple and summarized as possible.
I manage at a private owned place, which is opening another location by the end of summer and I'll be going there to gm. Currently I clock in as a pure hourly manager 3 days a week and as a server or bartender (at those rates) another 2 days a week. Recently we switched our pos system. Our former provider sucked and this is a huge upgrade. The owners have always kept payroll very close to the chest and not even the gm has ever had access to see it. The owners did payroll through a 3rd party system when we had the old pos so there was never any chance we'd see it anyway. Now that we have the new system, they did away with the 3rd party payroll and do it through the new one. Of course they took the proper steps and limited the managers access so we can't see everyones rates, we already knew that. I make the schedule for the foh, and we use the scheduling program that is partnered with our new pos. There were some problems when I first started using the app to make schedules because I lacked access to use certain features. The owners gave me admin status (on the scheduling app only, not the pos system) and that was several months ago. The other night I was making the schedule and was just clicking around the app and I can basically see what everyone makes, EVERYONE. I know all of the numbers I saw are true because my numbers were correct. For me. As an hourly manager, more than half our line cooks make more than me per hour im at $19 hour, alot of them are at $20. Our km clears 90k annual salary, our gm is only at 65k annual salary, another manager literally makes $15 an hour when we pay our dishwashers $15 an hour too. How the fuck does that make any sense? There's 2 servers that literally have a fucking annual salary at $13 and $15 so when they clock in and make tips they're getting paid way more than everyone else, me included when I clock in as bartender or server at $5 an hour. I even asked months ago if I could clock in at a rate similar to how they are (and I didn't even know they already were) and got shot down. Us managers were told we can't get raises atm bc "slow season" but I can see that the entire kitchen has gotten raises since April.
Now, moving on the the new location. Im in that building almost every morning talking to a dozen reps, contractors, electricians, plumbers, coordinating with tech guys and mapping out everything, all shit thats way above my pay grade. Me and the owner sat down a few months ago to talk my numbers. I said I wanted to be in the 70s range preferably 75k-80k. I think he thought I was gonna ask for more but honestly I'd be comfortable with that. He said that can most likely be done. Fast forward to now and they're back pedaling hard af. They want me to come down to around 60k and have a "bonus incentive" salary to keep me honest and working hard to achieve goals.
I'm ready to quit. Do I show my hand and tell them I know everything? Do I threaten them to air this shit out and watch how many people quit or demand instant raises? As it stands right now in my mind I WILL NOT be their underpaid "gm" at this new place for anything under 80k now. Infact I might up it to 90k just like our shitty km who can't manage the kitchen and does a shitty job.
What would you do?

Long read but I'll keep it as simple and summarized as possible.
I manage at a private owned place, which is opening another location by the end of summer and I'll be going there to gm. Currently I clock in as a pure hourly manager 3 days a week and as a server or bartender (at those rates) another 2 days a week. Recently we switched our pos system. Our former provider sucked and this is a huge upgrade. The owners have always kept payroll very close to the chest and not even the gm has ever had access to see it. The owners did payroll through a 3rd party system when we had the old pos so there was never any chance we'd see it anyway. Now that we have the new system, they did away with the 3rd party payroll and do it through the new one. Of course they took the proper steps and limited the managers access so we can't see everyones rates, we already knew that. I make the schedule for the foh, and we use the scheduling program that is partnered with our new pos. There were some problems when I first started using the app to make schedules because I lacked access to use certain features. The owners gave me admin status (on the scheduling app only, not the pos system) and that was several months ago. The other night I was making the schedule and was just clicking around the app and I can basically see what everyone makes, EVERYONE. I know all of the numbers I saw are true because my numbers were correct. For me. As an hourly manager, more than half our line cooks make more than me per hour im at $19 hour, alot of them are at $20. Our km clears 90k annual salary, our gm is only at 65k annual salary, another manager literally makes $15 an hour when we pay our dishwashers $15 an hour too. How the fuck does that make any sense? There's 2 servers that literally have a fucking annual salary at $13 and $15 so when they clock in and make tips they're getting paid way more than everyone else, me included when I clock in as bartender or server at $5 an hour. I even asked months ago if I could clock in at a rate similar to how they are (and I didn't even know they already were) and got shot down. Us managers were told we can't get raises atm bc "slow season" but I can see that the entire kitchen has gotten raises since April.
Now, moving on the the new location. Im in that building almost every morning talking to a dozen reps, contractors, electricians, plumbers, coordinating with tech guys and mapping out everything, all shit thats way above my pay grade. Me and the owner sat down a few months ago to talk my numbers. I said I wanted to be in the 70s range preferably 75k-80k. I think he thought I was gonna ask for more but honestly I'd be comfortable with that. He said that can most likely be done. Fast forward to now and they're back pedaling hard af. They want me to come down to around 60k and have a "bonus incentive" salary to keep me honest and working hard to achieve goals.
I'm ready to quit. Do I show my hand and tell them I know everything? Do I threaten them to air this shit out and watch how many people quit or demand instant raises? As it stands right now in my mind I WILL NOT be their underpaid "gm" at this new place for anything under 80k now. Infact I might up it to 90k just like our shitty km who can't manage the kitchen, does a shitty job, argues with the owner constantly and doesnt give a fuck about labor.
What would you do?

Long read but I'll keep it as simple and summarized as possible.
I manage at a private owned place, which is opening another location by the end of summer and I'll be going there to gm. Currently I clock in as a pure hourly manager 3 days a week and as a server or bartender (at those rates) another 2 days a week. Recently we switched our pos system. Our former provider sucked and this is a huge upgrade. The owners have always kept payroll very close to the chest and not even the gm has ever had access to see it. The owners did payroll through a 3rd party system when we had the old pos so there was never any chance we'd see it anyway. Now that we have the new system, they did away with the 3rd party payroll and do it through the new one. Of course they took the proper steps and limited the managers access so we can't see everyones rates, we already knew that. I make the schedule for the foh, and we use the scheduling program that is partnered with our new pos. There were some problems when I first started using the app to make schedules because I lacked access to use certain features. The owners gave me admin status (on the scheduling app only, not the pos system) and that was several months ago. The other night I was making the schedule and was just clicking around the app and I can basically see what everyone makes, EVERYONE. I know all of the numbers I saw are true because my numbers were correct. For me. As an hourly manager, more than half our line cooks make more than me per hour im at $19 hour, alot of them are at $20. Our km clears 90k annual salary, our gm is only at 65k annual salary, another manager literally makes $15 an hour when we pay our dishwashers $15 an hour too. How the fuck does that make any sense? There's 2 servers that literally have a fucking annual salary at $13 and $15 so when they clock in and make tips they're getting paid way more than everyone else, me included when I clock in as bartender or server at $5 an hour. I even asked months ago if I could clock in at a rate similar to how they are (and I didn't even know they already were) and got shot down. Us managers were told we can't get raises atm bc "slow season" but I can see that the entire kitchen has gotten raises since April.
Now, moving on the the new location. Im in that building almost every morning talking to a dozen reps, contractors, electricians, plumbers, coordinating with tech guys and mapping out everything, all shit thats way above my pay grade. Me and the owner sat down a few months ago to talk my numbers. I said I wanted to be in the 70s range preferably 75k-80k. I think he thought I was gonna ask for more but honestly I'd be comfortable with that. He said that can most likely be done. Fast forward to now and they're back pedaling hard af. They want me to come down to around 60k and have a "bonus incentive" salary to keep me honest and working hard to achieve goals.
I'm ready to quit. Do I show my hand and tell them I know everything? Do I threaten them to air this shit out and watch how many people quit or demand instant raises? As it stands right now in my mind I WILL NOT be their underpaid "gm" at this new place for anything under 80k now. Infact I might up it to 90k just like our shitty km who can't manage the kitchen and does a shitty job.
What would you do?

What’s in the closet, Kirsty?
He knew I hid a secret.
I smiled, tried to look confused.
He waited, crossing his arms.
I worried that he'd already seen. He had.
What else could he think about the pile?
His wife’s a cheater. She has another life. Another husband. Children.
He’d never believe the truth: I’m not a cheater; there’s no other life; no other man; I don’t know who the children are who visit me at night.
But I did have a secret. And maybe it’s fair to say another life, even if was smaller and against my will.
I should have destroyed those frames, burned the photos within. Now it looked like I saved them, cherished them. The truth couldn’t be farther. I feared to touch anything to do with… whatever they are…with one exception.
“It started last Halloween,” I said to George, my husband, my real husband.
He stopped packing for a moment, working out the impossibility of this statement. “I’m taking the girls to my parents.” He resumed the tossing of shirts, pants, etc. into our big suitcase.
“It’s true,” I said, but weakly. The children in the picture are at least six and four respectively. They were born six months ago.
“They’re not… my kids,” I said of the boys in the photos. They’re not kids is what I almost said.
George stopped and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Kirsty,” he said slowly, “there are baby pictures. I saw them.”
“That’s-”
He quickly raised his finger, exasperated, angry, done.
“The first picture is you holding a newborn, and…” He swallowed painfully, his throat gone dry. It always does when he’s upset. “And the father in that picture, with his arm around you, isn’t me.”
When I couldn't deny it, he nodded like he knew all along our marriage would end.
We were happy. We really were. George and I had managed to overcome the typical breakdown that often comes with raising children. Only since last Halloween had distance been made by me.
I should have told him as soon as it started.
“Girls!” he called as I followed him down the stairs to the front hall of our lovely home. We’d scrimped and sacrificed to buy and keep this place, our dream by the lake. He’d been so proud. I couldn’t tell him I wanted to leave the first night sleeping there.
Cara and Ella protested through play, ignoring the adults, continuing to jump on an old box they’d long since flattened. Rays from the western sun placed my daughters into an inspired, hallowed light, and I started to cry. He was going to take my babies away.
George opened the door, intending, I’m sure, to drop the suitcase in the car before returning to physically carry the girls out.
But he hesitated in the doorway.
“George?”
The suitcase fell with a solid thud on the floor. “There’s no way,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s no way,” he said, with emphasis on the last word, “you would have had time for…this…”
Not defining "this" as cheating was progress. “Yes!”
He glared, quieting my desperate enthusiasm. I wasn’t off the hook. “Tell me. The truth.”
“I can’t.”
He reached for the suitcase.
“No, not because I don’t want to,” I protested. “I don’t know what’s happening!” I sat on the carpeted steps and stared through blurred vision at my trembling hands. The shriek I’d filled the house with - “happening!” - had put a halt to the box's obliteration. Cara and Ella hesitated for a few seconds before leaping into action.
Cara, the oldest, six, punched her dad in the buttocks. “You have to be nice!”
Ella, four, sat beside me and patted my trembling hands. “It’s okay, mummy.”
Such lovely daughters. Nothing like the boys in those photos when they were this age.
George grasped Cara's wrists and gently walked her back into the house, using his foot to kick the suitcase from the swing of the front door.
"It's alright, girls," he said with weak resolve. "Go and play."
"No!" Cara shouted. She kicked at her father and he pulled her close into a bearhug. Gradually, the girls calmed and were convinced to return to the box in the front room.
"Kirsty," George said, "you have to tell me." He sat down on the step beside me. "Please." I would do anything to take away the hurt in his eyes. "Please."
"I can't. But… I can write it down. Maybe." I took out my phone. We shared Google Drive. When I made a new document, he reluctantly started his phone. The man was a dream. He watched his screen, and waited patiently for my words to appear.
Without preamble, I returned to the awful moment when it all began: a strange and disturbing dream. Words came like an infection from beneath a torn scab. The wound had been opened. Nothing could stop this now.
Sex with another man has never been a desire of mine. I love George. He loves me.
Plus, the man in my dream was a stranger, and not particularly handsome. He has a plain face set to unwavering boredom and unkempt male pattern baldness. Our dream sex felt obligatory, just something we had to do.
I awoke on the wrong side of midnight. November 1st and I was craving ice cream instead of the girls' gathered candy. The freezer left by the previous homeowners came with unopened ice cream. Freezer burned or not, I wanted some.
After retrieving a spoon from the kitchen, I intended to destroy a brick of neopolitan. He waited in his flannel pajamas, barefoot on the concrete floor. His arms were crossed.
"Cravings?" he said.
I dropped the spoon. It clattered down the basement steps. Before I could run away, he disappeared like someone had erased him from head to foot in one clean sweep.
Had to be a dream. That's what I told myself. The spoon stayed in the basement until daylight. Ghost or nightmare, there was laundry to do the next day.
I crossed the concrete floor fast and only felt safer when I'd closed the door to the more modern laundry room. Never thought builder's grade tiles and track lights would make me feel anything but sad.
His voice caught me sorting.
"Kirsty!"
I dropped the cup of detergent all over the floor.
"Shit."
I came out of the laundry room, figuring George had been looking for me in uncharacteristically rude fashion. He hated speaking between rooms. Shouting throughout the house was highly impolite. It must have been important, I figured.
As soon as I stepped onto the bare concrete, however, deep sadness, the kind that seems to physically leech the strength from your body, dominated the room.
"Hello?" I don't know why I said that. The basement is a low ceilinged rectangle. There are no hiding spots except for the laundry room I'd come from. After a deep breath, I walked briskly to the stairs.
"Any day now," a raspy voice breathed into my ear. I jolted and slipped forward, falling and clipping my chin off a step. It made my teeth click painfully. Nobody there, of course. I ran upstairs and George had gone outside with the girls to play hide and seek.
I wanted to tell him. He looked so happy. It's hard to convey in words the kind of smile he showed me through the window. Imagine contentment mixed with unreserved joy and hope. Yes, it's difficult to picture. So few of us can ever have such a moment. Sort of like finding a natural view completely untouched by humanity. Beyond rare and precious.
I’m rambling now to avoid writing about what followed. The point is I couldn’t tell him. I hoped it’d go away and stop.
But, of course, it didn’t, and things got much worse.
I awoke in a great deal of pain. Having already given birth to children, the feeling was familiar. Despite getting up and gasping, George continued to snore in our bed. He’s a deep sleeper, but a quick and early riser. I’ve never heard him complain about getting out of bed either, especially when there’s an emergency.
I might have woken him up but I was disoriented and confused. Part of me believed I was still pregnant with Ella. It wasn’t until I’d gone all the way to the kitchen to avoid waking up the girls, that my brain caught up: Girls. Plural. Ella was asleep in her bed upstairs.
“Ohhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit.” I knew the signs of labour. This couldn’t be happening. “Ohhhhhhhhh.”
I was definitely going to wake everyone up if this continued.
My phone was upstairs by my bedside table. We don’t have a landline. I should have called 911. I should have woken up George.
Instead, I went downstairs where I could vocalize pain without disturbing anyone. Such a pathetically passive response. But that’s how I was raised. Keep it down, don't you frown.
His hands seized mine as soon as I descended the last step. Serious and bald without dignity is how to best describe his physical appearance. Cold and cruel is what he is. The lights turned off and, in the perfect darkness of the basement, he was all that I could see.
He produces a red light from his body somehow but his touch is literally frosty.
"Kristy, it's time," he said. No joy there. Just straight facts. Something was coming. I was going to give birth to it. In the dull red glow of his being, the first boy came.
"His name is Hadad," the man said, placing a large, infant boy with a lot of hair and, I swear, a hint of beard, on the bare concrete. Hadad looked like a three month old they use as newborns on TV. He didn't cry. He hardly seemed to breathe as his dark eyes roamed the darkness. His light resembled the man's, a less intense red.
I felt another contraction, and winced.
"She comes next," the man said.
I felt so weak. "Who are you?" I asked him.
At last, he smiled and I wished he hadn't. It made me feel small, insignificant, and beneath his concern. "You know who I am," he said. "I'm your husband."
Pain wracked my entire body. Something didn't feel right. The birth of Cara and Ella had been without difficulty.
"Push," my "husband" ordered. "She is upset with you, and will kill you if you don't get her out now."
"It has to be a nightmare," I told him. Sweat poured in streams down my face. The unborn "she" in question writhed and damaged my insides. I screamed. I couldn't help it.
"Push!"
I obeyed and the second boy spilled onto the bare concrete, coated in blood and dust.
"It's a boy," I said.
The man looked displeased. "The body is male. She is Hebat. No wonder she is angry." Like the other infant, Hebat appeared aware of her surroundings and had far too much motor control for a newborn. The light pouring from her body was dull silver. Her eye sockets were two pits of concentrated despair. I had to look away.
The babies were pressed into my arms.
The man stretched out beside me. "Open your eyes and smile." I resisted. "Do it. Now." What choice did I have? The flash from his cell blinded me. They were all gone by the time my sight recovered. Only the sweat remained as evidence of the ordeal.
It had to have been a hallucination. Some very bad food poisoning maybe. The source could be as simple as an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. I had been stress eating since we'd moved in. I stood up and took some comfort in a Charles Dickens' reference.
"More of gravy than of grave about you," I said. My words seemed consumed by the dreadful weight of the air. "Whatever you are."
Whatever you are: something bad in any case. At best, I'd hallucinated prolonged and traumatic labour and needed medical attention. Yet, when I limped up the basement stairs, all thoughts of waking George vanished. There on the kitchen island sat a propped frame containing the photograph taken only moments ago.
The man looked happy. Only Hadad appeared in this picture, which meant another one was somewhere. I didn't panic. I worried more about what George would think if he saw the photos. I had to find them all.
Hebat and his father and I were mounted in a dark wood frame by the master bedroom. It'd be the first thing anyone saw if they woke up. I plucked it off the wall and, together with the first photo, tucked it under some blankets in the dresser we'd shoved in the small walk-in closet.
You might not believe this, but I went straight to sleep after. I climbed under the blanket in my sweaty pajamas, shut my eyes, and didn't have enough time to deny what had happened. I was unconscious until morning.
George placed a coffee on my nightstand. That's what I remember. He rubbed my feet while I slowly awoke. The girls were watching TV downstairs, munching on apple slices. There was forty minutes still before we had to seriously consider getting ready to take Cara to school.
George would drop her off on his way to work downtown. He chose his hours and always chose convenience for his wife and kids. Ella and I planned to spend the morning gardening. Then we would nap much of the afternoon away until George and Cara returned. A life so perfect is so very rare.
I didn't want to spoil things with a very convincing nightmare. Besides, I felt fine. Not so good that I wanted to look in the dresser to see if those photos really were there, but not ill. So I remained silent again.
November started fine. Idyllic days and nights filled with laughter and joy and television. Just as I started to believe in the dream we'd made, they came again.
The wail of a child's hunger is a powerful call for a parent. When it's a chorus, even of two, it cannot be ignored. Only I awoke to Hadad and Hebat's cries for their "mother" from the basement.
Half asleep, I drifted into the kitchen and searched for their milk bottles. When no bottles could be found, I remembered they were newborns. Milk swelled in my breasts and made my nipples ache. Just like when Cara or Ella would awaken in the night. It was a relief to feed them.
But what the fuck was I doing?
I was acting like the man in the basement and the devil babies were mine. It'd been less than a week since Halloween and that horrible nightmare illusion. I had already taken on the beleaguered newborn mother role without question.
Their cries intensified and flayed the weak resistance of exhausted reasoning.
Don't wake George. Don't wake my babies, my real babies.
"What took you so long?" the man critized, his voice monotone, the question unrhetorical.
"I… was sleeping. I went to the fridge first." Under his severe gaze, I stopped in the midst of the dark room. Hadad had quieted. Hebat cooed as if laughing at her own joke. I couldn't see them because the lights were off. They liked the dark better. Somehow I knew that about them and him.
"You should sleep down here," he said. "A mother should always be close to her babies."
The statement was nonsense but not altogether wrong. I wanted to be close to my babies, the daughters sleeping in bliss upstairs, away from the evil fermentation in the basement.
"Kirsty," he said. "Are you listening?" His hand touched the small of my back. The gentleness surprised me. I squawked and flinched away. "What’s wrong with you? They're hungry." He pressed on my shoulders until I sat on the cold floor.
They came from the shadows, already walking. I wanted to go, but I knew he wouldn't allow it. He pulled my cat t-shirt off over my head and their fierce mouths suckled, relieving the pressure of excess breast milk quickly. It felt physically good and psychologically alien.
I looked down at them once and immediately regretted it. Their emanated light had intensified to a point where perception of them hurt.
Each time I blinked my eyes were drawn to some isolated part of their bodies. The vision got closer to the point of disgust. Everything is gross if you're close enough. There is no beauty under a microscope. If you think there is then you're not using the right magnification.
Hebat's eye drew me in. At first, I saw the dark sphere, and then the strands of her eyelashes. Her gravity kept pulling until the creatures that live in eyelashes were revealed: Demodex folliculorum. I looked the microscopic horrors up.
The babies had more parasites than any child should. They wanted to show me and could somehow do so.
I asked him about it. "Why are they showing me these worms?"
He smiled, contemptuously as usual. "Trying to impress mother. Neither of them understand your horror and insignificance. You are the ant who knows they're an ant. Lucky you. They think you will be proud of the life their corporeal forms produce and host. Give them a few hours. It will pass."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. We're married. Now, prepare to smile." His cell reappeared and I noted the lack of features; it might have been a singed rectangle of spent firewood. He frowned when I failed to smile. "Smile, Kirsty. These are your children."
I managed to stave off the tears and hold the babies close. The smile was more difficult. In the inevitable aftermath of their sudden disappearance, the frames depicted an exhausted, wrinkly woman smiling painfully. It took a second to recognize myself.
The things in the basement sapped my strength. I looked dehydrated, beleaguered. The scale in the bathroom said I'd dropped six pounds. I'd weighed myself the morning before.
"Whoa, you've lost weight," George noted, thinking I'd be pleased. "This place has been so good for us, eh?'
To produce another smile proved as draining as the previous night. "Y-yes," I stuttered too late for him to ignore.
"Hey," he said, touching my forearm.
I flinched.
"Whoa, you okay? What's wrong?"
I should have told him. "Nothing. Bad sleep. A nightmare. I'll be fine."
A lie is an agreement. George wanted to agree, I think. He wanted life to be fine because he was happy for once. We struggled so hard before we came to Bridal Veil Lake. It was supposed to be our dream.
Guilty if I told him the truth. Guilty because I didn't. I began to resent his happiness, though he had done nothing but be the wonderful man he'd always been.
To Cara and Ella I became a body in motion, No brain left to guide them away from harm or answer their questions about nature and the universe.
"I don't know." That's what I told them often.
So they began to treat me like a kind of butler.
"Can I have some juice, please?"
"Sure, sweetheart."
"Mommy, can I have a snack?"
"Of course." And I'd run off to fetch it.
"Cookies."
"Yes, dear."
When Christmas came, I had two and they induced the same level of joy. Visiting the basement to feed and nurture Hebat and Hadad became a nightly occurrence. I'd learned to awaken, if I could get to sleep at all, and go quietly.
He berated me severely if I missed a night, and there were subtle threats made casually.
"I may have to squash you yet," he said, his tone as deep and cold as always.
"It won't happen again," I promised. "They’re getting big." In fact, they were no longer infants. Both had grown to the approximate age of six or seven in a few months. Still, they never spoke. Their dark eyes watched me as they ate food from the kitchen upstairs, food I'd hidden from my family.
"More meat," the man demanded.
"Of course." And I ran to the freezer and gave them frozen sausages in the package. They never complained or demanded the food be prepared a different way. No objections from my "husband" either.
Hebat tore the styrofoam and plastic wrap away and flattened the row of sausages stuck together between powerful molars. Hadad contented itself with licking them like a popsicle.
I'd stay until the photo. Then they'd release me by vanishing. Always with an exhausted breath, I'd trudge up the stairs and search for the frames and hide them in the same place.
They only smiled in the pictures. At no other time did they express any kind of emotion unless indifference counts.
My own children and husband weren't doing much better. Their concerns about my fatigue and ruminating slowly ceased as I repeated the excuse: I’m just tired. It'll pass.
Of course, I did not know when the nightmare would stop.
"When will it end?" I asked him one night, while Hebat and Hadad exercised like they had a mission.
"What do you mean?" he said.
I was surprised he answered. He usually didn't. "This. This. When can I go back to normal and not come down every night? I'm so very tired."
He frowned and I thought some punishment must be coming. Instead, he looked more confused. "I don't understand. You aren't happy? Your children grow into power and strength and will take their place in the world. They will be great and you - you, of all the tiny things, made that happen. Ask yourself what you want out of life, and see if Hebat and Haddad aren't your answer."
Too many words, all at once, for an exhausted mother. I didn't speak for the rest of the night. The infernal trio vanished, and the latter moments of the ritual I carried out with his challenge in mind.
I want my children to be strong, happy, and safe.
"Juice," Cara demanded the next morning, a Saturday, while she watched cartoons.
"Get it yourself!" I hissed, from tired to angry in a second.
"But I can't," Cara accurately pointed out. She didn't look away from the TV. Looking at me wasn't safe, and she knew it. Her and Ella held hands and sat a little straighter. It broke my heart. What had I done?
George came downstairs, attracted by my shouting. "What’s going on?"
Empathy became sadness, and the constant burden rekindled to anger swiftly. "Just children treating me like a servant."
He smiled. "Ah, yes, and how are the royal princesses this morning?"
His levity irked me. "You would know if you didn't sleep in so much."
The smile vanished from his face, and instead of the fight I seemed to want, he mumbled a quiet apology and joined the girls. They climbed onto him as he wrapped them into a cuddle.
"What are we watching?" George restarted his smile, his calm, for the girls. I hated myself. It had to end. Tonight.
After another dreary day of going through the motions, and the girls and George had fallen asleep, I went to the kitchen and chose the knife I thought sharpest.
"Kirsty," he said, his voice a whisper rising from the depths of the house.
"Coming," I whispered back.
"Mom," said another voice, a girl's, and I knew that Hebat had, at last, found herself and the wholeness of her being had been corrected.
I started to cry. I went downstairs and there she was with her brother and her father. He looked tired but some of the grimness had cracked to allow the first real contentment I've ever seen him express.
"Is that for the cake?" he asked. "We already have one."
I remembered the sharp knife. "Meat," I said. "There’s ham in the freezer."
He nodded, seeming to accept the answer.
"Mom," Hebat said, "Do you think I'm…" She gestured to herself, her face, and her body, and I understood the question, born from doubt and a desire to be validated.
I pulled her close. "You are the most beautiful girl in the whole world." We cried together. Hadad cut into a poorly made, asymmetrical cake by the light of his aura. No one cared that he did so on the floor. I brought out the ham from the fridge and we ate slices with our hands.
"It's almost done," he said. "They’re nearly grown. They are strong, and they are happy. You've done a good job, Kirsty." He watched our children fight to smear icing on each other's faces. "I'm sorry if I was mean. Or cold. I've never done this before." And he meant raising children. "It was the hardest, scariest thing anyone can try. I shouldn't have blamed you for… Hebat… It wasn't your fault."
Before I could pat his hand, he and the kids vanished. Darkness so familiar couldn't extinguish a new fear. I went upstairs and found the last frame. I held my daughter in the photo, my beautiful Hebat. He must have taken the photo without my notice.
I took it upstairs but couldn't bring myself to hide it.
I didn't see that one, George wrote into the document.
I forgot he was watching.
He typed again: Are you saying there is something in the basement?
Yes, I replied.
He stirred in the living room. I hadn't moved from the stairs, but I could tell by his stomping how angry he'd become. All of his negative, violent traits he saved for those in the world who would harm his family. George the Protector was fearsome to behold.
But he had no chance against my other husband.
"Come out! Come out you coward!" George bellowed. At first, nothing happened. The moment before calamity, even when the specific consequences aren't known, is still in slow motion. He carried on shouting. The girls rushed into the hall and didn’t hesitate to investigate.
"No!" I shouted. "Cara! Ella!"
Their feet padded down the steps. A violent commotion followed, screams and raging voices, both deep and childishly shrill.
The most unsettling quiet followed.
I chewed through the fear and the horror tearing me apart and finally moved.
No evidence of violence could be seen from the top of the stairs. The concrete looked bare and dusty and the light revealed nothing more. They were gone, all of them.
"Hebat," I whispered. "Cara? George?"
Him, I thought of, the nameless husband and felt no hint of his presence. He'd always been there. I know that now. It had nothing to do with the house. His absence was felt more than his insidious presence. Yet, I felt no relief. George and the girls were gone. I sat on the floor and cried for all my missing children.
When I finally emerged from the basement, the whole house had been filled with night. Their photos were everywhere. The others were upstairs. I gathered them on the kitchen island. How could I explain any of this to the police?
I needed help. I called my parents. It took twenty minutes before my father picked up.
"Kirsty? What's wrong?"
"Dad," I whimpered. "George is gone. Cara. Ella."
"What? What did you say?"
"They’re gone, dad. George. The girls are gone."
I heard his bed springs protest as he rolled out of bed. My mom said something I couldn't hear, and he shushed her.
"Kirsty," he said, "are you alright? Are you hurt? Are you in danger?"
Why was it so hard to understand? "Dad. George is gone."
"Kirsty, who the hell is George?"
It was my turn to be confused. "He's my- you know him. My husband…"
"Kirsty," he said very slowly, "are you on drugs? Did you take something?"
"No. Are you?"
"Excuse me?"
I hung up.
I have their photos. I have all of their photos. That's what I brought to George's parents before the sun rose. They wouldn't open the door and spoke to me through an intercom.
"George is gone," I said.
"We'll call the police."
"This is your son. These are your granddaughters."
I heard my mother-in-law say, "Who is she?"
"We don't have a son," my father-in-law said. "Go away."
I left.
Back to the house. Our dream sat empty and I live there, but none of the people in my family photos are my family.
I remember but the world never does. My parents think I'm ill and that I used AI to create the family I apparently never had.
How did I buy the house without a job or income? With deep concern for my mental health, they showed me a news story. I had won the lottery the day I turned eighteen.
His influence there, payment for services rendered.
A lie is an agreement.
What had I agreed to? I'm afraid I know the answer: I never wanted a family.
God help me. God help them.
I don't know what to do with these pictures.

[First] [Previous] [Next]
Edited by WaveOfWire
- - - - -
Two days… It had been two days that Tracy had gone to sleep while Harrison was working, only to come back in the morning to see him still in the workshop. She knew he was damn productive, sure, but that really couldn’t be healthy. Apparently, it had something to do with the weird bowl of orange… soup… that Cera gave him. No way was it just caffeine; any amount of the stuff would have been filtered out of his system by now. He mentioned a tingling feeling too…
Damn, she did not know enough about drugs to even start assuming what that massive alien had Harrison fucked up on. At least the scanner said he was ‘fine’—if you ignore the other glaring issues the machine brought up. Plus, he said he didn’t mind it. Either way, he managed to complete the weaving component and a few other electrical backbones of the fabricator last night, so the project was practically done, and after seeing the engineer work himself half to death, she was dead-set on finishing it.
She was currently tits-deep into the upper manufacturing portion of the towering machine. It took a tall step-stool—on top of the nearby desk—for her to push her small shoulders through the even smaller access panels high on the everything-printer. It was difficult to fit her torso in, but she managed, holding a flashlight between her teeth as she fiddled with a stubborn series of mechanical ‘hands.’ Nothing new. The situation reminded her of the ‘shop back on Mars; it had the same ever-present scent of copper and industrial sealant. All that was missing was her dad’s ancient tunes blasting through some shitty speakers… Hold on…
The modular component in her grip was successfully attached with a resonating thock. Tracy squirmed out of the dim wire-filled crevice, trying her best to not rip her only tank-top on any bolts or corners, and getting a face-full of the bright flood-lights illuminating the workshop. She scowled and blocked out the searing light with a hand, but she was a bit too late to avoid going half-blind.
“Are the mechanical manipulators in?” Harrison grunted, poking his head out underneath the printer’s floor-adjacent maintenance hatch. She looked down at him as she tried to blink off the spots in her vision. His hair was messy, barely kept in line by his habit of combing through it with his fingers. The areas around his eyes were dark and sunken… Guess that’s what two all-nighters did to a man. He’d be seeing the hat man or start hallucinating if he didn’t get any sleep soon… but then again, the two of them were so close to finishing the fabricator…
“You bet.” She gave him a thumbs up, slamming the panel cover closed. “Feel free to test it.”
He nodded and slid back underneath the machine. “Gotcha”
She gently stepped off the stool and slid off the side of the desk, stretching herself out. If her piss-poor sitting posture or her tank-top puppies hadn’t already fucked her spine up, bending over backward to build this fabricator sure as hell would. She sat down next to the panel where Harrison resided, resting her back against the fabrication tower. Her excited voice broke the muffled noises of the engineer’s work. “So… Harrison?”
“Hmm—”
“—Mind if I play some music?”
The sounds from the hatch stopped, followed by his muffled, shocked tone echoing from beneath the fabricator. “You have music!?”
She smirked at seeing the expression on his face when his head popped out again. “I sure do… Did you seriously not download any to your data pad?”
He slipped out from beneath the fabricator fully, huffing as he took a knee beside her. The scent of melded rubber, wire, and his liquid labor reached her nose not-so-unpleasantly. “You would not believe how much of a pain it is to repair an entire barracks without it… So, yeah, I didn’t.”
“Sooooooooo, whatcha wanna listen to? I’ve got almost everything on here—besides the super niche, of course.” She pulled her data pad out, swiping to the massive music folder
“You wouldn’t like the kinda music I listen to; It’s ancient.”
She gave him a lighthearted, annoyed glare. “Welcome to the club… Now what’ll it be?”
“It’s Old Earth kind of ancient… but alright” He looked up at the ceiling in thought, lips pursed. “Do you have anything from Styx or Sweet?”
She stared at him incredulously, her smirk turning into a fully-fledged smile. “Oh my God. You are an absolute dork! You actually listen to Golden Age music?”
His brows raised, accusatory. “And you somehow know exactly who those bands were and what age of Old Earth music they came from?”
She smugly leaned in closer. “That’s because I’m just as much of a nerd with that kinda music as you apparently are.” She quickly looked upward, addressing the workshop AI. “Sebas, connect nearby speakers to my data pad’s audio.” Tracy elbowed the engineer lightly as the PA system chirped its affirmation. “Now, Mr. Golden Age music, which albums do ya want me to queue up?”
- - - - -
The two of them listened to music for hours, tossing on songs they liked as they came to mind while they worked. Harrison had a ton of recommendations that spanned all over the Golden Ages and some twenty-first century classics. She didn’t even know half of them, but she was vibing either way, adding on her own taste by intermingling some older rock tracks and newer electronic beats. The playlist was steadily built up as the day went on. Thank God her dad showed her a vast array of tunes; she might not have been able to keep up with the engineer if her old man hadn't.
It made the work go by so fast, their conversations blurring as they jumped from topic to topic. They discussed whatever came to mind—old hobbies, old jobs, and old interests. A lot was left behind in Sol… At least she knew that the only other human on the planet was more interesting than a soulless workaholic. It turned out that he was a pretty big history buff, and he apparently read a lot about the colonization of the Sol system and the various wars of independence thereafter. Curious, she asked where the interest stemmed from, and he explained that his grandfather was an admiral in the Slavic-Europan deep-ice submarine fleet, which explained how Harrison’s mother was able to afford to immigrate to Mars from Europa.
He could also play an acoustic guitar, and, unfortunately for Tracy, he wasn’t even the slightest bit interested in printing one out, citing that it was a waste of time and material that would be better used elsewhere. That didn’t stop her from writing a note on her data pad to do so later, though. She hadn’t seen someone play one of those in years—the last time was probably in some old music video from the early twenty-second century. What a shame. She would have liked to hear some of the Europan songs his grandmother taught him.
On the bright side, the man seemed to take an interest in her odd hobbies. He brought up the folder of 3D models that she accidentally uploaded to the inter-module system and asked where she got the inspiration for what was in it. Boy, was he not ready for her ‘WarHalberd40k’ lore dump. Props to the guy for not standing up and leaving the workshop throughout her rambling. He even asked questions about the different factions and their weapons, which she was more than happy to talk about.
She also ended up going over the other franchises and hobbies she was interested in, such as robotics and the like. The only interruptions to their chat were the occasional Akula or Craftsman asking for insight regarding the various tasks he had allotted to them, or Shar coming in to check up on Harrison between guard shifts.
The new dynamic of the group was pretty interesting, to say the least. Tracy hadn’t been out to interact with the whole lot of Malkrin, but she definitely noticed how they treated the engineer. They’d started to look up to him in a way ever since he started showing off technology. In a little over two days, the man had shown them that he could provide the materials for a brick house, fine clothing—especially by the alien’s standards—armor, and delicious food. That wasn’t even mentioning the other benefits the technician heard a few of the ‘banished’ talking about over their meals: heating, electric lights, and other assorted machines.
She’d be feeling pretty happy about herself if she was in his position, having so many look up to him and be grateful at the same time. He seemed to view it a lot more robotically, however, only striving to get the basics done. Luckily for him, his basics were their luxury.
That wasn’t all there was to the topic; the engineer lamented about how the colony was going through food just as quickly as materials. The meals weren’t the direct issue he had, more that he had to start focusing on long-term resource harvesting rather than directly preparing for a literal horde of monsters—which wasn’t exactly ideal. It was a good thing that they just so happened to take on an influx of Malkrin then…
Either way, they finally finished the ‘totally legal modification’ for the fabricator, meaning they could at least partially address the latter half of his worries. The whole process of ripping out an old printer and replacing the parts for a new one felt a lot easier than she imagined… even if it took her at least forty-eight hours to complete it… with help from Harrison. Maybe that was why it felt so easy… She supposed the colony overseers didn’t choose the man for no reason, so his skills made sense.
“So… what do we want to print out first?” Tracy questioned, having finished testing the last major component.
The engineer stretched his arms up into the air and rotated his shoulders, then pulled back the desk’s chair and took a seat. “I’ve had just one thing in mind since the start of this whole project.”
Her brows raised in a mix of excitement and curiosity. She leaned forward, looking at the computer monitor from over his shoulder. “Oh? What’s that, then?”
A smirk formed along his cheek, the computer mouse rapidly clicking through the blueprint folder. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what kind of firearm we need since I started dabbling in belt-fed weapon systems.” He opened one final file, a short loading bar preceding the exploded assembly view of… “An M2 Browning machine gun. It’s more than powerful enough to kill in one shot, while also being capable of fully-automatic fire, with a capacity of however many rounds we want in a belt-box.”
“Uh…huh…” She gave a skeptical nod and took a step back, not exactly sold on the idea. “It looks ancient. It’s kinetic, right? Why aren’t we using energy-based weapons? Don’t we have a gunpowder shortage coming up?”
He moved his chair off to the side to look back at her. “We just can’t; Simple as. We’ll need who knows how many more AI cores before we can get started on that level of equipment, Trace,” he huffed, returning his gaze to the specifications of the firearm. “This isn’t the most ‘modern’ weapon we can make, but its twenty-first century counterpart helps with an improved design… somewhat. And, as I said before, it should be more than capable of killing a bug in one shot, so Shar can just tap-fire it to save ammunition.”
Her head tilted quizzically. “Shar?”
“Yup,” he returned confidently. “It’s the perfect weapon for her.”
She raised a brow. “How so?”
He held his hand up, counting his reasons on his fingers. “She’s always on the front line with a shield, she can absolutely handle the weight and recoil, her four arms make reloading it simple, plus she’ll need something with range and power that isn’t a spear. So, why not? And, if for some reason, she doesn’t want to use it, we can just convert it into a turret—which is something I was planning on doing anyways with however more M2s we print out later.”
“I doubt she’ll say no to any gun you give her,” Tracy chuckled while shaking her head, inadvertently causing her bangs to cover her eyes.
“Fair enough,” he conceded with a bob of his head. “What do you think, then? What kinda weapons do you have in mind?”
She reapplied her goggles into an impromptu hairband, feeling a smirk cross her face. “Thought you’d never ask. What purpose do we need these guns to fulfill? Hordes I’m guessing?”
“That’s the idea, yeah. That doesn’t mean they all need to be machine guns, though.” He tapped the belt-fed shotgun beside him.
“Well, lemme see what we’re working with first.” She suddenly stepped forward, leaning over Harrison’s seat to access the keyboard and mouse. Her arms briefly rubbed against him, forcing him to roll his chair backward. She suppressed a giggle at seeing his incredulous frown.
Her eyes quickly traced the hundreds of individual files, clicking through all sorts of folders, each arranged from pre-twenty-first century ‘antiques,’ to more modern iterations of kinetics and particle weaponry. There was… a lot on there—almost too much to reasonably comb through. Why? Did the colony overseers just say ‘fuck it’ and put whatever they could find on here? Were they expecting the pioneers to make a museum of everything?
She sighed, standing up straight and facing Harrison. “Y’know, I’m actually impressed you managed to find that M2-whatever in there…”
He shifted in his seat, resting an elbow on the desk. “Yup, there’s a lot. I’m almost tempted to just make several of those machine guns and just call it a day, but I feel like that’d be too much of a strain on resources, no?”
“I don’t really know enough about how you fight those spider-crab things, or how to get more gunpowder, so… maybe?” She shrugged, biting her cheek in contemplation. “You might just wanna make a few smaller caliber weapons… like, uh… those old kinetic service rifles. If your pump-action shotgun works fine, I’m sure some normal guns would work just fine for now, right?”
He hardily gripped his firearm, hauling it up to his lap. “Depends on what you mean by ‘smaller caliber.’ The whole reason why the KS-23 here works—” he pulled out a massive shell from the ammo belt, displaying it on his palm. “—is because the twenty-three-millimeter round has enough energy transfer to mess up any bug's shell and insides. I’d say the smallest rounds we could use would be point-two-forty-three caliber to get any similar results.”
Brief flickers of grungy orange shells and gnashing teeth marred Tracy’s sight. She forcibly suppressed them, distracting herself with dry humor and a strained laugh. “Guess those fuckers can really take a punch, huh?”
He shook his head somberly. “I couldn’t imagine going up against them without a gun… Anyway, I like your idea of a standard rifle for now. Then, when we have some product lines up, we can go a little more in depth into personal weapons.”
“So are you gonna take one?” She hopped up on the desk, letting her legs swing off the side.
“Don’t think so, no. I’ll stick with my shotty.” The internals of the heavily modified weapon rattled as he held it up and inspected it. “Doesn’t mean I’ll keep it as is. I’m thinking of printing a laser aiming module so I can point-fire it accurately, and maybe a melee-oriented muzzle brake or a lighter chassis to reduce weight… Not sure though.”
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, her cheeks in her palms. “Melee-oriented? Oooooh, like a chain-sword or something?”
His short chuckle coerced a smirk to her face. “No, not like that. More something to use as a bludgeoning tool. Right before the blood-moon, I ended up getting just as much use out of this shotgun as a hammer than as a… well, a shotgun.”
“That’s pretty fuckin’ metal. So are you just gonna make the barrel into a giant bayonet?”
He nodded. “Not exactly a bayonet, but something more like a door-breaching break.”
A short silence settled on their conversation, the faint sounds of the fabricator’s hum and distant woodwork coming to light. Right, there was an outside world… She’d been too caught up talking to Harrison for however many hours it had been. She wondered how successful the fisherwomen were in collecting, and how things had been for the others working on the wood storage shack. Maybe it was already completed? The sun peered through the cargo bay door, proving that it was only about midday. What else would they work on today?
“Hey,” she ventured.
“Hm?” the engineer hummed, his eyes focused on the monitor beside the technician.
She scooted closer to his keyboard. “What’re we doing after this?”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned backward, propping herself up on two hands. “Project wise; what’s the next big thing?”
“Uhmmm…” he muttered, interacting with the computer for a few more seconds before finally meeting her gaze. “Well, I’ve just allocated the fabricator to print out the M2, three FALs—wood furniture, of course—then there’s the magazines and ammunition, so we’ve got a lot of time to kill. The next big thing is definitely going to be metal procurement, and— Oh, right!” Harrison stopped mid-sentence, reaching into his backpack and pulling out several finger-sized metallic cubes, a sudden fire in his eyes. “Okay, so a while ago, during an encounter with three colossi, Shar and Akula found a cave with some ‘surface’ metal deposits. I took a piece off to analyze, but never got the chance to until last night. Anyway, we don’t have any machines to examine the ore, so I made use of the recycler and broke it down to its baser components.”
She nodded along, seeing where he was going with his explanation. “I’m guessing those shiny cubes are the metals from the ore?”
“Sure is. So, as it turns out, we have a pretty damn close supply of not only iron, but also, zinc, sulfur, and a small amount of cadmium. I talked with Sebas about it and did a little research. We believe it’s something akin to sphalerite, given its composition and looks, which implies it’s a sedimentary exhalative deposit. That means there must have been some volcanic…”
Harrison continued talking about underwater deposits and ancient rock formations, bringing up some theories brought forward by the now 4-AI-core-powered Sebas, delving into the current land mass’ history and possible ore output. A lot of it went over the tradewoman’s head, but she still listened intently… Honestly, she could have listened to the man talk about finding metals for hours. It was sort of like the podcasts she used to listen to while completing colonist training, but even more personal and somehow easier to get lost in…
“…find some other minerals further down like silver, but it also might be an active lava zone. Again, these are all theories and this world could just throw the fundamentals of geology away as it does for physics. Anyway, sorry for going on for so long about that, just thought it’d be important for getting some metals in the future.”
“No, no,” Tracy assured, alleviating him of concern with a wave of her hand. “If there’s anything the colony overseers emphasized, it was farming and mineral acquisition. Don’t worry.” She smiled, pointing a thumb to herself. “I just wanna know how I can help.”
“Actually, I’ve a few things only you can do. I’d like to make use of your impressive drone-making expertise for a few applications, if you don’t mind.”
The task of keeping eye contact slipped into an impossible feat in the span of a singular second, planting a pang of embarrassment on her reddened face, forcing her to inspect her fidgeting hands. “I-I wouldn’t say ‘impressive’… b-but what do you have in mind?”
She could see him raise a brow out of the corner of her vision. “Well, after what you’ve shown me with the reconnaissance flyers, I’d like your help in setting up a more permanent ‘net’ of them to scour the meadow and parts of the nearby forest to look out for any approaching hordes. I don’t want to be snuck up on… again…”
‘Again.’
She noted his small frown and sunken eyes, both a little more exaggerated than they already were. It wasn’t like she’d deny his request, but the pangs of empathy over their shared situation all but solidified her resolve. It was the least she could do. She could help him. She would help him.
The technician exhaled slowly, taking on a more serious and understanding tone than before. “I… can do that. For sure. What else?”
“I appreciate it.” He gave a wane smile. “I’ll help you with whatever you need for the project. For the other drones, I’m thinking about a small exploration vehicle to map out caves around us and mark any minerals, as well as a submersible to look for potassium deposits in the ocean.”
“So… search bots?” She crossed her arms, confidence growing; those were her specialty. “Depending on how long the fabricators take and what kind of base drones are in the blueprint folders, I should be able to get those done in no time. All I need to know are the search cues for potassium and how many drones you want.”
He quickly shuffled a few folders on the computer, turning the monitor for her to see some scientific documents with various images and walls upon walls of text. “There’re plenty of resources for that on here for what to look for, and there’s always Sebas, so feel free to ask him since he can just sort through the data for you anyway. If you can, I’d like it if you could focus on the submersible after the reconnaissance drones.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll be right on it, then.” She gave him a thumbs up, slipping off his desk and toward her own.
“I’ll bring you lunch in a bit. Imma go check on the others,” he called.
Her stomach grumbled at the mention, her head turning to give him an appreciative smile. “Oh! Thanks!”
\= = = = =
Avian creatures chirped from their perches in the trees nearby. The wind softly rustled red leaves as grass gently gave way to calculated footfalls. A warm sun laid its light on Shar’khee’s neck. It was surprisingly pleasant, were one to take the time to notice. The mainland was a confusing place for the paladin, with its disparate representations of nature contrasting so heavily. Some days were filled with blood and ravenous beasts, while others were left within the domain of simplicity and beauty. She was content to have the latter, yet it felt like a facade veiling the former—a soft exterior covering the maliciously spiked interior. Never could she leave herself to carelessness, no matter how welcoming it might be.
Hence why she worked to ensure the safety of the star-sent’s castles and their inhabitants, her days largely spent patrolling for any roaming swarms that may wish to cause them harm. She typically used the routine to think, but today offered little in the way of solitude. This time, she was accompanied by the previously banished guardswoman, and was tasked with instructing the new one, though the specifics of what such lessons should entail were vague. Still, Shar’khee did all that she could so as not to disappoint Harrison, so she could only attempt to meet his expectations of her.
She told the yellow-skinned female of the threats that the settlement faced, how one was to defeat them, and what to expect from the beasts. The guardswoman was directed to practice her form with the spear in both thrusts and throwing for some time afterward, proving herself to be well-built. Such was expected of her profession after all.
It was pleasing to have another capable of patrolling the settlement’s outskirts for swarms, as it would greatly impact how effectively the colony could react to such a threat. If her routine was to suffer for the colony’s well-being, she was happy to show the new one her patrol route and note what to look out for.
The guardswoman was not a perfect student, however. Shar’khee never addressed it directly, but the yellow-skinned female obviously discredited the danger posed by the abhorrent, not-so-subtly shrugging off any warnings.
…That was until they stumbled upon the ‘hyena-boars,’ as Harrison called them.
The beasts resided in a clearing not too far from the castles, carelessly meandering across the sea of tall grass. Shar’khee quickly crouched, dragging the guardswoman down with her. Once she assessed that the creatures were not an imminent danger, she decided it would be an excellent opportunity to show the new one how to properly engage a threat. She was about to propose the idea, yet her speech was silenced just as swiftly.
Orange flashes darted through the trees around the glade. Taloned feet and gnashing teeth tore across the ground toward the unsuspecting beasts at the center. It was much too late for them. They were slow. Surrounded. Unaware. It was as quick as it was vicious, the forest’s reds turning a deeper crimson hue in a moment's notice underneath the abhorrent’s brutality.
Gangly monstrosities gnawed and ripped at the dead creatures, brief glimpses of raw flesh and white bone protruding from the small spaces between the clumped-up beasts. Repulsive wet splatters of blood and gore overlapped the calm noises of the forest, the grisly scene serenaded by the softest of nature’s symphonies. It was a sickening juxtaposition.
Shar’khee bit back the unease and steeled herself. They were within twenty paces—close enough to smell the abhorrent’s vile stench of rot and bile, yet far enough so as not to be noticed. She briefly considered backing away and retreating, her focus bouncing between the different avenues of escape, or how to cover her footst—
Crack.
Several sets of feral, eyeless maws snapped in their direction, the blood dripping off freshly dampened teeth. The guardswoman gasped, Shar’khee’s gaze following to see the mistake: a singular broken branch crinkled as a yellow-colored foot raised off the splintering twig.
The paladin exhaled sharply and smoothly stood up, brandishing two spears and her shield. Her glare settled on the still crouching guardswoman. “You are to stay behind my shield and let them appr—ch. Rem—ber what I have told you. Aim for their maws when you thrust y—r lance.”
The other female nodded, shakily pulling out her own weapons with unsteady placement hampering her grip. There was an obvious nervousness to her gaze. Hesitance. That would not do.
Shar’khee faced the prowling abhorrent her knuckles shifting hue as she prepared for their advance, for there was no chance that they wouldn’t. True to her experience, the stalking turned to a gallop with several clicks of grotesque tongues, the swarm bolting toward her as one. She snarled and slammed her bulwark into the ground, letting the approaching beasts skewer themselves amongst its spikes.
There were only ten—a paltry amount. She had defended against magnitudes more, and yet she still stood. What is more, they were mindless. Uncoordinated. They would be but stains in the cloth she used to clean her armor. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, they might leave a furrow in her shield to remember them by. Her arms tensed as the first leapt.
One by one, the abhorrent fell, their repulsive green blood splattering under her thrusts. Each awaiting corpse tore across the grove’s grass, lunging to their deaths with gaping maws and unfeeling hunger, yet she did not yield. Their shells were crushed by her shield and impaled by her Goddess-blessed spears, becoming but one more smear across their surface. Ten motionless lumps lay before her, seeping their ichor into the soil, none having passed the barrier she became. Dead, just as the Creator intended. She remained vigilant for a few moments longer, watching for any more of the disgusting creatures.
None showed themselves, finally allowing blood to flow to her fingers once again. The shield’s heavy presence weighed down her back, the blood flicked off of her spears before she returned them to their place.
“Are y–u well?” Shar’khee addressed the frozen Malkrin, wiping away the splatter on her bracers. The guardswoman stared at the small pile of deceased creatures, her heavy breaths and widened eyes moving from the spear from her singular kill. The paladin huffed. “We are fort—ate that there were so few.”
“F-Few? God help us…” Her horrified, stunned gaze slowly met the paladin’s. “Y-You said there were hundreds on the crimson nights? H-How do you… They were s-so fast.”*
”As I h–ve warned,” Shar’khee affirmed.
“You are a paladin! You all exaggerate your feats… I thought it was just a facade!”
“I have no r—son to lie,” she returned tersely, shrugging off the insult to her station and shaking her head. “The mainl—d is far more dangerous than ten gnash—g beasts; more so than that of your island hamlet. Pick yourself up. We m—t inform the others of this incursion.”
The yellow-skinned female snarled, furrowing her brows at the ground in frustration. At whom…? Shar’khee? Herself? Regardless, the female promptly gathered her composure, pushing air through clenched jaws. A step forward had her feet splash in the small pool of blood, the Malkrin nodding toward the paladin to continue back to the castles.
“…for the village.”
Shar’khee paused in her stride and faced her, frowning at the determination and anger leaking through the intent. “W—t was that?”
Her question was returned with honesty, a huffed voice marred by vexation. “Paladin, how am I to defend my village-mates as I am now?”
“‘As you are now?’ What do you m—n?”
The guardswoman stared down at her spear, wood creaking under her grip. “I have faltered before what you deem a paltry threat, and the thought of an even greater one sows dread deep within my bones. I wish… I wish to be better prepared to defend those of my village. I cannot help but see their faces on those of the furred creature in the clearing, and yet, even if I am so close, I am just as unable to protect them.”
Shar’khee stared down the yellow female, a long gaze taking in a rare showing of sincerity. “Y—r fears are one we all share, new one. Do not be ashamed of them. All t—t matters is that you do not let them rem—n mere fear, but make them your strength. So tell me, do you wish to impr—e? To ensure they do not fall while you are support—g them?”
The yellow-skinned female released a shuddering breath that bled off the worst of her indecision, a newly invoked flame flaring within her visage. “I do, paladin. I seek to protect and to be of use.”
“Then, if you wish to make y—rself resilient in the face of all that opposes us, it would be my undertak—g to forge you anew. Fortunately, Harrison has ordered such already, and his guidance shall prove ever useful, should you pursue it.”
The guardswoman shuffled in place at the star-sent’s mention, her eyes slipping downwards. “He is of a great many resources, but I would rather receive your teachings than those of a craftsman… or that of a male, deity-sent he might be.”
She placed a palm on the female’s shoulder. “He is far more than you might ever k—w. Regardless of if you ac—pt his guidance, I commend your conviction. However—” Her hand gripped tighter, though not enough to instill hostility. “—understand that you are protecting more than just your vi—age-mates.”
The new one nodded, staring up at the paladin with stallwart resolve. “Of course. I shall be in your tutelage, then.”
Shar’khee smiled. “T—n let us begin.”
\= = = = =
Akula was becoming increasingly certain that she knew how her parents once felt. The green-skinned fisherwoman was currently rotating between the many tasks placed upon her, guiding the newcomers through the minutia of their tasks so they might live up to the potential Harrison saw within them. She was gratified to have her own talents recognized by the Creator, but it also placed a great many responsibilities in her talons. Of course, she handled each new addition with finesse befitting her heritage, never once balking from the increasing demands. If anything, she felt validated; it was required of her as a female anyway, was it not? The more feminine-appropriate labor and management one undertakes, the higher authority they were granted.
It began with a simple assignment to oversee the chef’s introduction to the star-sent’s provided cooking appliances. As fascinating and convenient as utilities were, she held no interest in preparing any more food than she already had, but teaching another to operate the machines would alleviate such requirements of her. She reluctantly accepted the task when it was proposed, especially considering the fact that Harrison was much too busy with his other projects to bother with something as benign as cooking. His work was more valuable elsewhere.
The task itself went well, and the pink-skinned chef was quick to pick up on the use of the various kitchen devices, as well as the smoker. A grin had grown when she considered the possibility of all males understanding such domestic things readily, yet her mirth at removing the masculine job required of her was short-lived. Despite the newly initiated Malkrin’s success, Harrison had Akula frequently return to oversee the numerous cooking operations being conducted. That was in tandem with the back-to-back fishing trips made by both herself and the newly acquired females.
…Which was something else the green-skinned cycle-worshipper was ordered to oversee.
She had left the chef to his devices after producing another batch of partially seasoned meals, returning to the Creator with hopes of a break. He applauded her efforts with a nod and tersely spoken appreciation, then quickly pushed two spearguns into her hand and directed her to the ocean, where the twins were ‘working with jack shit,’ as the busy male said. She was to give the fisherwomen the tools and make sure they were used properly, and offer additional assistance in acquiring ‘enough fish to have us fed for a little bit.’
So, she left to complete the given task, feeling somewhat appreciative that her speargun was of superior quality to those she would be delivering—the newcomers were only afforded the lesser, roped-bolt version. It was only natural that she was in possession of their greatest assets, of course; the star-sent saw her as the only one capable of wielding such fantastic ammunition, showing trust that was rightfully placed in her. That did not mean the gray-skinned females were unsatisfied with their own gifts, however. The twins were swiftly caught up on the ‘manual of arms’ and sent to work, somehow managing to keep up with Akula in spite of their land-based origins. The two were fast enough to outpace the cycle-worshipper in sheer speed, but their lack of numerous winters spent traversing deeper waters meant they required frequent rests, breaking the ocean’s surface after every third captured fish or so.
Still, she had to appreciate their dedication to their task. They never complained about Akula pushing them further to reach the star-sent’s vague objective. Such a task was entrusted to her—and by proxy, the other two—and thus it would be completed, no matter how much her comfortable bed… couch called her tiring muscles.
The group of three hauled net after full net of fresh meat to the chef—and sewist, who later joined him—forcing him to relegate much of the catch to long-term storage as the kitchen simply could not deal with the surplus. At least three-quarters of the fish were put to slow cook in the now Malkrin-sized smoker. The craftsman had upgraded it with a kit provided by Harrison, who had recycled much of the dining room and workshop furniture to accommodate it. The Creator’s showcased urgency to gather materials was clearly not unfounded… It was admirable how he used what little he had left to ensure food would not be scarce. Additionally, the apparatus exuded an excellent scent for all the survivors to enjoy, the earthy aroma drawing in some of the other Malkrin for their breaks or meals.
Those were not the end of the cycle-worshiper’s tasks, however. She was also required to report on Shar’khee’s progress in training the guardswoman—helping to recycle the small swarm of abhorrent they cleared earlier—as well as the wood storage building’s progress. Indeed, she was advising and assisting however and wherever applicable. To say she was seen all around the settlement would be an understatement.
Nevertheless, she was appreciative to see her efforts bearing fruit by sundown. The processing of their meals from sea to plate was quite efficient, and those that Akula taught were now well-practiced in their duties. The twin fisherwomen dove from wave to wave, bringing fish back to the barracks, where the cook and sewist swiftly worked to transfer the meat to pans and smoker hooks alike. Then, the remnants of the Sea Goddess’ aquatic gifts would be subsequently recycled and given purpose anew as biofuel or perhaps future fertilizer.
The endless onslaught of duties and responsibilities had enlightened her, in a way. She could see where Harrison came from now; having a working project go from one point to another without input nor difficulty was a sight to behold, and it made her swell with pride. It was a surmountable feat to teach the barbaric ground-worshippers to do something properly.
…Well, they were not horrible Malkrin, so perhaps simply calling them ‘uninitiated’ was a more apt descriptor…
No matter the tribulations faced, and no matter how draining her new authority might be, her rest at the end of the day would be one that was well-earned, and it would be had with a sense of satisfaction. She deserved it, and perhaps that extended to the rest of the settlement as well.
- - - - -
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Next time on Total Drama Anomaly Island - Mine! Mine! Mine!

I met Luna on a train two years ago. I’d just escaped from a toxic relationship, so romance was the last thing on my mind, but then she sat across from me in the carriage and asked about the book I was reading. She had a copy in her bag and wanted to know if it was any good.
I'd never felt such an instant, effortless connection with anybody before. I took a chance and asked her to dinner, and by the time the waiters cleared away our desserts, I already felt comfortable being vulnerable around her. So we went on a second date. And a third. And next thing I knew, we were planning our second anniversary.
In all that time she never gave off any 'creeper' vibes. Until a few months ago, when I stayed the night over at her place...
She'd gotten up early to use the bathroom. I grabbed her laptop off the side desk so I could catch up on some work e-mails, and the incognito tab was just sitting there. My first thought was: either she's having an affair or she's got a secret fetish.
What I found instead was a Google account with a photo album called ‘Michael’s EX’. In it, there were 427 photos of my former girlfriend turned psycho stalker, Sadie. This included shots of ‘Sadie the stalker’ with her family, screenshots of her passport—the works. On Facebook, Sadie's latest post said Moving to the Philippines, and since then she’d become a social media church mouse, so how did Luna keep her under surveillance? And how did you even get PERSONAL ID from a person halfway across the globe?
Down the hall, I heard the bathroom door swing open. Quickly I closed the laptop and pretended to be asleep until Luna planted a kiss on my lips. “Wakey wakey Bugs.”
I faked a stretch. “Morning Lola."
(At school, the other kids christened me ‘Bugs’ because of my cartoonishly large front teeth; I called Luna ‘Lola’ because of her blonde bangs and heart-shaped face.)
“How about we grab a fry for breakfast?” Her smile didn’t seem genuine, more like she was wearing a mask.
“Crap. I forgot I’m doing overtime today, I’ve gotta get to work.” With that, I shot out of there faster than a bullet train to Tokyo.
Because I didn’t wanna believe the worst about someone I cared so deeply about, I didn’t contact the police (not that anybody could’ve guessed what Luna was up to) and made excuses whenever she asked to meet, delaying the decision whether to end our relationship.
At night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time a hedge rustled outside, I’d run to the window and pull back the curtain only to discover a black cat skulking around the garden. I put this down to my previous relationship leaving me with a mountain of unresolved PTSD.
Sadie the stalker also seemed normal until we moved in together. After that she started picking fights if she caught me talking to another woman, even just distant relatives or childhood friends. The screaming matches went from weekly to nightly, only ever ending when I conceded to her every wish and gave her full access to my phone and social media accounts. I literally needed to grab my clothes into a bag and run away one night, and then I started hearing noises outside my new apartment. And although I never found any evidence, I was pretty sure she’d broken in at one point because the books on my side table were suddenly out of order one day. What hurt the most was Luna knew all this and still acted the way she did.
Right as I reached my lowest point, my close friend Gertrude called and said, “The universe is telling me you could use a sympathetic ear.”
I told her the universe didn’t know the half of it.
I’d met Gertrude—aka my surrogate mother—on a flight to London. Passing over Wales the aircraft hit heavy turbulence, and the grey-haired hippie in the seat next to mine squeezed my hand so tight that my fingers turned blue. After we levelled off, she apologized and said, “So what’s calling you to London?”
“A job.”
A few glasses of wine from the service trolley later, she blurted out, “You know your aura is strikingly similar to my husbands.”
“Uhh, thanks. Where is he now?”
“Oh, he burned to death in a house fire.”
Gertrude’s eyes started welling up. To take her mind off the subject, I said, “I lied earlier. I’m going to London because I fell in love with a Londoner.” I pulled up pictures of Sadie (back in her pre-stalker days) on my phone. “We met in Italy. She looked flustered trying to read a map book so I offered to help. Next thing I knew, we were planning a trip to this place called Orvieto.”
“Michael, I need to know how this story ends. Gimme your number.”
Since then, we’d met two or three times a year.
I laid the whole mess out over pizza. It was the first time since finding the Google account I didn’t feel hidden eyes crawling all over me.
Just as I wrapped up the story, over in the corner booth, a family burst into a chorus of happy birthday. A waiter appeared carrying a chocolate cake, capped by a giant candle that looked more like a flare. Gertrude tensed up.
“So what do you think about all this?” I asked.
She looked back at me and said, “It’s possible your reaction has been a touch on the dramatic side.”
“DRAMATIC??”
“Well consider things from Luna’s point of view. Your last relationship lasted for, what, three years? Maybe she felt threatened.”
“I don’t believe this.” I grabbed a cigarette from my pocket, but Gertrude snatched it away.
“You know how I feel about you poisoning your lungs, Michael.”
“Don’t you start. I got enough of that crap from Luna.”
Gertrude always encouraged me to work through my romantic problems. Ultimately, I decided her love of fairytale romances clouded her judgement and ghosted Luna instead. But I couldn’t escape her shadow. She always felt close. In fact, it got so bad that at a friend’s costume party several weeks later, my eyes kept compulsively scanning the crowd as if she was there in disguise, ready to pounce.
I stood off to the corner until, over the sea of heads, I spotted a beautiful stranger dressed as Jarlath the Goblin King. I took a shot of liquid courage and made a B-line towards her.
Halfway across the crowded room, beer splashed across the front of my Ziggy Stardust outfit.
“I am so sorry,” a female pirate said, patting me dry.
“Don’t worry about it.” Every time I tried circling her, she moved to cut me off.
“I am such a klutz. Why don’t you come into the kitchen so I can clean up this mess?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and steered her out of the way. “It’s fine. Trust me.”
Approaching Jarlath from behind, heart slamming against my chest, I said, “Well this is awkward. One of us is gonna have to change.”
Jennie had bright blue eyes and dimples impossible to miss. Ten minutes into our debate about David Bowie’s greatest album, I said, “You know Absolute Bowie are playing the Half Moon next week. I could take you?”
“Sorry. I’m going with my boyfriend,” she said with a sympathetic smile. From beside the buffet table, the pirate stared daggers in our direction.
“No worries,” I replied, despite the fact I was brimming with jealousy.
The next day, as I jogged off my hangover, a brown-haired lady cut across my path and we both went spinning to the ground.
“Flip, sorry.” I rushed to pull her up by the hands. “I’m like a bloody zombie lately.”
She did a doubletake. “Ziggy, right?”
There was no mistaking those eyes. “Jarlath?”
“Well, Jarlath or Jennie. Eithers fine.”
“Right. Well, sorry again. Enjoy Absolute Bowie.”
Before I could jog away, she said, “Hey, so that guy I was seeing? Turns out he’s a total prick.”
Jennie and I went for coffee. Coffee morphed into drinks. Drinks morphed into a steamy make-out session on my sofa.
But as she covered my neck in soft kisses, my stomach turned. It felt like cheating. So, I put the brakes on things and said, “I can’t do this. I’m really sorry. You’re amazing, but I just got out of a serious relationship…and…it’s just…”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.”
We agreed we’d let our connection blossom in its own time.
Jennie had a playful mystique to her. Within a handful of dates, we’d developed inside jokes and could tell what the other was thinking. But Luna’s imprint was hard to shake, to the extent I almost mixed up the two ladies’ names multiple times.
To detox, I suggested Jennie and I spend a romantic weekend in the Lake District, because after two days of hiking and kayaking my ex would no doubt be a spec in the rearview mirror.
Hours before we set off, however, Luna’s mom called. She wanted to meet and wouldn’t accept any excuses.
“Look, it’s obvious why I’m here,” she said, sitting across from me in Starbucks. “Ever since you and Luna broke up, she’s been acting…different.”
“Different? Different how?”
“I call but she hardly answers. I go over to her place but she’s never there. Now she’s telling me she needs to find herself. Says she’s moving to Australia.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “I need to know what happened between you two. And I don’t care if that paints anybody in a bad light. I’m just worried about my daughter is all.”
I told her about the Google account.
“Did you confront her about it?”
“Hell no. I ghosted that crazy bitc—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I just…stopped seeing her.”
She started crying so loudly customers at nearby tables paused their conversations. I touched her forearm, promised I’d call if I remembered anything else, then set off for my romantic weekend.
But while Jennie and I enjoyed all that fresh air and pub food, a thought nagged at me. Luna adored London, so why move to Australia? It seemed so out of character. Back at our rented cottage, I was so fixated on the thought I needed a smoke, badly.
“What the hell is that?” Jennie demanded, as she stepped onto the front deck.
I glanced at my hands. “Uhh, a cigarette.”
“Michael! Don’t be sarcastic. You know how I feel about those things.”
“…Do I?”
“Uhh, well it’s the same as anybody else. Quit poisoning your lungs and put that thing out.”
“Alright alright, geeze. Sorry Luna.”
“That’s okay.”
A knot formed in my stomach as she went back inside. I’d called Jennie Luna by mistake. And she hadn’t noticed. In fact, her reaction to me smoking was identical to Luna’s—even the snappy way she said the ‘poison your lungs’ line.
I followed Jennie into the lounge, where she’d curled up on an armchair with a Colleen Hoover novel. She was hiding something. What else did she know about Luna? Maybe I could trick her into revealing some details…
From behind, I started massaging her shoulders. “Sorry for being rude before. I know what you said came from a place of love.”
“That’s okay.”
I waited until her eyes drooped shut, then said, “It really is perfect here, huh? Maybe we should stay forever.”
“Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Her little groans of pleasure, the rhythm of her breathing, it all felt so familiar. I waited until the tension in her neck dissolved, then I pushed my lips against her ear and whispered, “So how about we take this into the bedroom…Lola.”
“Hmm. Sure thing Bugs.”
My hands froze. Jennie jumped up. “Uhh, that felt so good, why’d you stop?”
“What did you just say?”
“What did you just say?”
“I called you Lola,” I replied, my arms frozen in midair. “And you called me bugs.”
“Like the cartoon, right? I thought it’d be a cute nickname. Anyway, I’m tuckered out.” She forced a yawn. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
As her hand laced with mine, an image of me waking up drugged and gagged and tied to the bedposts flashed before my eyes.
I said, “Sure. I just…need to use the bathroom first.”
The second the door shut behind me, I flew out of the house, climbed in my car, and sped away.
Within seconds my phone started blowing up with calls, followed by texts. Where are you going? Is everything okay?
No, I wanted to reply. I’m onto your sick little game. Whatever it is, I’m onto it.
Luna stalked my stalker, now Jennie somehow knew Luna and I’s nicknames. How? Did all women take turns drawing straws and whoever picked the short one needed to become my girlfriend?
I couldn’t go home. For all I knew, my exes would’ve been there burning effigies of me. I needed a safe place. Somewhere I could lie low until I got all this straightened out.
“Of course you can stay,” Gertrude said over the phone. “I’m out with some friends, but I’ll meet you later. If you hop the side gate there’s a spare key under the kissing gnomes out back.”
Gertrude lived in a detached house in Wembley. It took a bit of foraging to find the gnomes hidden beneath the weeds in the brown, patchy garden.
I needed to shoulder the door open. Inside, a mountain of letters and flyers had piled up on the welcome mat.
Down the hall, a huge archway connected the landing with a lounge, where a bar sat against the far wall, surrounded by upholstered sofas, a low table, and tie dye sheets strung over the filthy carpet. Everything had a real elegant vibe, despite the musty air.
I’d drained two glasses of whiskey before Gertrude arrived.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough evening.”
I said we could talk in the morning.
“Not a chance. You can’t take negative energy to bed. Come on, confession is good for the soul.”
She sat on the sofa and patted the empty seat next to her. So, with a weary sigh, I shared a tale of deranged exes.
“Crazy,” she said.
“I sure can pick ‘em, huh?”
“No, I mean you’re crazy.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What’s more likely: that your ex’s are secretly in collusion, or you’re being paranoid? Look how bloodshot your eyes are. When’s the last time you got a good night’s rest?”
She made a great point; teenagers on the street occasionally shouted ‘Bugs’ or ‘Thumper’ at me. Jennie might’ve come up with the nickname herself. I pinched the bridge of my nose, groaning.
“Look, sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm ways you can make it up to Jennie.”
I fumbled through my pockets for a cigarette.
“Really?” Gertrude said. “If you insist on poisoning your lungs, can you at least do it away from my home?”
“Well if I can’t smoke, I’m gonna need a refill.” I shook my empty glass.
On my way toward the bar, a wave of wooziness hit me. My first instinct was to blame it on the alcohol, but there was something else.
It was her reaction to the cigarette. My finger ran through the thick layer of dust along the bar’s countertop. Why was it like the place had been abandoned? Why did Gertrude always pressure me to stay with my psycho girlfriends? And how come she always reached out, as if on cue, whenever my relationships hit problems? It couldn’t be coincidence…
I poured two glasses of whiskey and carried them to the sofa. “So, you’re really against the whole smoking thing, huh?”
“Of course. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Yeah. Plus, there was that mess with your husband. House fire, right?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Sure, sure.” I ignited the lighter with a roll across my trouser leg.
Gertrude grabbed a cushion and hugged it. “What are you doing?”
“Alright, cut the crap. What the hell’s going on? Have you been sending your friends to date me?”
“What are you talking about?”
I wrestled the cushion from her and held the lighter beneath it. “I want an explanation right now or I’m torching this place.”
This was an empty threat. I wasn’t some pyromaniac—I just wanted answers. Inch by inch, I raised the flame. “Last chance. Why are the women in my life acting weird?”
Gertrude grabbed for the lighter. As I swatted her wrists away, we both got scorched, and for a moment her skin went wild with spasms, a sensation I can only compare to reaching inside a bucket of wet, writhing maggots. My gaze whipped between her face and her hands, which vibrated like plucked guitar strings.
Before I could scream, she yanked me up, clamped a cold, wrinkled palm across my mouth, and forced me against the wall. I thrashed around, unable to move. For a lady old enough to collect a pension, she was crazy strong.
She waited until I ran out of breath, then said, “Michael, please. I’m not going to hurt you. Open your heart and listen.”
What else could I do?
“You were right before. I have been keeping a secret from you. The truth is, I’ve been in love with you since we met. I’d never flown before. And you were so so sweet. You started talking about this other woman, but I knew our energies were perfect for each other. And it’s like I always say, love makes us do crazy things. You can’t begrudge me that can you?”
She looked as if she expected me to respond, so I shook my head.
“But I think we’ve reached a point where our connection is so deep we can be completely transparent with one another.” She took a slow, steady breath. “Michael, all your ex’s, Luna, Sadie, Jennie. They’ve all been…well, me.”
I stared at her, confused.
She sighed. “It’ll be easier if I just show you.”
Out of nowhere her hand wriggled again, then her face tightened, as though the skin was being stretched over the bone. Wrinkles smoothed out and colour bled into her grey hair, turning it brown, and within seconds I found myself face-to-face with Jennie. Even her vintage clothes morphed into a green blouse and white slacks.
“See?” she said in Jennie’s voice, her now blue eyes locked on mine.
I screamed into the soft flesh of her palm.
“Sssh, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Watch.”
Her entire body jerked and twitched, the muscles spasming as she shifted from Jennie to Luna. “See? Think of these as costumes”—from Luna to Sadie—"the important thing is what’s underneath. And you’ve fallen in love with what’s underneath three times. Now I’m going to let go, but I need you to promise you won’t overreact. Understand?”
On the verge of a panic attack, I nodded furiously.
The second she pulled away I made a break for the exit. The thing posing as Sadie grabbed me and hurled me backwards against the wall.
Like a disappointed teacher, she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been so patient with you, Michael. So very, very patient.”
She blocked off any hope of escape. I sidestepped around the outer edge of the room, towards the bar.
“All those years moulding you. Trying to grow you into the man I know you can be. I really thought we had it this time. For the record, I wanted to do this the easy way. But drastic times...”
I was so scared I slammed right into the cabinet and yelped. Glass bottles chattered together, and then something wet ran down the back of my shirt. It was whiskey, leaking from the overturned bottle onto the carpeted floor.
Speaking more to herself now, Gertrude said, “I’ll just have to keep you here until you love me as much as I love you. Of course, that means posing as you so nobody gets suspicious, but that’s no trouble. I’ll tell your dad you’re moving to Italy. You always loved Italy.”
Pose as me? She'd been killing my ex's and taking their place, I was just the latest in a long line. She’d keep me as a personal sugar baby if I didn’t escape, but how? She was impossibly strong, and the only thing that seemed to scare her was…
Snatching the bottle, I doused the remaining whiskey all over the carpet and furniture. As I flicked the lighter open, Sadie’s hands shot up.
“Bugs…darling…what are you doing?”
I took three slow, steady breaths. “Breaking up with you, you crazy bitch.”
I tossed the lighter forward. Within seconds flames sprung up all around us, spreading as far as the sofa. Sadie’s shoe caught fire, and as she stamped around, unintentionally fanning the blaze, her body writhed again, starting with the ankles. Fat boils climbed up every inch of exposed skin, milky white and with the consistency of frog spawn, like she’d had a killer allergic reaction to poison ivy.
She dropped to her knees, wailing like a wounded animal. This was my chance.
I made a break for the exit, giving the creature as wide a berth as possible. But as I got one foot planted in the hall something clamped tight around my ankles. My chin hit the floor, then I started sliding backwards.
I twisted onto my back. Where Sadie’s left arm should’ve been, a tentacle-like appendage stretched across the length of the room, a distance of over twenty feet. It reeled me toward her like a fish on a line. Whatever that thing was no longer looked human. It melted like an ice statue, with no bones or connective tissue inside, its lips nose and mouth becoming hideously elongated before dripping off in huge globs like melted candlewax. A fire alarm started wailing as the tentacle dragged me through the flames, scorching my arms and legs.
The loose mass of skin reached out and encased me like a mother bird sheltering its eggs.
“WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME?” all my ex’s voices screamed at once. Whichever direction I looked, silhouettes of faces rose and fell, as if trying to burst through. Parts of them dripped inside my mouth, disgustingly warm with a bitter taste worse than Vaseline.
I put everything into clawing my way out if there. What was left of the beast had the consistency of wet clay and came apart just as easily. I tore away chunks until there was a hole large enough to squeeze through. Then, I crawled along surrounded by black smoke.
At the far side of the room I risked a glance back and saw a bumpy, uneven hand reaching out of a puddle of ooze. Soon I was crawling over the bristly welcome mat, then fumbling for the door. All I remember after that are paramedics wrestling me into an ambulance…
A specialist officer came to see me at the hospital the next morning. They’d been unable to contact the homeowner, Gertrude Huyton, and through his line of questioning I could tell they hadn’t found her ‘remains’ inside the charred house. Like the wicked witch of the West, my stalker had melted. I told the officer she said I could stay the night, and that I probably started the fire by dropping a cigarette.
“In that case, we’ll keep trying to reach her.” He walked to the curtain surronding my bed and paused. “Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, her cat is missing.”
“Her...cat?”
“Yeah. The little black one. One of the firemen pulled it out of the wreckage. The poor thing had burns over its legs but it ran off before anybody could take it to the vet.”
I swallowed a gulp and thanked him for telling me.
And now I’m still sitting here listening while nurses rush back and forth, terrified any one of them might be Gertrude…

Whatever you do, never drink to cure a mental issue.
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You know the drill: credit to SpacePaladin15 for the universe.
Thank you JulianSkies for proofreading.
Memory Transcription Subject: Gillab, Gojid Citizen, Father
Date [Standardized Human Time]: March 28, 2142
I made sure to wake up as early as possible so I could do what I needed to do before Billy woke up. First things first, get rid of all the liquor in that fridge. If Billy was going to get better, the first thing he needed to do was stop drinking. He was only running from his problems and as long as he had that out he was going to take it.
I pulled a trash bag in front of the fridge, propped it open as best I could, and started stuffing it full of bottles. Cheap Venlilian liquor was being poured down the drain by the second, it almost made me feel bad for anything living in the sewers. This stuff had enough alcohol in it to kill someone, a rat would be dead in seconds.
By the time I poured the last bottle down the drain, I had probably sanitized the entirety of the New York sewer system. I hoisted the bag onto my back, making sure not to break the bag with my quills, and started to make my way to the dumpster. Thankfully Billy’s apartment was on the first floor so the journey wasn’t too long.
I tossed the bag into the dumpster carelessly, causing a few of the bottles to break when they hit the others that had been thrown in yesterday. It was only the second day, but I felt like we had already made some progress. I was able to make him admit he was just scared of feeling the pain of his memories, even if it was only accidental. Small steps were still steps, now all I had to do was make him realize that he didn’t deserve this. I have a feeling that once he jumps that hurdle, everything should come much easier.
A familiar song brought me out of my thoughts, drawing my attention to my phone. I had changed the ringtone to the first Human song I had ever heard, T-Shirt, to always remind me of my time on the Cradle. I pulled out my phone and accepted the call, smiling as I saw just who it was.
“High sweety, having a good morning?”
The camera shook up and down in sync with my daughter's face. “Yeah, but I wish you were here.”
“Oh sweety, I know you do, but I have some important work to do and I can’t come home. Just know that I will always love you. Now you have a good day at school, you hear?”
“Mmhm, I will. Here’s mommy.”
The camera shook again as it passed from my daughter’s claws to my wife’s. In the background, I could hear the chitter of my daughter’s voice and then rapid footsteps away. When the camera stopped shaking, I was met by the most beautiful woman in existence.
“Hello, Sweet-fruit.”
Kirala smiled and tilted her head. “Hello, my big guolo tree. I missed you this morning.”
“I missed you too. I had to sleep on an uncomfortable couch and I think it messed up my back a bit.”
“Oh, how the mighty veteran is felled! Surviving a plasma wound to the chest but felled by the mightier couch.”
I flicked an ear in amusement. “To be fair, it was one vicious couch.”
I couldn’t help but melt at her laugh, it was like sunshine during the darkest night. It was light and cheerful and genuine, and I couldn’t imagine myself living without it.
With a final few chuckles, Kirala pulled herself together enough to respond. “Well, it sounds like you need to wear some armor to bed then.”
I feigned a thoughtful expression. “Maybe I will, I already sleep with clothes on.”
She threw her head back in disgust. “Ugh, I still don’t know how you do that. I still feel a little uncomfortable when I wear them when I’m awake, I couldn’t imagine sleeping with them.”
“It’s an acquired taste, you’ll come around.”
“Mmhm, I’m suuure.”
I sighed. “How’s Julaly doing?”
“Well, she misses you, obviously, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. She was good yesterday, but we both wished you had given us a little more of a warning. I didn’t expect your little trip to the memorial to turn into an impromptu therapy session.”
“Sweet-fruit, you know I wish I could have too. It was sprung on me just as much as you. I’m just glad I found him when I did, do you know what I found in his room? A suicide note.”
Kirala gasped slightly. “Oh dear I… I really-”
“It’s fine. I didn’t know either. But just think, if I had come back for just one day, he would be dead. I made the right call here, even if I was torn at the time.”
“You need to get back to him then.”
“I’ve got a little longer. He’s still asleep. I was throwing away some alcohol when you called me, and when I get some free time I’m going to go to the nearby bars and tell them not to serve him. Today I’m thinking I’ll try and get him to go to a veterans’ meeting so he can connect with some others like him, let him know he’s not alone and it’s not just me who cares about him.”
“Still, you should go back to him. And stay safe. He sounds unstable, just keep an eye on him.”
“Sweet-fruit, he’s not dangerous.”
“You don’t know what’s going on in his head. Promise me you will stay safe.”
“I promise.”
“Like you mean it.”
“I promise with all of my heart that I will stay safe.”
“Good, now get back to it. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call blinked out and left me staring at my home screen. It was true that I missed them both dearly, even a day without them left me longing, but I knew what I was doing was right. Billy needed someone to save him, and I was the only one available. Kirala was right, I needed to get back to it. I couldn’t leave Billy alone for too long, it would only end in disaster.
As soon as the door clicked open, Billy descended upon me. “Gillab, what did you do?! Where’s the liquor?!”
I stepped past him and made my way to the living room. “I threw it all away. You were poisoning yourself and I needed to put an end to it.”
Billy was stunned for a moment. “You fucking- GILLAB! Get the FUCK out of my house!”
“I’m not going anywhere! Not until you heal!”
Billy looked back and forth, raising his arms in frustration. “What the FUCK does that even mean?! You keep spouting this fucking ‘healing’ word like it’s some catch-all miracle wonder word that means everything!”
“I mean, you need to come to terms with what you’ve done, accept them, and move on! Otherwise, you are just going to rot in this room for all eternity. You are so much better than this, and you know it. You are strong enough to carry on, and you know this. You know, deep down, that you don’t deserve this life. But you are stuck thinking that you do! I saw you at the memorial and I literally didn’t recognize you, remember? That is how much you have changed, but it doesn’t have to stay like this. You can end the pain, and not in that way, all you have to do is trust me. And not just say that you do.”
I paused for a moment to catch my breath. “You said that you would go through the motions for me, right? This is just another motion. The next one is to find other veterans who are or have been through what you have and talk to them. They will make you realize that you aren’t trash or a parasite or any of that! It’s just another motion, right?”
Billy growled and stormed towards me. “You are on thin fucking ice right now.”
“Good. It means you care. Now sit down, we are going to set up a meeting with a group of veterans.”
“I don’t want to go meet some fucking soldier. I’m fine without that.”
“It’s just the motions, right? Humor me.”
With a deep sigh, Billy sat in the chair across from me. That was all I needed to see to confirm it, Billy really did want help, he just couldn’t even admit it to himself.
“You still haven’t given me your promised speech from yesterday. The hour-long one about how much I don’t deserve what I’m doing to myself.”
“Oh trust me, it’s coming. But right now we are going to set up a date for you to meet a veterans’ group. After that, let’s clean up a little more, get some food, maybe go for a walk in a park, then you’ll get the speech. Okay?”
Billy rolled his eyes and waited for me to pull up a website. After a bit of scrolling, I found a phone number I could call to find a meeting time. I prepared everything and set the phone on the table, but didn’t call yet.
“Okay Billy, I’m leaving this up to you. All you have to do is say your name and ask for a time you can come to the meeting.”
“Why can’t you set it up for me?”
“That’s not how it works. You need to be the one that calls them, not me. Plus, I don’t think they would accept me signing you up. The person coming has to be the one to set it up. Are you ready?”
Billy sighed. “Yeah.”
I called the number, set the phone on a table between Billy and I, and waited. After a few rings, a man began to speak.
“Hello, you have reached Richard’s group therapy for veterans, how can I help you?”
Billy looked up to me for guidance, to which I only motioned for him to speak to the man. “H-hi Richard, m-my name is Billy. I was… wondering if I-I could join your next meeting.”
“Oh course, we are always open for more. You didn’t even need to call, you could have just shown up at the meeting. We accept anyone and everyone at any time. Our next meeting is tomorrow at noon if you are available. If not, the next one is that same day at six-thirty.”
Billy glanced at me twice before giving his answer. “The… six-thirty one sounds good.”
He was pushing it back as much as he could, but at least he would get to it eventually. There was some quiet clacking in the background before the man responded. “Great, I’ve reserved you a seat. I’m happy to have you join us. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, that’s all. See you tomorrow.”
Billy set his phone down and sighed deeply. His face quickly changed from concerned and awkward to angry and annoyed. I could see him prepare to say something, but it ended up dying in his throat. Instead, he stood up suddenly and stomped back to his room, wanting to be left alone.

Nature of Humanity Ch 67 A NoP fic
Under Pressure Part 10
A Fanfic of u/SpacePaladin15’s work “The Nature of Predators.” Thank you for the story!
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Memory transcription subject: Silvera, Factory 13 Manager
Date [standardized human time]: November 4th, 2136
If it wasn't for the clearly artificial sky above my head someone could possibly convince me I was outside in a new park. The neon blue screen with a white dot to represent the sun was nothing like the actual pale gray visage a mile above. Yet, it did have an enjoyable warmth to it.
A smooth artificial wind swept through the saplings ensuring that they would develop healthy stress wood. It also pleasantly cooled the fur of anyone in here, providing a nice little respite from the heater simulating the sun's unbearable hatred of us. Fuck you fake sun!
Any flora used to decorate the park would be exotic to Frozen Mountain, even if it came from the nearby tundra, but my humans decided to do something interesting. While they had covered most of the ground with a soft short-growing Terran clover, they chose to make the rest of the decorative plants functional. All of the saplings were different types of fruit trees that, when mature, would be free for anyone to harvest as much as they want. Even the decorative topiary isn't hardy tasteless plants, but berry bushes that would provide a variety of sweet treats relatively soon.
Agurcorp was more than happy to allow its failed startup out here to be turned into a local park. Well, so long as they didn't have to pay for this expensive mistake of theirs. The Mayor was all too happy with this, especially since my humans were happy to let him have all the credit so long as they got to design the park. With voting season right around the corner, the Mayor that ‘Brought life to this blighted land’ was a shoo-in to get re-elected. Or would be if he also wasn't ‘The idiot who allowed predators into the city.’
With everything that's happened I am still a bit surprised at everyone currently enjoying the park. A small herd of Venlil are exercising in the open field. A family of Gojids are walking along the cobblestone path. All the while, some humans are playing a very weird game of throwing a round plastic plate into chain nets. It's almost as if this city didn't have two separate riots on the same day.
The sound of wheels traveling across a bumpy path caught my attention. I glanced across the way to see an embarrassed-looking John driving an electric wheelchair over to me. His eyes locked onto mine before quickly switching to the ground. He tried to laze in a chair designed to enforce good posture and looked rather silly as he adjusted himself.
He came to a stop just a foot away from where I sat, “Hey Silv… I, uh… I don't actually need the wheelchair but Mikvia threatened to break my legs if I didn't use it, so I'm just humoring her.”
Oh, don't freaking tell me. Why are humans like this… “John… you were hospitalized with a punctured lung. Sure, doctors have some miracles they can perform these days, but you know you shouldn't be stressing yourself by walking.”
He huffed, “Please, I'm fine. Really. It wasn't as serious as everyone is making it out to be.”
I thumped my hind paw against the ground, “John.”
He threw his hands into the air with a huff, “I'm in the damn wheelchair ain't I? Gawd…”
He grasped his nose before calming down, “I apologize. Shouldn't have raised my voice like that. I mean… I am using the wheelchair and not lifting stuff. Doctor's orders. They even said getting out in this park would be fine. Said it might even help!”
We let out a deep sigh together. I hopped down from my bench and back up onto his lap, “Let's go for a ride… while we figure… us out…”
I could see John's guard drop as the exhaustion crept back onto his face, “...alright...” He pressed his controls forward, and we slowly began our first lap of the park.
John wrapped one of his lanky ape arms around me like a fleshy seatbelt and I laid my head on his chest appreciating the contrast of his warmth with the cool artificial breeze. I could have slept like this. The beating of his heart was rhythmic, and his deep breaths sounded a bit like waves washing up on a shore.
I even heard his heart quicken as I cleared my throat, “So… we aren't really dating are we?”
His exhaustion was quickly replaced with unease as he started to fidget a little, “I'm sorry…”
I held his hand and stared into the ocean blue eyes of his, “Don't be sorry. I think we were both drunk when we agreed to go on a date…”
He shook his head, “I still should have said something before then.”
It wasn't like I couldn't have taken the initiative and talked to him sooner too, “I know you were going through a lot. Actually, I know you still are… I'm really only able to guess but… Are you one of the types that thinks Xeno-dating is weird?”
He looked ashamed as he scrambled to smooth things over, “I- No- well, yes- but- it's just… ok. Let me start over… alright… yeah… so… uhm… the thing is… how do I put this… it sounds bad… well, it is bad… it’s just…”
My tail wagged involuntarily at the rather cute display of embarrassment radiating from John. I leaned in and let him have a doey-eyed look to help heap the embarrassment on.
It felt like John tried to stop the next words from rolling out of his mouth, “Sometimes I have trouble thinking of you all as people.”
John came to a complete stop as I just stared at him wide-eyed. My brain struggled to grasp what he was saying and the implications of it. He cringed and covered his face with his hands, “Gawd, that sounds horrible. It's just… It's not as bad with you and the others… I talk to y’all a lot. It's easier for it to click that you are people too.”
I was desperately trying to see this from his angle, “Wha- why does this happen in the first place?”
His hands drug down his face trying to drag the flesh with it, “I think it’s cause you are always naked. Like your back brace helps a little bit, but still everything else is… That and I hear your voice and the chip in my head then gives it meaning. Like its disjointed. Then it's the way your body language works and- and- fuck. Just…. Fuck me man. I don't even think that's all that's wrong with me. It’s just… like you look, sound, and smell like animals. It's just not really what my mind had in place for aliens. So- like- ugh! Why can't I just explain it!?”
It's difficult to explain, but his words connected to a deep sad memory, “It's like everything is just too… slightly wrong…”
It felt like I had been whisked back decades to my own childhood. I could still smell the bleached halls of the Venlil orphanage on Nevis. My heart whimpered when the Sivkits who came to adopt me shuddered with fear and disgust. Their strange voices sounded slow as they spoke a strange version of Klipic. Like hearing a pale imitation of yourself, try and pretend to be just like you.
My eyes locked with his as I carried on “It’s like you look at them and a part of you knows what they are, but your brain just snaps back to… to what you think reality is.”
I could see a glimmer of hope well up with his tears, “Y-you know? I-Iv've felt like such a monster! How can I- How can I look them in the eyes when they took me in and say- say- that I can't see them as people sometimes!? After everything they've done for me?! They want to adopt me and I- I- I can't even!”
I wrapped my arms around his neck as he buried his face in mine. It felt like he could crush me with his arms, yet they held me gently. What was causing me pain was this damn back brace. The blasted thing was trying to force my arms down while it hunched me over. I wiggled out of John's embrace and ripped the freaking thing off and chucked it as far as I could before burying myself in his embrace again.
We held each other as he drew in shuddering breaths and let his emotions flow out. John’s grip eventually began to loosen and we both took a moment to calm down. I gently tugged at the shirt covering John's torso, “So… Us not wearing clothes constantly is… disconnecting for you?”
He nodded his head, “Y-yeah… It’s like… every person I have ever known wears clothes. Animals never wear clothes and at most wear like a collar or harness if someone owns them. Then a few months ago, a bunch of nudist aliens show up and… well, my brain lops them into the animal category and the translator isn't helping.”
I glanced down at my body and suddenly felt… exposed, “So now that I am no longer wearing clothes…”
He cringed, “You look more like a large rabbit thing than a person… when you had the brace on it helped a little, but you were on all fours… When you were wearing your weather suit and had your hood off, It felt like you were a person, just different.”
An idea crossed into my skull, “Ok then… so your brain attaches personhood with a level of nudity, body plan, and familiarity… take your shirt off and give it to me- Don't give me that look! I know you’re male and are far less sensitive about people seeing your nipples. So gimme.”
He begrudgingly took off his shirt, revealing a pelt of fur that caught me off guard. I shook off the confusion as I slipped his shirt overhead and stuck my arms through the sleeves. It immediately tried to slip down my body and off. Mostly due to how large the hole for his head is, but also due to my utter lack of true shoulders. Another gift of my freak mutation. The ability to walk upright as well as sprint on all fours like a fucking Arxur.
I bunched up the collar and knotted it on itself, solving the slipping issue. With a small twirl, I spun in a circle, “So how is this?”
A smile formed on his face, “You look adorable!”
I happily flicked my tail, “Is that girlfriend adorable or pet animal adorable?”
His grin beamed with happy, mischievous energy, “Little sister adorable.”
I stomped my hind paw again, “Wha- why?!”
He held out his arms and I hopped back into his embrace, “Its cause it's my shirt. Jamie would wear my clothes sometimes, and they were so baggy on him, and well… on you that's practically a sundress! … you’d look really nice in like… a yellow sundress with like a straw hat.”
My mind tried and failed to make an image to match his description, “Hrm… well… I wouldn't know where to even start getting a… sundress.”
John carried on like clothes shopping was a normal intergalactic thing, “You would have to go to a tailor and have it custom-made. Like you already had to adjust my shirt cause you don't have shoulders like we or the Gojids do.”
We sat in a comfortable silence as John started the wheelchair back on its path. I almost fell asleep in his arms before I asked, “So… Are we dating?”
John didn't hesitate to bend over and freaking bite the top of my head! I, rather fruitlessly, slapped my paws against his face as fast as I could and only managed to elicit a laugh from him. Jumping up, I got a mouth full of his cheek in my teeth.
I made sure not to crush as I mimicked what he had done to me back, “Ah! The turns! They've tabled! I'm sorry! We're dating! Augh!” I spit out the lump of flesh between my teeth and sat down rather proudly.
It was only then I looked around to see most of the nearby groups staring at us. As well as three silver suited flame whack jobs walking our way. One of them held up his paws to try and seem as big as possible, “YOU! PREDATORS! DON'T MOVE!”
John growled at them, “YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
The trio froze in their steps and reached for weapons they didn't have. The boldest one took another step forward and shouted, “SHUT UP PREDATOR!”
John held his issued jacket up, letting the reflective emblem of the guild shine for all to see, “I WORK WITH YOU NUMB NUTS! I'M JOHN! ADOPTED SON OF YOUR FUCKING CHIEF! RING ANY BELLS?”
The trio halted in their tracks and the most skittish of them turned a one-eighty on their paws and began to walk away. The boldest one’s paws slowly dropped, “J-John?! I- I've never seen you without the mask or artificial pelt… wait! You're supposed to be in the hospital!”
Johns voice grew cold, “They said I could go out around the park so long as I mostly stayed in the chair. If it pleases you, you can talk to Loke. He's right over there with his wife and two kids. I bet he'd be thrilled to learn you three are going around accusing people of being predators.”
The bold moron took a fearful half step back, “D-d-d-d-don't twist my words! You bit her and she bit you back! I have witnesses! That's predatory!”
John leaned back and stroked the fur on my cheek, “No, it’s erotic.”
I could see the gears turning in the bold one's head grind, “What.”
John pressed his lips into my neck, “Ya know… sexy. It’s like… gently grooming your significant other's neck from behind but more playful.”
They looked revolted, “That's disgusting.”
John cocked his head to the side like a confused Gojid, “That’s odd.”
The look of revulsion quickly transitioned back to confusion, “What?”
A smirk grew on John's face as his fingers massaged into the sore muscles on my back, “It's just, that’s exactly what your mom said last night, but she grew to like it.”
I slapped my paws to my mouth to avoid laughing as the rage flared up in the bold one's eyes, “WHAT!?”
I let out a happy purr as John began to work at my sore muscles and utterly humiliate the idiot bothering us, “Yeeeeah. You weren't supposed to find out like this, but I'm your dad now.”
Their ears pinned back in rage, “You're lying to me.”
John waved a hand at our surroundings, “We are in a hermetically sealed park. There is no way for any significantly threatening animal to get in here. You are only here looking for trouble and I assure you, this will be looked into. Go clean your nose and keep it clean. Understood?”
They both tucked their tails, “Understood, sir.”
John nodded his head and calmed his tone, “Dismissed.”
As the trio of troublemakers left, we sat in relative silence as John continued to work away at the stress in my muscles. If you proved this was how humans prepared their food before eating it, I would argue that it's still worth it.
His rough voice messaged my ears, “Hey Silv?”
I stretched and enjoyed the pops my spine made as it took its natural shape, “Hrm?”
A hint of curiosity hung in his voice, “Why did you understand what I meant? Shouldn't… You've lived with aliens being a part of everyday life for… Like… ever right?”
I slumped against John and thought. Dredging up old memories that I almost wished I didn't have, “It was… a very long time ago. My doctor told me I was making up false memories to cover up a traumatic event and make it to where I was normal and everyone around me were the weird ones…”
I could hear John doubt my doctor's claims, “That sounds… fishy.”
Despite John's odd word choice, the meaning still fit perfectly, “It feels like it, but I just have no proof. I swear to you, I remember running along a beach, with my parents on two legs. Every Sivkit I knew as a child walked on two legs. It’s like… well…”
I grabbed John's hand to stop it from distracting me, “One day I woke up, and I was unbelievably cold. I thought I was a corpse. There was this strange… tentacle thing with bulgy eyes standing above me. His words didn't match his lips, but I understood him. It was terrifying.”
“He scooped me up and started running. Said I was in grave danger, and he was going to keep me safe. I didn't trust him one bit. He jumped into some strange ship and told me I had to be very quiet. The bad people would attack us if they heard either of us talking.”
“Eventually, he crashed the ship into something and pulled me out of it. I was surprised to see we had been on a submarine that entire time. That and the sky was the wrong color. I didn't even have an opportunity to think about it as he carried me to a weird looking vehicle that once again surprised me as a giant wall turned into a window.”
“I had never even heard of spaceships before, and I watched as we went up and just moved into space like it was nothing. He tried to calm me down, but he told me my parents were dead. I- just remember sobbing in his tentacles for hours. Eventually, I calmed down enough for him to play with me.”
“For a few days it was just me and him. Then we met up with another ship, and he left that one to drift in the void. He said we were meeting his friend Aylin on Nevis… a Venlil colony not too far from here, actually. I got to meet more aliens on that ship but Kalova- sorry that was the name of the Kolshian who took me out here. Kalova didn't want me to talk about anything to anyone. Said to just say I was his adopted daughter, and he just got a job on Nevis managing the new colony.”
“He never saw it. I didn't know what they were at the time but the Arxur attacked. They were trying to raid the colony and the Gojids and Venlil where desperately trying to protect it. I remember the alarm going off the second the ship’s captain announced we were leaving FTL. Kalova sprinted through the ship carrying me. He placed me in an escape pod just before that terrible lizard spotted us. He pulled the lever and my pod jettisoned down to the surface.”
“I was in that pod for three days before the Venlil found me and put me in an orphanage. Every time I met other Sivkits… they made my skin crawl. There's something wrong with all of them. I swear to you, we Sivkits are supposed to walk on two legs. We also aren't supposed to be that… stupid. Between how they talk being just… off, and the fact what they said was often either retarded or downright wrong, I couldn't ever feel like one of the so-called Grand Herd.”
“Eventually, I aged out. Graduated college, top of my class. And started working out here when they began to rebuild my plant after it burned down. That’s all there… Well, there is more, but It's not actually relevant to your question.”
John leaned down and kissed the top of my head, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
I groomed the tip of his nose in return, “You're welcome. … Hey John?”
I could see a small bit of… hope in the back of his eyes, “Yes Silv?”
“Can you tell me about your past?”
He frowned as memories came back to him, yet he smiled still. “Yeah… it’s not a happy story either.”
I pressed myself into him, “Well… we can both be sad together, at least.”
John's hands began to absentmindedly work through my fur again, “Yeah… That doesn't sound as bad.”
___/\___
Important question, do you want a chapter dedicated to John retelling his story? Or would you like it smash cut out in favor of more of their first real date? I am not sure how I want to do it and am happy with both, so please let me know.
John and Silvera finally had the relationship talk! Woooooo! John's confessed something he'd rather never bring up, but knows he needs to address to start living a happy life with his new family. Aaaaand, It's time for Silvera’s tragic backstory! (Trademark pending). Strange names though, right? Kalova… weird how John's old boss has a missing brother with the same name as an alien Ivan the Arxur knows! And Aylin… strange they share a name with Talen's dead wife! Man that's just weird!
Special thanks to u/JulianSkies for proofreading! Seriously it felt like my eyes were melting out of my skull and your feedback was everything I needed!
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The Yaire exile to earth chapter-8 parts 1 and 2
What was I thinking after all those years without a drink? I didn’t even have so much as a drop when Monica passed and now, now I dropped myself into a bottle and I have to crawl back out.
Those were the thoughts running through my mind. I hated myself for it. I pissed away so many years, I couldn’t work cows unless I had a flask. I couldn’t make hay or hell coach Joshua’s baseball games if I didn’t have a half rack in the truck. I hid it from her and the kids. I was a useless drunk. Until one day Monica took the kids and left. That’s what it took to kick me in the ass. I started AA, started going to church with them, and tried my best to be a better man. All these years without the destruction that I caused. And this event, us finding these poor abandon people in the brush, trying to get them help in whatever way we could and I cracked.
I needed to leave. I needed to do something, even if it was wrong. If I didn’t try to abandon these demons, they would most definitely grab me again.
The light was just starting to grow in the distance; my head was splitting me in two. The very act of walking to the barn causes me to vomit twice.
It took a long minute for me to gather my strength as the waves of sick, washed over me. Leaning against the wooden gate that leads to the horse pen was all I could do to stand and be present. Wave after dizzy wave nearly takes my feet out from under me.
Kicking my tongue to the pair of horses in the round pen next to the barn, I hoped I could manage to saddle one and go find some of my still abandoned cows. “Ha girls, I know it was a rough night.” The gray mare snorted her offense at my still drunk odder. The scent of cheap whiskey was obviously drifting to the pair of horses and they didn’t appreciate it. After a lot of effort, I was able to call the gray horse over. Reaching up to scratch her cheek, I realized in my haze that all my tack was in the trailer. “Shit!” I muttered to myself in extreme irritation.
Hanging my throbbing head, I managed to make the short distance to the trailer that I had left half parked in the yard. As I reached the trailers tail gate and slowly opened it, a distant voice reaches me. “Rough night?” I gazed up to the porch to see Joshua with a thermos of coffee, standing outside the front door.
“It wasn’t a fun one,” I muttered, as I could see an out cold Mic propped up on the porch swing. “At least it was too cold out here last night.”
“It wasn’t cold because we brought you two a couple of blankets.” Josh stated as frankly as he could. “You want something to eat before you get knocked off a horse?”
“No, food will just make me sick. I just need to work the poison out of my system.” I said, trying to keep the spins down as a fresh round of dizziness begins.
“So you’re going up the hill. Do you want help?”
Josh asked, sounding concerned. “No, I need to help with..” my voice trailed as I couldn't think through the fog.
.“Yaire”, Joshua interrupted as I searched my hazy mind for the right words.
“Yep, you’re on top of it. Best of luck, boy.” I grunted as I bent to pick up the saddle and tack for my spare horse.
Straining to hold on to my leather implements, I turned to make the trudge back to the round pen. Joshua called over my shoulder. “Just like that?”
“Yes, son, just like that.” A muttered back as I made the short walk back to the horses.
Dropping my saddle so the saddle horn was helping to prop the assembly out of the dirt. I reached out for one of the mares to begin the procedure to saddle up, only to be jerked backwards.
“Wait one fucking minute!” Josh all but spit.
“You help save these people, but now that you’re drunk, you’re going off to ride to the sunset like it’s some shitty western?” He barked.
I reached up and hit him full in his face. “You think I know what to do?” I yelled back. “Some galactic despot has been dropping these people all over the hell and gone leaving them in the sage to die!”
I hated myself for what I was doing; my mind was screaming at my body and mouth to stop. I couldn’t. “I’ll fail these people, Iv already failed you and your sister. I’m a cosmic fuck up without your mother.” Now my tears started to well. I couldn’t stand there anymore. Reaching down, I scooped up my saddle and gear and walked into the corral.
Chapter 8 part 2
Joshua’s personal perspective
It’s been a few hours since dad left. I was sitting on the front porch steps, still stewing in my irritation.
“The eye, better?” A female voice asked from the front porch doorway.
“It’s a little black, but it’s….. ok,” I said, the last word stalling out as the voice came into view when I turned my head. There, standing in the doorway, was Lis, her straight grey hair cut short at an angle, letting the light from the house shine on her angler right cheek. She had on my old ac/dc shirt from high school and a pair of Becky’s “cowgirl jeans”.
Trying hard not to stare, I whipped my head back out to overlooking the farmyard. “You’re picking up English really fast. Another week or two and you’ll be better at it than me.” I stammer out.
The tired wooden floor boards begin to creak with her footsteps as she walks up and sets down next to me on the steps.
“Thank you,” she says with some effort. The words were still being practiced.
“For what?” I said, trying my best to sound cool.
She looked confused, then Mic’s voice interrupted with their native language. A flurry of sounds and vowels later. Lis stood up and turned to go back inside. Stopping long enough at the doorway to turn and look back, “you people saved us.” She said in near perfect English, and with that she turned and walked back into the house.
Still looking over the yard, it was hard to keep a small grin off my face. Flicking a small piece of gravel off the steps, I could hear a fresh set of footsteps walking up to me. With a plop mic flopped himself next to me.
Looking out at the yard with a thousand mile stare, he took a long breath in. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he began. “What happens now?” He managed, trying hard to wrap his mouth around the words.
“I don’t know, we’ll keep working on your English and you guys can decide. Maybe your people will come back for you.” I said.
“No one comes, Zeen prison word.” He said while pointing to the ground in front of us and shaking his head.
“That’s, that’s not good.” I replied, while not understanding what a Zeen is.
We sat there in silence for a moment longer. Until I finally got up to stretch my legs and headed back inside. About half of the Yaire were seated in the living room, watching the first Hangover and giving their constant commentary. I guess if you have to learn a language from a movie, it should at least be a good one.
Becky was standing in the kitchen, while on the phone, with a troubled look on her face.
“What’s going on?” I whispered. Her response was to hold a single finger up in a just a minute manner.
“Thanks for checking, ya they had it out this morning and dad left in a huff. Ok we’ll look for him tomorrow. Thanks Mary,” Becky set her cell phone down before she acknowledged me. Looking down as she let out a tired sigh.
“So that was Mary. She told me dad went to her and Dave’s after he left here. Dave will give him a hand getting the cows down to his winter feed lot so we can truck them back.” Becky said. “She also said dad was pretty hammered, she thinks he was drinking on the way. Apparently, he was stinking of buzz and babbling about aliens. They're letting him sober up in their spare room before they head up the hill.”
“That’s no good.” I said, still upset about this morning.
“No, it’s not. Do you want to tell me what happened, for dad to get drunk and kick your ass?” she asked, a slight chuckle in her voice at the last part.
“I guess it’s the stress from all of this. But he was going on about being a failure and that someone dumped here the Yaire, I don’t know.” I stated
She just frowned at my explanation. “Well, we’re just in, autopilot around here this afternoon. Can I get you to head to town for some groceries?”
“I guess, are you sure you’ll be ok alone?” I asked, not sure if that was the smartest things to do. Leaving my little sister with a house full of aliens.
“I’ll be fine. The guys are having a hangover marathon and some girls are in my bedroom using your laptop to practice English.” She said dismissively.
“Wait, my laptop?” Embarrassing concern running through my mind.
I all but ran to Becky’s room. The sound coming from there confirmed my worst fears. On the bed Sofia, Ava, and Mia, all I would guess in the early to mid twenties started giggling at my approach, which made this even more awkward. As I entered the doorway, they all reached for the screen and closed the laptop. Our collective embarrassment set the trio to giggling again as now both Lis and Becky walked up behind me. From the bed, Sofia started speaking to Lis in their own language and holding her hands apart giving a literal scale for their conversation.
I was red faced with shame and embarrassment as the giggling picked back up.
“You didn’t delete your search history, did you?” Becky chuckled as I passed her in the door way
“What do you want from the store?”
This story was brought to you in large part due to u/Fit-Capital1536. A big thank you for the collaboration and story ideas.

As the title says, ive just came out for the first time as non-binary. I will tell others soon, but my cats as good a first step as any, right? She just sat and listened, then when id finished came over, nudged my hand lovingly then went to sit under my chair (if only all humans were as supportive). It counts, right?

So I posted what I will now call a close call where I nearly died and got the same old "not nde" and It bugged me but I've suddenly thought about an experience when I was in school.
We used to make each other pass-out by leaning over and hyperventilating then standing up quickly and somebody would compress the centre of your chest really hard whilst stood against a wall as you held your breath resulting in almost immediate syncope. I partook in this twice and both times had the same vision!! I was walking through a garden with white gravel, creeping vines with flowers, growing over that fencing that has squares in it for climbing plants. I'd walk through this area, that looked like a display garden, it's warm and sunny. As I walked down two narrow steps there was a man sat there on a wooden bench wearing a white flowing gow. He was reading a large a4 size old book, each time he would just look up smile and shake his head. I'd then feel as though I wasn't meant to be there and suddenly wake up back in the school corridor with everyone laughing or looking shocked. This happened twice and both exactly the same. I'm not religious, if anything the opposite but this was so real to me and it was peaceful, happy and serene. So has anybody else been to this garden? Or is this simply my brain being weird after becoming hypoxic?

Hello, one and all. Been lurking for a while. Thought I'd share my experience thus far. I'm a 45-year-old female (active, healthy weight, tall – BMI around 20) who herniated L4/L5 in early January. I'm, therefore, four months, two weeks post-injury.
It's a mild-ish protrusion pressing on nerves and causing sciatica. I have never had back pain. I'm a Brit. I plan to get over this conservatively and do not intend to have any injections or surgery. Note that I have some trouble lifting my left foot and walking as normal on that side, but everything is functional. I am able to lift my toes and heels, and I have full sensation everywhere.
From my scan, disc height is compromised only a tiny bit (I have juicy discs). I have a very wide and spacious nerve canal. No other issues aside from a transitional disc below (born with more bone than disc at L5/S1, very common, and I'm luckily in the "won't cause pain" camp) and a slight bulging disc above, which isn't pressing on anything. The transitional disc is likely to have led to this injury. But moving house finally pushed me over the edge, lifting things the wrong way.

The first month

The first month was obviously painful. Terrible sleep; sciatica was awful (burning in my left calf and left foot with some right foot tingling), and I was very stiff and leaning forward most mornings. Doing McKenzie cobras in those early days helped massively. And amazingly, I kept up with walking and averaged 15,000 steps daily. It wasn't painful. But I was taking Ibuprofen and paracetamol. I believe a lot of my sciatica has been caused by inflammation.
Back then, I was seeing a physio and doing some basic pelvic tilts, bridges, calf stretches, cat/camels, and – like I mentioned – cobra poses. Otherwise, I would mostly lie on the floor, on my front, resting. Or walking outdoors. It would take me three hours just to pluck up the courage to shower. And I could only stand under the hot water for less than a minute before lying on the floor again. Sitting was impossible. I couldn't use the car. I couldn't sleep on my left side. I would crawl down the stairs each morning after barely any sleep and go straight to the drugs. I couldn't make breakfast or do anything. But as each day wore on, I'd become less stiff and more upright and be able to walk for miles.

In search of a silver bullet

I tried everything in February and March. Acupuncture, physio, McKenzie stuff... They put me on Amitriptyline initially, but I hated it. And so they gave me Gabapentin. This helped with sleep and dialled down the pain significantly (I was on 300mg three times a day). I vaguely remember a crazy day when I walked into my local town, sat, and had cake and tea with an old friend. Still to this day, I can't figure out how! Boy, those drugs worked!
By the end of March, I discovered Egoscue and began posture therapy. I did it religiously for six weeks and even began working with a therapist. But it wasn't helping. And I didn't see any improvements. I also decided to come off the Gabapentin during this time (I would later go back on it, as I was in a lot of pain), as I felt totally off my face and hated it.
Around February, I also discovered Dr Stuart McGill. And read his excellent book, Back Mechanic. I learnt about spine hygiene and loads of other helpful stuff. Gradually, little by little, turning in bed got easier (brace that core) and getting up out of bed and off the toilet became pain-free, too. But I just wasn't seeing massive improvement.

Finding the right approach

That's when I decided to see a Master Clinician under McGill. Wow. It was the best money I had ever spent, and I'd spent more on acupuncture!
He went through my scan, was the only one to tell me about the transitional disc, and asked what I'd been doing thus far. He recommended that I give the posture therapy and the walking a break, just for a few weeks, to see if we could calm the inflammation down. And so I did. I rested. I mostly lay on the floor on my front or back and only moved around the house. No outdoor walking. No McKenzie cobra poses (which I've since discovered do more harm than good long-term and adopt a gentler version McGill recommends and says is just as effective). That was back in early April. And following his advice alone? I saw immediate improvements. In fact, the very next day, I was pain-free for seven hours. I couldn't believe it – just by resting.
I only rested for three weeks, and then I decided to try walking outdoors again. My gosh. The difference after the break! I could barely do ten minutes around the block without pain. It was too much. (I could never walk first thing before either – only later on in the day. But it would usually be fine.) But my back specialist wanted me to try walking three times a day, starting small. So, I persisted. He told me to stop if walking made things worse, though. Thankfully, it's been three weeks since I began walking outdoors again, and I'm making great progress. I can now get up from bed and walk immediately (I had to give it an hour before I ventured out of the house). And I can walk for half an hour, too. Three times a day. I find that a morning walk is crucial. I am stiff and a little sore at first, but it eases. And sets me up for the day. I also enjoy two or three hours of no pain when returning home.

Finally seeing progress

Since early April, the improvements have been gradual but almost daily. They're so small sometimes that you hardly notice them! It's only when you look back that you realise how far you've come!
In the six weeks since I worked with my back specialist, I have seen the constant burning sciatica in my foot and calf mostly disappear. Initially, I had a lot of fuzzing. That has now subsided, and since then, it's gone from fuzzing to cold water feelings and tingling... with occasional burning again (mostly only in the top of my calf), but that goes quickly. Now and again, I'll get a random ten minutes of a burning foot again, but it soon disappears.
A few weeks ago, I started getting new sharp and painful jolts in my left hip. That's apparently blood returning to the nerves. For the last week, I have barely had any foot or calf issues—I mostly have sharp pulling nerve pain on my left kneecap and similar symptoms in my hip. Only in the last month have I occasionally started to get a bruised feeling in my lumbar spine.
The morning stiffness and leaning forward? Gone. I am bolt-upright every morning and feel pretty good, posture-wise. Funny enough, since I quit doing the posture therapy. Go figure!
My glutes are very tight and constantly holding themselves. I'm trying to teach them to relax, but it's tough, as I know they're protecting themselves. I've been using heat to relax them—just a microwaved wheat sack some mornings.
Under a week ago, I came off Gabapentin. And I also quit Ibuprofen about five weeks ago. The only meds I take now are paracetamol – just one dose in the middle of the night to calm my (good) right hip that gets sore from only sleeping on that side.

How far I've come

Here I am, four months and two weeks post-injury. I still can't sit on a soft surface (I use a special sciatica cushion on a dining chair), I can't sit in a vehicle for the same reason, I can't sleep on my left side, and I still have some mild foot drop but am walking better.
On a positive note, the pain symptoms are changing daily, which is apparently a good sign. I am starting to feel some back pain for the first time, too. Centralisation is perhaps occurring. Instead of lying on the floor for several hours before breakfast, I now find better relief in standing and moving around. I can also sit for short spurts on my dining chair first thing in the morning, whereas before, I'd only be able to do that from midday.
I'm sleeping better. Six or seven hours a night. It's a tad broken, but I feel rested. And when I get up in the morning? Whereas before, my left leg and foot would go crazy with fuzzing and burning, now? Nothing. A mild tingling some mornings, but otherwise, fine.
I spend more of my days moving around, standing, walking, and occasionally sitting than "resetting" on the floor. And when I do feel sciatica getting worse, a brief rest on the floor makes the pain go away. It's never 100 per cent pain-free, you understand. It's mildly uncomfortable and feels like it could get worse at any moment, but I'm good.
And I'm finding that if I overdo it, any flare-up I might have is brief and easily overcome. Whereas before, it might've been five days to recover, now it's an hour resting on the floor.
If I stand at my standing desk for too long, my lumbar ache begins. It's not painful. It just feels weird—bruised, almost unstable, like I can feel it stacked. I lie down, reset, and then I'm good to go.

What has really helped

I now know what to do to avoid triggering pain. I can tie my shoes with my foot on a bench and lunge in. I have a shoe horn – a game-changer! I also use a strapped-on ice pack when I need to calm my nerves. Less so these days. And heat on my ass when the glutes feel too tight. I only take paracetamol in the middle of the night to help me sleep. Oh, and I find going to bed with an ice pack on sometimes really helps!
The meds definitely helped in those painful early days; but I need feedback. Once I felt I could, I stopped taking everything.
During this time, I also hired a cleaner (fortnightly) and a gardener. I've not stopped working (I have no choice; I am a freelancer). And I have no kids. So I don't have to commute anywhere. I stay at home and rest, and the only time I leave the house is to walk. I also invested in a new mattress, a game changer (John Ryan Artisan Luxury, if anyone wants to know – I did have a firm mattress before, and discovered it wasn't helping at all. Way too firm. Based on my weight and height, I needed a medium – who knew?) I am very lucky in all of these respects, I know.
The walking really helps – but it was only when I stopped, rested, and allowed by body to heal that I noticed a difference in my symptoms.

Not out the woods yet...

Pain is still an issue. Evenings are the worst. I go to bed around 9pm and lying there brings relief and I have no issue going to sleep. I only wake after about three or four hours due to sleeping on the same side every night. And then easily fall back to sleep, with only a few brief waking moments. I roughly get around six or seven hours a night. And thankfully, sciatica isn't really present at night (maybe a little harmless fuzzing). Just the evenings before bed – that's when it can get intense and the burning in my calf and foot can come back tenfold. Sigh.
Mornings are my best friend now. Pain doesn't usually become an issue until much later in the day. I'll have little episodes. But I can swiftly reset myself and move on. It can get harder to reset the later in the day it becomes, too. Some days are worse than others. The good days are starting to outweigh the bad. When I have an awful day, I do feel disheartened. But then I remember how far I've come, and try and stay strong.
I don't always do my three walks, either. If that evening walk doesn't feel right, I won't do it. I'll rest. I'll ice my back and lie down. I absolutely am trying to avoid drugs. But I have ibuprofen in my cupboard, just in case!

What's next?

I'm nowhere near ready to begin strength training. And I've avoided all physio and stretching of late. I am just doing what my back specialist recommends. Some mild cat/camels to get the blood flowing, walking, resting. I take magnesium, turmeric, vitamins D and B12, omega-3. I try to avoid sugar and alcohol (I don't always succeed on that one). I'm not ready for longer walks yet. And there's no way I could take a bath, sit up in bed, or sit on the sofa.
But I am healing. This has been quite the journey, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm excited for the next phase of recovery: rehab! And boy, will I be taking it seriously—for the rest of my life! It's down to us, after all. No one can do it for us.
There are some big life events coming up that I know I'm not ready for. When they get closer, if I'm still not better, I will call my GP and ask for advice. Ibuprofen might be brought out again. Perhaps even something stronger. But if I'm one of the lucky ones, I should be seeing further progress in the coming weeks and months.
I rate my ability to function normally when I can sleep on my left side again, drive my car and when I can sit on the sofa, too! I won't mind if there is some residual pain and weakness. As long as I can function without having the crux of a floor and yoga mat nearby.

Key takeaways

• Sleep is everything. Prioritise sleep. Get a new mattress if you can (make sure you get the right one for you – in my case, medium! Because bad backs don't necessarily need firm surfaces). Lie on your side with a pillow between your knees or on your back with a pillow below your knees.
• Read Back Mechanic by Stuart McGill as soon as possible – learn how to avoid pain triggers.
• Take the meds when you need to. But remember, they are masking a lot of pain. So go easy!
• Drink lots of water. Stay hydrated for your spine.
• Take some supplements but do your research. I take magnesium (muscle), turmeric (anti-inflammatory), vitamins B12 (nerves) and D (bone), and omega-3 (joints and bones).
• Ice when trying to calm the nerves; heat when trying to relax the muscles.
• Try and avoid sugar and alcohol – they cause inflammation.
• Walk when you can. Start gradually. Once in the morning – as soon as you get up; once after lunch and once after dinner. Start at two minutes if you have to. Build to half an hour each time. Once you can do this with little to no pain, try some longer walks. Take long strides, swing your arms from the shoulders, and keep a good neutral posture.
• Listen to your body! Rest when you need to.
• Stay positive. Create fun little rituals throughout your days. Start a new hobby. Keep mentally strong. Call friends and family. Get people to visit you if you can.
• Only do what's essential. Sod the housework! Get food shops delivered. And develop a more relaxed attitude to everything – do you really need to sort the ironing?
• Buy some comfortable loungewear. Game-changer!
• Most of all, time is the biggest healer. These things can take up to two years to settle. The average is apparently six months. Everyone is different.

I am more than happy to answer any questions. I hope this has helped someone. It's certainly helped me to get it all on screen. And I wanted to thank this community for all I've learned this year. I hope you're not in too much pain.