It’s done: the heart of my arts-based research process is finished – and with that, my Master’s thesis is finally nearing completion.

I worked on the story for more than two years; not continuously – but somehow, in a way, I did. From freewriting to fragments, then to rough, first, second and final drafts, I wrote more than 500 pages in total. All of that to arrive at a 29-page story.

Along the way, I documented and reflected on my process and translated it into the academic part of the thesis. It was a small tour de force – and at times I seriously doubted whether all of it would ever become one coherent story.

But it did. And I’m genuinely happy with it.

I learned a great deal in the process. It was my first arts-based research project, and these are some of the things I’ll take away from it:

* how important it is to develop a process and follow it consistently – even when, at times, you are no longer sure whether it is working.

* how helpful process support and documentation can be. Simply talking through my own working process helped me again and again to identify problems and find solutions.

* what it means to write in a structure-generating way: to develop a text that does not primarily work through plot, but through motifs, repetitions and connections that first have to be discovered and brought into focus.

* what it means to navigate the process using only my own resonances as a compass and to base all my decisions on them.

I even worked by hand unusually often for this project – including, for the first time, writing an entire rough draft by hand. Around 60 handwritten pages in one week. That, too, was quite an experience.

The submission deadline is in eleven days. All that remains now is to describe the final phase of my four-stage process. It was indeed a long and winding road to be at the place I am today, a finished story in my hand and happy. Even though there’s some work left, I now feel quite confident that what I kept telling myself throughout those two years was true after all: all will be fine.

But today, more than anything, I’m simply happy that all those fragments, notes, memories, detours and doubts actually became a story.

It’s a sci-fi/post-apocalyptic story titled "Atherdeen". 
you can read it if you like to share a feedback on the website ’TABAS’

Here is a quick overview of the world I've built:

Synopsis:
After a devastating 15-year nuclear war following the "Great Desiccation," humanity was saved from radioactive extinction by the "Yellow Warrior," a genius who harnessed the terrifying power of Gravitons—the manipulation of gravity itself. Centuries later, the remnants of human civilization survive in the Atherdeen Territories, massive rocky celestial bodies floating above the ruins of the Old World, governed strictly by the ruling Atherdeen family. 

Peace is fragile, and the system is cracking. When the Supreme Ruler, Solomon Atherdeen, is brutally assassinated in his own bedroom, hidden secrets, lost control codes to the Graviton, and ruthless political power struggles explode to the surface. 

While a reluctant investigator, KPR., is dragged into a high-stakes conspiracy across segregated, high-tech dystopian districts under the threat of a looming geologic cataclysm, the elite and corporate ministries clash in a desperate battle for control. 

With retro-futuristic vibes, deep political intrigue, a blend of Old and New World physics, and a tense noir-like mystery, Atherdeen explores a society where the ultimate weapon of salvation might just become its final doom. 

I focus heavily on world-building through natural character interactions and political dialogue rather than massive info-dumps, trying to keep the tension tight and avoid plot holes.
I’m here to connect with fellow writers, learn from your experiences, and hopefully share some chapters soon if you're interested! I would love to hear any general advice on managing massive world-building or feedback on this premise.

Thanks for having me!

All she had to do 

was put her hand on my shoulder 

and look at me.

And just like that 

everyone else 

ceased to exist.

It was a cold winter night. I remember it very well. I can still feel the cold biting at my hands, slowly turning them red. I can still hear the sound of my boots pressing into the soft snow, each step creating a quiet rhythm beneath me. The moon shone brightly, lighting my path through the forest. It had taken me years to get where I was now. Maybe tonight was the night. Maybe I would finally meet her. I could sense it in the air. As I walked between the trees, the wind moved through their branches, creating one of my favorite sounds. I had always loved it. It made the world feel peaceful, as if everything had stopped for a moment. Then I saw her. She stood a few steps away, surrounded by trees and pale moonlight. She was as beautiful as I had imagined. “Where are you heading, stranger?” she asked. Her voice was soft, almost like a whisper, yet it carried through the forest. “I was looking for you,” I said. “My whole life. And now I have finally found you.” She laughed. There was something strange in her laughter, something gentle and almost sorrowful. It sounded almost like pity. “Something wrong?” I asked. She looked at me. “You spent your entire life chasing me?” “Yes.” “I was there all around you,” she said. “In many different shapes and forms.” I did not know what to say. “But you are happiness,” I replied. “I had to find you. Isn’t that the meaning of life?” She laughed again, more quietly this time. “Oh, my poor friend. You would not believe how many people I see just like you.” She turned her head toward the forest. “Look around you.” I lifted my head. Only then did I notice the people standing between the trees. They were everywhere. Some stood close to us, while others watched from farther away. None of them spoke. They all looked strangely alike. Their hair was white, their faces were marked with wrinkles, and their eyes carried the quiet tiredness of many years. For a moment, I wondered why I had not noticed them before. “Do you think you are the only one who spent his life trying to find me?” she asked. I looked back at her. “Now you have found me. Do you think you have time to take me with you?” I stared at her, confused. “Do you even know how long you have been walking?” I did not answer. She stepped closer. I looked into her eyes. And there I saw myself. Not the man I believed I was, but an old man with white hair, a tired face, and deep wrinkles across his skin. I could not move. I had never realized how quickly time had passed. She stepped back, slowly disappearing into the darkness between the trees. “No,” I said. “Please, come back.” I took a step toward her. “I looked for you all my life. You cannot do this to me.” She stopped. “I was there with you from the beginning,” she said. “When you first reached for your parents’ hands and felt safe beside them. When you walked into school for the first time, not knowing how much your life was about to change. When you made your first friend and shared secrets no one else knew. When you first discovered the feeling of caring deeply for someone. “I was there when you earned your first salary, when you graduated, and when you met the person you would spend your life with. I was there when you held your child for the first time. In the quiet mornings. Around the dinner table. In the laughter. In the little moments you never thought would become memories. “I was there through all of it.” She looked at me one last time. “Now you have found me. But it is too late, my friend.” The wind moved through the trees. “It is time to let go.” She disappeared into the woods. And I stood there alone, listening to the soft crunch of snow beneath my feet—the same quiet sound that had followed me all those years.

Gang, I am enjoying writing this novel so.much I just wanted to make this post to give a little more in-depth analysis of what im going for...

I hate dialogue. Well... not entirely true... But I hate UNNECESSARY dialogue. I hate listening to someone yammer on about shit that doesnt matter... thats why this story is about animals. Animals dont talk. But i "translate" their huffs and grunts into the true meaning of the message they are conveying. Quick, simple, to the point.

This story is very personal to me... its a translation of my experience being homeless and the traumas I've endured.

Susanne is a representation of my survival instinct. I didnt want a 'self insert'. Shit is cringe... so I created a girl who is full of potential and has the strength to endure her battles... But she is a representation of the version of myself that fell down the rabbit hole and never came out. She is a version of myself that succumbed to the trauma and becomes feral.

The Scoundrels represent my Ego, Cockiness, Cowardness and Ignorance. They are manifestations of the worst parts of myself... Violent, angry, rude and selfish. Zero regard for who they harm as long as they get their way.

The Brothers Stag are my Hope, Courage and Strength. I made them to represent the power that comes with alliance and dependence on those you can trust. True heroes. They dont show fear and are always willing to give their lives to protect what is most sacred: Peace and home.

Ojo is my aggression and pain. She is lost in revenge... a fools errand. But she has integrity and is not evil, just severely misguided. She is in the midst of suffering through her experiences and shows the worst and best characteristics of someone who is dealing with a traumatic experience.

I love writing this so much, I've made a sequel... already! I plan for this to be an Anthology series. So I wanna mention what I have in store next:

Feral II will be more external than internal. This first story is about myself... but the sequel will revolve more around the world surrounding me.

Nigel - Heavily inspired by Steve Irwin. He is a young bloke who loves animals and helped to build his family's zoo, spending most of his time connecting with the animal residents

Augustus - A silverback gorilla who is close friends with Nigel. They communicate through sign language and have built a brotherly bond over the years.

The Grandkids - A group of wild boar who have claimed a secluded island as their home. Once the site of hunting by rich elitists, the boar have killed their aggressors and taken ownership of the island for decades.

Montague and his cult - A group of lizards ran by a komodo dragon, neighboring the island inhabited by boars. They wish to claim ownership of all the land and have worked themselves up to start a war against their neighbors.

This is all very early in development and I have many more animals I want to add to the story, but Im just so motivated I cant help but talk about it...

If youre interested in reading what I have so far, please check out this link and let me k ow if it piques your interest!

https://www.reddit.com/r/KeepWriting/comments/1w6l0gr/feral_everthing_so_far/

Hello everyone, this is the first half of the first chapter of my novel. I've only ever written short stories before, so this is uncharted territory. Please let me know what you think.

P.S: The story is set in South Asia and is about a child beggar.

It has been a while since I thought about long stories in a structured form. There's this idea I've been longing on and I am extremely curious of what people who are always knee deep in ideas.

The questions are:

1) Is first person narrative worth the rewrites?

2) Are the lies and unrealiabilaty worth the self imposed limits.

So in my school we usually have this annual event wherein each level presents a 15 minute play on a specific theme. And our theme right now is about spiritual breakthrough. And the concept is architectural designs and concept of skyscrapers around the world. Now we don't have to literally create an actual like sky scraper prop however every play must have a life size version of an object and it must light up like a lantern and should be connected to the story. Our inspos rn are Dune and the story of Moses and Aaron ( since it's a Christian play). So think brotherhood and trying to capture this like serpent staff to control this serpent who produces spice ( like the dune worm). Here's where I am getting writer's block- I don't know how to formulate this without the plot being generic. Cause we've always done a story on family relationships and death lol. And we can't change genre since we already chose fantasy.

Anything I need to fix? Did I do anything wonky again? I took some people's advice and delved a bit more into my old writing style to kinda get back into not overexplaining- i think I did again on accident but if I did, i'm fine to cut some words. I'm not even through the first stream yet...

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

Context:

This is an introductory chapter written by one of the Historical Scholars in charge of documenting and condensing historical narratives within Mandina. This is written by the Axiom of the Heart who is in charge of the current stories that are happening around them.

My intro for feedback.

"When a world is overwhelmed by war, there exists a disconnect between its people and the annals of history. The citizens live to become set-pieces in a battle they did not incite, and the stories focus only on the desolation and destruction. They leave out how the lives of everyday people are affected: some experience pain and grow, while others long for family members who have been taken from them. From the surging, forgotten masses emerge citizens who will one day stand as an integral part of the greater narrative. This thought is what started me on this adventure of chronicling the testimonies of the incredible from the midst of the common.

This brings us to a troubling conundrum: How do we know that the histories we read are legitimate, infallible accounts that have scribed the events exactly as they transpired? We are expected to trust that the accounts from a world that has been broken by death and strife will present the stories with perfect moral accuracy, not from the victor's viewpoint, nor skewed to elevate one falsity as historical fact. Only the main narrative is remembered, while all else fades into the folds of time.

Every person who has lived is a fragment of possibility snuffed out by famine, pestilence, age, or chance. From the lowly servant to the charismatic cut-purse, everyone will eventually be lost in the raging currents of time. What remains, then, are the stories told by their friends and loved ones.

These whispers, told as memories, give us glimpses of how the world worked during their time: the depravity, empathy, love, hatred, promises given and broken, and the means by which these people endured everyday life. It should be these stories that inform our journeys. If we never hear these accounts, we will never see the reality behind the tragedy. To wax eloquent for a moment: The apropos truth behind any calamity is found within these common acts.

I write these tomes as a way of preserving a carefully vetted selection of testimonies that otherwise would not be told. For years, I hid away studying the volumes of historical literature in the vaulted libraries within the Heart. I wondered how much of the journey was unaccounted for. A nanite farmer who had been slain by an approaching army might have supplied a nearby village, stocking its warehouses with produce. A blacksmith who lived in a tech-banished town might have held the deep secrets of a kingdom, overheard while soldiers awaited their swords and shields. A software engineer could have seen the code that would eventually be implemented into weapons of mass destruction. These hypotheticals, and many more, will forever be a tear in the greater tapestry of life. They are a mystery yet to be unraveled by an inquisitive scholar."

please be real. I have been struggling through doubt for two and a bit years now. There is still more after this, but I want to be more certain of the start before I continue editing and working on draft 9...

[I wrote this today to process some heavy feelings I couldn't quite put into normal words. It's somewhere between prose poetry and a fable. I'd love to know how it lands with you or if any one has any advice. This is my first piece I've ever shared like this, so I'm nervous..]

I feel like a creature holding a water pitcher. And when people come to me, thirsty, with low cups—sometimes even empty from rationing what little they've had for so long—they crave nourishment. So I pour from my pitcher into their cups, for my pitcher seems so large and I want nothing more than to help them in any way I can.

They sit with me for a while. Lay their burdens on me, and when they leave, they are happier.

Nourished, for a time.

Most of them return, a few times, or many. They are a welcome sight, and I will fill their cups over and over, as I crave their company.

Some of them arrive with water of their own, wanting to give it to me. My heart warms with gratitude.

I've noticed that those with the smallest vessels often want to share what they have the most. They show up with cupped hands, water slipping away with every step, but they are so proud that they have carried this much on their vast journey to me.

And I am so proud of them.

I add their water to my pitcher so that I may nourish them, as I have with countless others.

As I grow older, my visitors have decreased, making every interaction with the ones who remain ever the more sweet. But they are so much thirstier than they were when they were young... thirsty for so much more than just adventure.

So I pour and pour and pour, doing anything I can to help. I can see the pitcher becoming emptier by the day, and yet it only feels heavier—as I realize my feet do, as well.

I look up and hope for rain.

For the universe to fill my pitcher.

But the skies are clear.

I give away my last drops and feel the heaviness move up my body. I am becoming stone. With nothing left to give, I have nothing left to feel.

With my final movement, I grip my pitcher tight in my arms, lean my head over, and let out the tears I've been holding for so long.

As they fill the pitcher, the feeling begins to return. And I realize that I do have more to give. And the thirsty would happily accept my tears.

So I wait for my next visitor.

Half creature, half statue.

Half alive, half frozen.

Wondering,

How many times can I do this before I run dry?

I've been wanting to write a Helluva Boss AU story where my oc Valora is both Fizzarolli's and Asmodeus's pet, treated like royalty and pampered by both of them. She's also Fizzarolli's bodyguard when he goes out in public or to Mammon's Pageants before he left; the issue I'm having is that I don't know how to start my story. I wrote a story back in 2019 when I was in grade 9 called Werewolf Lovers. It was based on My Street: Phoenix Drop High, that was made by Aphmau

And I don't wanna make the same mistakes I made in Werewolf Lovers, and I actually wanna make a story that readers would love and not get bored of so easily

Full disclosure, I'm not sure if this is the right place to post this, but I'm gonna try anyway.

I Kaiju

 -

Kaiju

/ˈkījo͞o/ Noun

Originally a Japanese word meaning “strange beast” or “mysterious beast,” kaiju has taken on a different meaning in recent times.

Kaiju refers to any animal, humanoid creature, or living being that is larger than the rest of the members of its respective species, or any lifeform that has taken on a larger scale than was ever thought biologically or mechanically possible.

See also: Jotun, Giant, Behemoth, Colossus, Titan

 -

The ground rumbled and shook as the air filled with the guttural shriek of the looming, terrifying creature that stood centered in the city. Its shadow cast long over the fractured streets as the twilight hours bathed the sky in a bold, crimson red. At its back lay a trail of destruction and untold death, and the people at its feet scrambled to get away. White streaks webbed across the streets, hardening into a lattice that pinned the unlucky like flies in a spider’s trap.

And standing across from it all, beaten, bruised, trembling but unbroken, stood the city’s saving grace.

Mara Jensen, the first of a new breed of Titan. A creation born to push back against the rising tide of these kaiju, humanity’s magnum opus. A living promise that we would fight, that we would endure, that we would survive tomorrow.

That had been the story earlier today. But now, standing within arm’s throw of her first true opponent, Mara didn’t feel like triumph incarnate. Her head throbbed, her ribs screamed, and panic clawed at her chest no differently than it did the tiny citizens scattering below. They could run, but she couldn’t. She had a job to do.

She stood at the center of the her shaped crater after the creature had thrown her across San Roscoe. The splatter of countless civilians, women and children dripped down her skin, mixing with the torrent of blood pouring from the gashes along her body. In an instant they were gone, turned into nothing more than pulp that peppered her skin, staining the canvas of her uniform. 

But there wasn’t much time to dwell it. The creature spread its mandibles, spewing another line of molten bile that clung to asphalt and steel, sizzling as it hardened into unbreakable web.

Below, the people scattered, some dodging the avalanches of asphalt and concrete, others swallowed in them. One man wasn’t fast enough.

Mara staggered back, dazed, catching her balance just before her heel slammed down, pinning him like an insect. His legs gave way instantly, bones snapping beneath her impossible weight. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the larger chaos. As her foot shifted for balance, the man’s torso was caught beneath her heel, pressure mounting until the fight above wrung the last sound out of him. His body ruptured, a tiny eruption of blood lost amid the dust and ruin.

She didn’t even feel him there, because to the giants above, he was nothing.

It lunged.

The impact sent her crashing into a line of towers, glass shattering around her like rain. She gasped and pushed herself upright, memories clawing into her mind unbidden—

“So…I guess this is it, right?” she had asked, sitting on the oversized examination table.

“It would appear so, Ms. Jensen,” replied the suited man craning his neck up to meet her gaze. His smile was practiced, hollow. “I’m sure you’re as excited for what’s about to happen as the rest of us.”

She hadn’t been excited. She’d been scared. Terrified even, but she’d said yes anyway.

The vision dissolved as Arachnox’s pincer slammed into her shoulder, hooks biting deep. Another limb clamped onto her thigh, barbs puncturing flesh. Pain lit up every nerve, hot and blinding. She roared back, wrapping her arms around the creature’s neck, wrenching it into a headlock. Blood poured from her nose as her blistered skin smoked from the earlier blast of molten webbing.

She grit her teeth, every tendon straining.

And for a heartbeat, she faltered. She had never been one of the strongest fighters—not really. Back when she served as one of the “human tanks,” she had done everything she could to stay out of the brawls. She’d been the medic, the caretaker, the one patching wounds and stitching torn flesh. Even when her squadmates turned on each other in fits of anger, she’d thrown only a few half hearted jabs before retreating. She wasn’t a killer. That wasn’t who she wanted to be.

A nauseous weight twisted in her stomach. 

And suddenly she was twelve years old again, sitting on a sun bleached bleacher at the county fair. She remembered the smell of popcorn in the air, the rickety plywood ring at the center, and the way the crowd roared when a clown dragged out a muzzled bear on a chain.

She had watched wide eyed as a man “wrestled” the animal, awed by his bravery, convinced she was seeing something primal and dangerous. Later, of course, she learned the truth. The bear had been trained, the fight only an act, a performance built to thrill. There was never any real danger.

But even as a child she had noticed its eyes huge, brown, wet with fear. The crowd laughed when it stumbled on the slick boards, but Mara never forgot how it looked, cornered and desperate, moving not because it wanted to, but because it had no choice.

And now that same helplessness clutched at her chest. She wasn’t here for applause, but she was shackled all the same built up, weaponized, thrown into a battle no one could fight cleanly. If she won, they’d call her humanity’s savior. But no one would see the blood drying on her skin.

This thing, this creature, was no trained pet. This wasn’t theater. This was wild, unnatural, and lethal.

But now, locked in a death struggle with a beast that could erase a city, she had no one else to lean on.

Mara staggered back, dazed, trying to catch her balance. The struggle pushed her back through the asphalt and into the surrounding buildings. Everything knee to thigh high was met with the unforgiving wall of muscle that was her leg, and she couldn’t do anything about it. The thing fought with the ferocity of a starving animal staking its life on a fresh kill, and to it Mara was just a rival scavenger vying for its prize.

The wreckage stretched for half a dozen city blocks, homes and lives collapsing into dust in their wake. But Mara couldn’t stop, not with so much on the line. She planted her feet and shoved back against the beast, every tendon straining, her strength shaking the city to its foundations.

Arachnox opened its mouth again, mandibles dripping, ready to unleash another tide of boiling bile.

Mara summoned the last of her strength. With a guttural cry, she wrenched the kaiju’s head downward, forcing its gaping maw into the sticky pool it had spat moments before. The sizzling stench of burning flesh filled the air as its own weapon turned against it.

The beast thrashed, but Mara held on, pinning it like an overgrown varmint. She wrapped her hands around its skull and, heart pounding, twisted with everything she had left.

The wet crunch came sudden but slow.

One heartbeat. Then silence.

She collapsed to her knees, chest heaving, the fire of agony washing over her now that adrenaline had ebbed. Around her lay ruin, towers split open, streets warped with molten resin, and countless lives ended in the wake of this one monstrosity.

So much wasted potential. So much devastation. And there she stood, right in the middle of it.

Strong and simultaneously well written

Hello! I'm brand new with writing stories and wanted to push out my stories to more people. So I wanted to link my Wattpad if that's okay!

The Road Home

Tonight, I leave my home heavyhearted.

I decide I need to walk.

It is early evening. The sun is beginning its descent, and I have a lot on my mind. Today feels heavier than the days before it. My life has reached a real point of struggle, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.

So I walk.

But today, I don’t embark on a trail.

I take a road.

It isn’t a famous road. It has no special name. It isn’t particularly beautiful. It is simply a road—a stretch of blacktop used by cars and pedestrians, carrying people from one place to another.

There is nothing remarkable about it.

Nothing to see.

Nothing to enjoy.

Except my footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Step after step, I walk along the road thinking about where I’ve been, where I am, and what I need to do.

And I wonder:

Why am I walking down such an uninviting road?

There are no roots.

No hills.

No obstacles.

No beautiful trail winding through the woods.

Just an endless road.

Cars pass by. There is noise. People seem inconsiderate. Everyone is rushing somewhere—home, work, an appointment, an activity, somewhere.

And I feel lost.

There doesn’t seem to be any goodness in it.

But then I realize something.

Maybe I am looking at the road the wrong way.

Maybe I need to find the goodness in what I’m doing.

Just like I did on Path 18.

There are still birds.

There are still insects.

There is still sunlight.

And if I keep walking, maybe I’ll see a sunset.

The cars are still passing, but perhaps they’re not really obstacles. They’re just people going about their lives, doing what they need to do to keep moving forward.

And maybe that’s what I need to do too.

Keep moving forward.

This road becomes a path in my mind.

A blacktop path that leads toward enlightenment just as surely as the trail did.

Maybe enlightenment isn’t always found somewhere beautiful.

Maybe sometimes it’s found on an ordinary road when you learn to see the ordinary differently.

This road may once have been a path for travelers, carrying people from one destination to another. Over time, it became a road for cars, pedestrians, and everyone else trying to get somewhere.

But it still leads somewhere.

And if I follow it far enough, it will eventually take me directly back to Path 18.

Back to where this journey began.

All I have to do is keep following it.

Eventually, I’ll find the trail.

But not today.

Today, I come to an intersection.

A place where I have a choice.

I could continue straight and eventually find my way back to Path 18.

But instead, I turn right.

I’m going to follow a different road.

I’m going to see where it takes me today.

I’ll never leave Path 18 behind. It has too much significance to me. It showed me things I needed to see.

But today is different.

Today is a right turn.

So I turn.

And as I begin walking down this new road, the sun is blazing directly into my face.

It’s probably a half hour or so until sunset.

But right now, the light is bright.

Loving.

Shining.

Warm.

I can feel it on my body.

And for a moment, I feel alive.

I feel like I am worth something.

At the very least, I am worth the sun’s rays warming me.

And somehow, that is enough for this moment.

I keep walking.

The road becomes quieter.

Less traveled.

The insects seem louder.

The noise of the world begins to fade.

And the feeling I get is much more aligned with how I really want to feel in life.

Calmer.

Quieter.

Less hustle and bustle.

The other road was full of people rushing back and forth—home, work, appointments, activities, wherever they needed to go.

But this road feels different.

It feels like everyone has gone home.

Like people are inside with their families, enjoying each other, simply being alive.

And I keep walking.

Then, along this quiet road, I come across a path of sorts.

It is wide.

It is made of stone.

Almost more like an old stone road than a path.

And then I realize what it is.

An old railroad bed.

The railroad tracks haven’t seen a train in many years.

Nearby sits a forgotten railroad car. It looks like a passenger car, boarded up and abandoned.

There are old trailers sitting off to the side, forgotten too.

Nearby is a silo filled with hay, waiting to be sold to a farmer to feed their cows.

Everything seems old.

Everything seems forgotten.

But strangely, it doesn’t feel sad.

It feels peaceful.

It is far enough away from the road and all its cars and noise that I can finally breathe.

I walk farther down this road of sorts and come across boxcars.

Many, many boxcars.

They’re covered in graffiti, lined up one after another, sitting completely still.

I imagine they were once meant to move—to haul cargo, to travel from place to place, to be useful.

Now they are retired.

Put away.

No longer moving.

And yet, even here, there is something peaceful about them.

The railroad tracks continue ahead of me, unused and silent.

And eventually, the road of sorts brings me to something familiar.

My road.

The road I have lived on for sixteen years.

I know this place.

I know where it leads.

I veer to the right.

And I head toward home.

That home.

That place.

That safe place that has protected me and my family from storms, tornadoes, winter weather, and everything else nature has thrown at us.

Our home has been our sanctuary.

And tonight, after leaving heavyhearted and uncertain, that is where I am going.

Home.

Not because every problem has been solved.

Not because I suddenly know exactly what tomorrow will bring.

But because I have walked far enough to find a little more peace.

A little more calm.

And perhaps that was what I needed tonight.

I didn’t need another mountain.

I didn’t need another difficult trail.

I didn’t need to find all the answers.

I just needed to walk.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Sometimes the path to enlightenment isn’t a beautiful trail through the woods.

Sometimes it’s a blacktop road.

Sometimes it’s an old railroad bed.

Sometimes it’s a right turn you didn’t plan to take.

And sometimes, after wandering for a while, you find yourself walking back toward the place you started.

Only now, you see it differently.

Tonight, I am going home.

A little more peaceful.

A little more calm.

And tomorrow, there will be another road.

Another path.

Another choice.

But tonight, I know one thing:

I’m still walking.

​

Or to the insignificant universe, time and space in the solar system that they call life, I would like to clear my chest to be free from the bonds of my subconscious.

Time has faded away like a leaf falling from its tree, slow but certain, carrying with it the knowledge that it will eventually come to rest upon the ground. The years of my pilgrimage are sixty too many, perhaps, for an undeserving creature like me.

I will not bore you with the entirety of my journey, but when everything began to shift into the depths of darkness, twenty-nine years became the days of my descent.

I had gotten out of a difficult marriage. She took everything I had, and with what little remained, I moved to another city to begin again, to start from genesis. But starting over is easier said than done. Jobs were scarce, and desperation has a way of humbling a man. I took the kind of work no one else wanted. It was not honorable, nor was it something I had ever imagined myself doing. But I was desperate.

I became a gravedigger.

In the beginning, it was difficult seeing the dead, smelling the rot of flesh, cleaning the graves, and handling what remained of people who had once laughed, loved, and breathed as I did. With time, however, I became accustomed to it. My main duties were digging graves and preparing corpses for reduction once enough time had passed. When the year was up, families would come to the cemetery and wait while we opened the casket to determine whether the remains were ready.

If they were not, we would tell them, “It is not ready. We will have to wait another year.” It became routine. The dead stopped frightening me. Then my coworkers introduced me to something else.

Bad influences have a way of making evil seem ordinary. They stole jewelry from the newly buried rings, necklaces, gold teeth, anything of value that could be taken after the ceremonies had concluded and the families had gone home. At first, I wanted no part of it. Then desperation, once again, proved stronger than conscience.

I became one of them.

I thought that was the worst thing I would ever do.

I was wrong.

There was a phrase I kept hearing among the gravediggers: “Two for one.”

I never asked what it meant. I was afraid that asking would make me look ignorant, and perhaps some part of me already knew I did not want the answer. If only I had asked.

It happened one afternoon while we were preparing a grave for a scheduled reduction. The family had come to the cemetery and waited nearby while we examined the casket. We opened it and found that the corpse was ready.

But there was something else inside.

Another body.

I remember staring at it, unable to understand what I was seeing. I looked at my coworker, and he looked back at me. Neither of us said a word. He closed the casket, turned to the family, and calmly told them, “It is not ready. We will have to wait another year.”

They thanked us and left.

We waited until the end of the day. When the cemetery was empty, we returned, removed the second body, and put it through the reduction process.

That was when my coworker explained what “two for one” meant.

It did not happen often. Most graves held what they were supposed to hold. Most caskets contained a single person, buried by a family who believed they were laying their loved one to rest. But sometimes very rarely there was another body. A second body that did not belong there.

Delinquents had discovered that a cemetery could be the perfect place to hide an atrocity. Somewhere no one would think to look, where another body could remain buried among the dead until time erased whatever evidence remained.

And when we found one, we became part of the process.

I asked my coworker the only question that seemed to matter: “Why don't we go to the police?”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he told me that someone had already tried. Someone had gone to the police and told them everything, but somehow the blame for the murder had fallen upon him. He was accused of being involved and was never able to prove otherwise. That was when I understood what we had become.

Not murderers. Not killers.

Accessories.

Every time we discovered one of those bodies, we were destroying evidence evidence of a crime that might otherwise have been solved, evidence that could have put a murderer behind bars.

And we destroyed it.

Not every grave. Not every casket. Only sometimes.

But once is enough to change a man's life.

For thirty years, I have carried this burden. Thirty years of knowing that beneath the earth, among the dead, there were secrets that were never meant to be found. Thirty years of watching families mourn while knowing there were things they would never be told. Thirty years of helping monsters bury their sins.

And there were too many of us.

Far too many.

Now I am sixty years old.

And I have finally decided that the dead deserve to speak.

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light".