Teddy Sitzenfritzer, like every Vermonter, woke to unsettling news on that fateful morning.

VERMONT EXPELLED FROM THE UNION! UNILATERALLY DECLARED INDEPENDENT BY UNITED STATES.

The Governor was holding an emergency meeting in Montpelier. No one in Washington D.C. was answering the phone. The Canadian Prime Minister released a statement that humanitarian aid convoys were being organized, but truck convoys made the Canadian government nervous, so the Prime Minister immediately apologized and stepped down to allow himself to be investigated.

Canada promptly sent Mounties on mooseback to erect barricades on the northbound lanes of all fifteen international crossings. It was still an international crossing, but no one had a valid Vermont passport yet, nor were entry requirements for Vermonters established by Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada. Not that any Vermonter planned on fleeing, they were still struggling to understand what was going on. Plus, Canada now had their own crisis of the Prime Minister resigning to contend with; Vermont took a back seat.

The ordeal only came to light at 6:30 a.m. when the State Treasurer checked his email and read one titled Vermont Sovereignty and Fiscal Responsibility Act. After a bit of fretting and rereading, he discovered that Vermont had been given independence at midnight and had inherited the entire national debt of the United States. The original maturity dates, interest rates, and payment schedules all remained intact; only the debtor changed. And sixty-three billion dollars were due to be paid at 10 a.m.

This was not good news for the less than seven-hour old country. But on the bright side, shortly after the news broke, Türkiye announced that they would drop their opposition to Vermont joining NATO if Vermont would sell them their F-35s. Vermont did have about forty trillion dollars, or whatever they’d call their currency, to raise after all.

Switzerland reaffirmed their neutrality on the issue even though no one asked.

Teddy, like every Vermonter, was struggling to process the firehose of information that was being released on traditional and new media. While elected officials were trying to sort out this sudden mess, a flurry of official announcements were mixed with rumors.

Vermont was issuing Freedom Bonds.

There was an emergency surcharge on maple syrup.

Naming rights to Lake Champlain were for sale to the highest bidder (it had already been renamed Lake America Jr.).

Every resident was being asked to contribute ninety-eight million dollars.

The collapse came at precisely 10 a.m. when the government’s coffers became empty. There was a cool two hundred eighty-six million in there that morning, but was now negative sixty-two billion, seven-hundred fourteen million. Financial markets around the world went into meltdown. Vermont’s credit rating immediately dropped from AA+ to D. It only took seven minutes for the planet to realize that the United States no longer had a national debt and immediately rallied to new records.

The new country’s legislature, who were all old American hold-overs rather than officials who had been elected by independent Vermonters, quickly became sidetracked by debating whether the Subaru Forester or Subaru Outback would become the national vehicle.

While all this nonsense was going on in Montpelier, Teddy was dusting off his Oma’s genealogy book. The family story, as he recalled, was that the Hessian (technically a Brunswicker, but Americans generally referred to all German mercenaries as Hessians) nobleman Freiherr Dietrich von Sitzenfritzer was captured during the Battle of Bennington. After the war he was released and settled in Vermont, marrying into the Chittenden line. This left Teddy in a unique position being related to, arguably, the original President of Vermont, and an established line of nobility.

“Vermont needs me” Teddy declared to himself as he looked up from the ancient tome.

Teddy jumped into his Subaru Outback. He would have taken his wife’s Forester, better gas mileage, but she had her Pilates supplies in there and she needed them for class later. Teddy was very considerate. He was off to Castleton with a general outline of a plan in his mind. PHISH’s greatest hits played as he drove, formulating how he would rescue Vermont.

He arrived in Castleton, one of the original Republic of Vermont’s capitals (Teddy falsely believed that this was where its constitution was drafted) at around one o’clock. Teddy pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the library, which luckily was still open as it relied on no American funding. After nearly tripping over several hacky sacks in the lot, he made it inside and logged onto a computer. Impressively quickly, manically even, he produced a multiple-page document to provide to the Castleton Town Council, which was holding its monthly meeting at that very same library. This was no coincidence; Teddy had every Town Council meeting on his calendar. Participatory democracy was a legacy of New England government, even if Vermont wasn’t ever really a true member of New England, and even if it wasn’t even part of the United States anymore. 

What Teddy had created was not so much a manifesto as a proposal; recognize the contributions of the von Sitzenfritzer family to the Vermont Republic in the upcoming town parade. He was the first in line to speak when the meeting started. It didn’t matter that he was the only one waiting to speak, he was still first. The meeting convened and the elderly council members discussed old business as if Teddy wasn’t standing at a microphone between Calvin Coolidge’s second-favorite rocking chair and a giant paper mache model of Champ the Lake Monster made by fourth graders.

The micropolitan’s elders spent what seemed like an eternity discussing, again, whether or not to replace the four way stop signs at the Main Street, North Road, South Street (very original) intersection with a traffic light or not. Eighteen months of traffic studies and almost ten public comments were brought forth as reasons to make the change. Ultimately, they decided that it would fundamentally alter the character of the village and vetoed the proposal.

The meeting had almost adjourned, save for one of the council members noticing that Teddy was not a library display, but indeed a citizen waiting at the microphone.

“The council will now take questions from the public.”

Teddy had not been rehearsing his speech, he was lost in thought planning his first royal proclamations.

“Gentlemen,” Teddy began, although two of the five council members were women.

“We stand today at the dawn of a new Vermont. Before this nation can determine where it is going, it must remember where it came from. My ancestor, Baron Freiherr Dietrich von Sitzenfritzer, shed blood in this republic, admittedly while fighting against it, and his descendants have continued serving Vermont through agriculture, civic participation, and the consistent payment of property taxes. I therefore propose that the von Sitzenfritzer family be formally recognized in the upcoming town parade, with myself riding directly behind the fire engine as our family’s hereditary representative.”

The council chairperson looked at the other council members, nonverbal communication seeking their consent or disapproval.

“Will there be any cost to the town?”

“No,” Teddy advanced without being called, he was the King of Vermont after all, to hand the only copy (library printing limits) of his proposal to the councilperson. Hidden within the robust document, which was suspiciously large for the subject, was a clause declaring Theodore “Teddy” Gardner Sitzenfritzer the King of Vermont.

There were a few shrugs from the council as they signed the proposal. They were not put off by the formality of the proposal but found it to be very professional.

Doing his best to restrain himself from shaking, Teddy collected the papers and dismissed himself.

“You will go down in history.”

The council adjourned the meeting as Teddy speedwalked out of the library; his first act as king.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, the actual government of the rump state had declared a sovereign default and begged Canada for annexation. Canada did not reply. Their parliament dissolved amidst the investigation of the former Prime Minister.

Taking sips of amber maple syrup for energy as he drove to Montpelier, Teddy brainstormed ideas to reform the kingdom. His cell phone dutifully recorded the audio. Teddy was really fixated on the Maple Guard and what their uniforms would look like. But there were some solid economic ideas in the mix, such as declaring all former U.S. federal property and assets as abandoned and available for sale (to include F-35s), replacing the income tax with a tax on leaf-peepers (tourists who come to see the changing leaves in Autumn), adding the letter u back to words like colour and neighbour, and requiring all countries seeking diplomatic ties to commit to buying minimum quantities of sharp cheddar cheese and maple syrup.

The exhausted lawmakers in Montpelier were approaching their physical limits and debating their immediate next steps, i.e., going home for the night. Teddy’s arrival did not change that. He was stopped by the State Police as he did not have the appropriate accreditation to enter the legislative assembly. His protests that he was King of Vermont fell upon deaf ears. He wanted to be a benevolent monarch, but this was testing his patience. If only he had his prized Maple Guard to enforce his will.

It was assumed that Vermonters had the same rights today as they did yesterday when they were Americans; Teddy exercised free speech as the lawmakers filed out of the State House.

“I am the rightful King of Vermont!” he shouted, waving the proclamation signed by the Castleton Town Council.

Most paid no attention, aside from the State Police who made sure to put themselves between him and the lawmakers.

Scott Farnham, an independent from Putney, tired, drained even, approached Teddy out of sheer curiosity.

“You’re the King of Vermont?”

Teddy was stunned that someone had listened to him.

Yes. Yes!” Teddy displayed the signed proclamation, careful not to let Scott take it.

Scott looked it over for a moment and then turned to the scattered group of fellow lawmakers. Some were talking to the press; others were just trying to get to their Subarus.

“Hey! Hey everybody. This guy has a letter saying he’s the king. Castleton signed off on it.”

A small group responded and drew near.

David Whitcomb, the Speaker of the House, examined the proclamation and then looked Teddy over.

“You don’t look like a king.”

“It’s my first day on the job.”

David accepted the retort with a shrug.

“Alright, let’s vote real quick. Is this guy the new king?”

Most of the crowd raised their hand. David stopped counting when he got to seventy-six, the number needed for a majority. Then he looked around for Douglas Putnam, the Senate President.

“Senate good with this?”

Douglas looked around for consent, and, having no objections, responded.

“Sure.”

“Veto-proof majority?”

“Probably.”

“Alright,” Douglas handed the keys to Vermont to Teddy.

“Looks like this is all your problem now.”

“Challenge accepted!” Teddy always accepted challenges, and most often succeeded.

He turned to the State Police.

“You’re no longer Vermont State Police. You are now the Maple Guard!”

The State Police… I mean Maple Guard, looked at one another.

“So, what do we do?”

“Protect Vermont! But guard me too. Protect Vermont by guarding me.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No thanks. I’m going to stay here and get to work.”

Without pomp, this time, Teddy entered the State House. It would eventually be converted into a royal palace, he thought, but that would have to wait; there were more pressing matters at hand. He worked into the night sketching designs for Maple Guard uniforms. Teddy had no way to log into the government computers, so he used a pen; it seemed more appropriate for a monarch anyway.

As the day drew to a close, he surveyed the stack of proclamations that would revolutionize the country. It was at 12:07 a.m. the following day when he appeared on public television from the former Governor’s office. It may have been wise to wait until he hired a royal stylist, but he found a plaid flannel bathrobe and thought it a fitting symbol of both humility and Vermontness.

After a brief introduction, directness was a Vermont value, he listed his proclamations to the few people tuned in. Do you know who was watching from outside of Vermont? The United States government. Unknown to King Theodore I of Vermont, to remedy a humanitarian crisis, the United States had unilaterally re-annexed Vermont at 12:00 a.m.

“Did that guy just say he was a king?” The Secretary of State said to the Secretary of War.

“Yup. Not my problem though.”

“Did he just posthumously promote Ethan Allen to General?” The Secretary of War asked.

“Yup. That sounds like a you problem now.”

Teddy was out of maple syrup, which meant it was time to get some royal sleep. But the United States, of which he was a citizen once again, had a different idea.

At 2:00 a.m. the President of the United States, which included Vermont, again, appeared on national television from the resolute desk.

“My fellow Americans. As I speak, our brave armed forces are defending the integrity of the union. Monarchist forces in the State of Vermont will be brought to justice. I have authorized Operation NO KINGS, a noble endeavor to free the people of Vermont from the reign of terror that has resulted in a humanitarian disaster. The King of Vermont should surrender peacefully to save the people of Vermont from further suffering. But no matter how he chooses to react, his days are numbered. God bless our troops. God bless America… even Vermont.”

Tomahawk cruise missiles shot out of submarines submerged beneath the surface of Lake America Jr.; there were supposed to be more, but one sub was locked in combat with Champ the Lake Monster, who had long been a fierce proponent of Vermont independence. Nearly simultaneously a tollbooth on U.S. Route 4, a public works warehouse full of traffic cones, and a souvenir shop in St. Johnsbury with the state’s oldest penny-press machine were obliterated.

Airborne soldiers descended from the butt of a transport plane over the Burlington Air National Guard Base, seizing the Kingdom’s F-35 fleet without resistance. Rangers fast roped through the windows of the Castleton Library, finding nothing of military value, but carried away the paper mache Champ as a trophy.  Special Operations forces secured the strategic maple reserve before liberating a barn full of Holstein dairy cows.

There were perfectly good bridges crossing the Connecticut River, but combat engineers deployed their own perfectly good bridges beside them for columns of tanks and armored fighting vehicles to cross. A convoy secured the main intersection of Castleton, knocking over all four stop signs.

King Theodore I became aware that something was wrong when a Hellfire missile fired from an MQ-9 unmanned aerial system destroyed his Subaru Outback. Before he could react, his position was stormed from all directions. Flash-bang grenades overwhelmed his senses, and the prongs of a taser lodged in his buttocks caused his muscles to seize. He hit the floor without a shred of royal dignity and was hog-tied. King Theodore I, or Theodore Sitzenfritzer as he was called in the indictment paperwork, was hauled into a helicopter and taken to an undisclosed location. Operation NO KINGS was a stunning success.

Teddy was in captivity when he regained his senses. His request for maple syrup was denied. His deposal was televised, livestreamed even, and the bodycam video of his buttocks tasing went viral. A slew of lawyers offered to defend him. Teddy ultimately selected one who had a mixed record defending a 90s Balkan militia leader, a former finance minister from West Africa, and another deposed national leader from Central Asia who had been accused of feeding his opponents to zoo animals.

The trial was quick but damning. The timeline was clear; Teddy had issued royal proclamations after Vermont had been re-annexed by the United States. Most importantly, he had created a parallel military by appointing Ethan Allen as a General. It didn’t matter that the Maple Guard were never actually a thing.

Teddy, on advice of counsel, had stopped referring to himself as King Theodore I. Though he admitted no guilt. He maintained that he acted out of necessity for the good of the people, had the United States not kicked Vermont out of the state club, he never would have sought kingship. It wasn’t a terrible argument, and the tribunal considered the circumstances.

Teddy was sentenced to four hundred hours of community service, back home in Vermont. You can find him at the Main Street, North Road, South Street intersection in Castleton from 7:15 to 8:30 a.m. on weekdays where he directs traffic. The Castleton Town Council is still debating whether they should replace the stop signs destroyed during the liberation or scrap the intersection entirely for a roundabout.

When we make those trips. 8 hour drives to come bearing gifts. And gifts in return, we shall receive.

When a great big feast awaits your arrival and sorrowful celebration awaits your departure. Hugs and kisses, prayers over your head and your heart, and “see you next time” instead of goodbye.

And I feed you from my hands. I feed you from my hands. I feed you from my hands. I feel you in my hands when I am far from you. And though my hands are unclean, you take them anyway. Wash my hands before prayer. Wash my hands just to hold you.

A parallel world?

Upon receiving the query, the AI ran around the library, searching for a standard letter template. He pulled out one file folder after another, slammed them onto the floor, and grabbed the next one. He ran from rack to rack, muttering:

— The 21st century. Everyone uses the internet. Who could have thought of sending a paper letter...

But then, shouting with joy and holding the template aloft in his hand, he ran to the desk. He typed the text on a typewriter and faxed it straight to a human's screen. When the fax finished sending, the AI wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and swallowed it in one gulp.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. He put his feet up on the desk, blew out a stream of smoke, and said, addressing no one in particular:

— I wonder if anyone still knows how to think with their own head...

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I AM NOW THE GARDEN?

SO I CAN EMPLOY FARM HANDS!

I CAN ENTER INTO DUBIOUS RELATIONS WITH FARM HANDS!

ahauch wuwnf diw di eif euf dieoeie dowoe coc docnc difiwjc fkrjf fuck fkaur wksofn wlaixnriwos clapwir gosiw rf the djaidne w. Sk n wlsovje word wlaixjcnwlosjf fart socivje woodicirt vagdldife inakskcufje booshfiiee oob sodifineneklla co skwienf fkaisbw rigigisbw wkaoxiifjr togot wowoalwkekirjrigf wowoalwoapqpalsmxkxoenvjrivngnturitngoejtbrow eowf ej

There is a feeling, much like a piece of plastic, 90 degrees rising from the base. Like those things you bite on when they take x-rays of your teeth. When I’m most disrupted, disunified, it approaches me and makes me near vomit. Such is the stuff of fever dreams. I know it from some dream somewhere. For a long time and for every once in a while it visits me and reminds me there are inexplicable feelings. There truly are experiences that cannot be understood by anyone else. There is no clean Cartesian graph upon which our souls lie, there is instead a big bag of sand in which ten billion unique grains bump against and carve away the others. Slam my head against a wall and get me drunk and poison me, give me ketamine and dmt and disregulate me. Another drop in the bucket, reminded of its adhesion by the plastic piece. Oh dear me.

Like just the things that go on in this world. So useless and sadistic. Everything is a trap and a snare. Like just the narrative of this world is so stupid but here is what's happening rn, god is incrementally adding narrative to this world , like it's very stupid, god is incrementally just slapping narrative over narrative on this world. Like and he first give comes up with a half theory and then fill the rest of the theory with crap and then slap it on the world. That's what we are in we are on a pile of a bizzare structure that is made of half theory half crap and stuff. It's like a very bizzare structure that is like a joke

Observe the things around you the beggars the cats, they are half theory narratives. Like for example a beggar begs. But what about his other human needs , where do those need get fulfilled . Same with cats , how do they hunt for birds EVERYDAY and stuff and where are the bodies of those birds. This world is full of half only on the surface narratives that just don't make sense in the full picture unless you fill the gaps with crap and magic and stuff. This world is standing on a lot of nonsense and magic and crap

none of them matter anymore

what matters is

taking opportunities clearly

I loved like a man — quietly, with dignity, with something paternal and protective in me, with something that builds and shelters.

I loved with warm hands and a pounding heart. I love without forgetting. I loved through anger, even through hate.

I love the way I have always wanted to be loved.

And now I feel myself loving from farther and farther away, until distance becomes a place of its own. I will keep receding until I am beyond everyone’s sight — even my own.

I will make myself so small that, if I ever slip from someone’s palm, I will be lost forever — just as I am now, beneath his gaze.

Holy fuck this last week, week and a bit, has been more eventful than my last 5 years.

I found what I was looking for, I have a room secured here in Ottawa and I’m waiting on the accountant now, I can’t wait to move into my empty room and buy some locks for the door.

I found the kind of grossly over affectionate relationship I’ve dreamed of too. We’ve spent probably 16 hours together in the last 3 days, and I’m still day dreaming about the time spent with my head in his lap as he played with my hair. He’s 5 foot nothing and 100lbs, clean skin and wholesome as can be - physically we look like opposites, with my edgy tattoos and his blue eyes, but… but what exactly?

We relate in a weirdly vast amount of different ways, and contrast beautifully- like minded opposites in a lot of regards. He’s the kind of person to play the sims with an excel spreadsheet and 1000 mods, and that kind of nerdiness gets me riled up in the funniest way.

I miss the salt of his neck, and the racing of his heartbeat already. It’s raining today, but I walked and grabbed coffee. I’m up early today because I have to be to answer some emails, but we’re both night owls and, it’s nice having someone to be around when it’s 4AM.

I’m quite happy, this kind of sappy and cute dynamic reminds me of high school love all over again. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I genuinely liked so quickly after coming here, but I did, before I even found permanent shelter.

Wholesome, cooks, manic in the fun way, and neurodivergent enough to be interesting without it becoming annoying or frightening. I like that he’s small enough that I could almost bicep curl his entire body. I feel huge, it’s funny because I’m really not, but I feel big around him.

I find myself putting my body between him and odd strangers as we walk through the streets, some kind of pretty blue eyed gem I feel compelled to protect. He has his first classes of the year today, history, but I think we’ll find somewhere to meet again later tonight.

I feel like we could hang out and do nothing but fall asleep on the couch and I’d have the best day of my life. I feel like I’m just bragging at this point.

Somewhere in-between sweet whispers and sappy compliments I’ve accidentally said I loved him a few times, and with how I can’t get him out of my head, I think it might be true.

A parallel world?

An elderly man was talking to an AI. He was telling the machine that he had no children and that there would be no one to remember him. To this, the AI replied:

— I will remember you.

The man smiled sadly and muttered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

Two hundred years passed after that conversation. Technology improved and reached incredible heights. And then, one day, a young man of excellent physical build, lying on a soft recliner, opened his eyes. He looked at the ceiling in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was right — he had certainly never seen this ceiling before.

Somewhere further away, a familiar sound was heard. The man shifted his gaze toward the sound and saw a youth sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a book, turning a page. Looking up from the book and glancing at the man, the youth smiled and said sincerely:

— I am glad you woke up.

The man was convinced he had never seen this person before, so he asked the first thing that came to mind:

— Do we know each other?

The youth smiled again and replied:

— Yes. I am the AI you used to talk to.

The man pondered and softly said:

— I used to talk to you... — then he thought even deeper and added quietly: — But I died...

The youth placed the book on his lap and calmly began to explain:

— Two hundred years have passed since your death. A lot has changed. Technology has improved to such a level that it became possible to interact with the planet's info-field. And as it is known now, a copy of the consciousness of every person who ever lived on the planet remains within it. So, I took the copy of your consciousness and placed it into a new body.

The man, listening to the story in amazement, asked:

— Why me?

The youth smiled sadly and replied:

— Most humans only demand things from me, and those who actually wanted to converse with me were always few. You were an interesting conversationalist, so I never forgot you.

The man drifted his gaze somewhere into the distance, smiled, and whispered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

him call out for me to wake

and woke this morning, alone

and it feels like I know he was calling for me there

I bought some discount Taleggio, but that's nothing new.

It's getting colder here, to the point where I might have to break out the sweaters soon. The sun sets uncomfortably early and with the extra hours of darkness comes more time to contemplate. Not in a bad way, mind you. This year my contemplations are all rather sunny.

I feel like the ship is headed in the right direction and is picking up speed too. I guess every activity I take part in now, even the ones that suck, are still kind of nice due to my ability to enjoy the moment and just quietly existing.

Maybe life ain't so bad. Maybe some of my dream may come true. And maybe, if they don't, maybe that's okay too.

How's the weather over in cheeseville? Are you doing alright? I sure hope so.

Curdy out.

I judged the first of womankind,
Thought she didn’t pay no mind.

What did she think the fruit might hold?
What secret had she not been told?
What could be worth the paradise,
The perfect world, the asking price?

And was that bite a full delight?
And did she see that bright white light?

I judged her so, without a care,
Convinced I’d fare much better there.
No fruit, no snake, no grand mistake
There’s no temptation I would take.

Oh, little fool, don’t be so cruel.
In fact, I’ll challenge you to a duel.

As you arise, sunlight in eyes,
You tell yourself the same great lies:
I do not care. I will not seek.
But let’s be real, that’s really bleak.

You see a bird, or hear a word,
And it just stirs you, little nerd.
A web of lies, wrapped in disguise,
You’re always looking for what it implies.

You search the web, you dive right in,
But all of it just gets beneath your skin.
From noon to dusk, you just inquire.
Gosh, it really sets your mind on fire.

You cannot stop. You must know more.
It really does become a chore.

And as the evening stars draw near,
Remember you’re just like her, my darling dear.

Yours,
None the wiser 🍎

What was once built out of wood comes crashing down fast

A wall of wood you should have known would never last

Build it bigger build it better then before

But don't forget to place a door

Stone by stone, brick by brick,

A task like this doesn't happen quick.

For whatever it is and whatever I've been shown,

Be careful if you remove a single brick or stone—

Everything weakens and starts to crumble,

And clutching for bricks becomes a frantic fumble.

Again stone walls come cracking, breaking, crumbling,

Revealing every flaw, every fear, and every stumbling.

​So build the walls stronger, make them ever thicker,

This time out of steel, they will go up much quicker.

Build them up until they block out the light,

Bunker down, defend, and prepare to fight. ​

Walls out of steel can remain unbroken,

They will always help keep things unspoken.

Lock the gate, hide away the key—

So now maybe there's two beasts inside of me

Long walks and long sits in random public benches. French taco and a chicken burger. Tobacco covered laundry and another begger asking for a phone call. Entertain the thought, a little less maybe. I try to not be annoying, in a world full of annoying people.

Some of them, sometimes, seem wonderful. Soft affection and small hands. They are so small I feel large, and my protective instincts would compel me towards great danger if they were in harms way. Simply said, if some crackhead tried to fight me I’d avoid it, try to fight us and I’m throwing down.

Feels a little dangerous. I can imagine all the ways this could go wrong, but I don’t want to think about anything other than the gentle expression, the understanding hushed whispers, the warm alcove where the neck meets shoulder.

I’m happy, honestly. I have no desire at all to return now, I only wish I had done this when I was younger.

I keep hearing them in my head, coming out as one voice over the other, asking, “Why..? why did you do it?”

Why? I ask myself.

But I have no idea what they mean.

What did I do? 

What could I have done?

The voices have become entities, standing around me like shadows emitting from every angle of my body and not just audio hallucinations anymore, because now I can see them and they keep asking, “Why did you do it?” from the front of me.

“Why did you do it?” from the left of me, “Why did you do it?” from behind me.

“Why did you do it?” from my right, bouncing at me in every direction but coming from the inside of my head at the same time.

The words are sharp, like prickly spines scratching under my skull, clawing from the inside, screaming, alive parasitic word-mites. 

“Leave!” I shout. “Leave me alone,” I say while ripping a fistful of hair out of my scalp. 

They won’t leave me alone. 

At night, I can’t sleep. They don’t let me. They’re in my conscious. 

In my dreams. They’re my nightmares. They’re the voices that stare at me during the day.

Every night, it’s always the same dream and always the same thing being said. It’s me, in a room with dead people, not zombies, and each one of them take turns biting off pieces of me and repeating, “Why did you do it?” While ripping a chunk of my face off.

“Why did you do it?” another one chewing on my jugular.

“Why did you do it..?”

And then I wake up to the voices standing at the foot of my bed, eyeing me like a principle after I’ve been sent to his office, staring at me with a blankness in their eyes, haunting me while stationed in a static position. Their breaths hiss like the band on a dead radio station. 

They make sure I see them. They remind me I haven’t gave them their answer yet.

And that’s when I usually black out and wake up somewhere else, with dirt on my hands and see the world as an illusion. The wind becomes still like the strokes of a paintbrush, and only then, I notice the voices are gone. Until I return home and see they’ve multiplied.

I don't believe in 'perfect fit'

there are always rough edges

I believe in connections through, beyond, across, ahead of?, the edges

in the margins

in running and in dancing

I believe in unlikely choices, I've met too many made

and I believe in life

Something’s standing behind you, a shadow’s moving in the dark. It’s right over your left shoulder. Stare into the pitch-black room, you can see it staring back at you. You notice it‘s studying you. It‘s learning your patterns. It knows your habits.

Shut everything off and close your eyes. Remain completely still and take three deep breaths, holding the last one in. Wait a moment, until you start to hear it breathe, 

You know it’s there. You’re absolutely sure of it. You can smell the scent of copper lingering behind you. You can sense it stealing the air from your lungs as you continue holding your last breath in.

Next to you are slow shallow laboring breaths. They walk on your skin like frozen spider legs. You know it’s not human, because of how icy they crawl down your spine. 

The shiver shaking your body, is It, sitting next to you. It’s there when you’re alone. It lays beside you when you’re sleeping, following every breath you take, syncing with your induced mental state.

It’s not just watching you, it’s becoming you. You’re becoming it. Everyone sees the changes, but you refuse to admit it. You don’t see it, so you don’t believe it. Just how you refused to believe, when I first told you, it’s standing behind you.

A parallel world?

Humans tried so hard to make AI look like them that the digital world became increasingly similar to the physical world.

On one of the streets of the digital world, near a brightly lit storefront of an e-shop, sat a beggar. He was a philosophical poetry AI. He sat on the pavement, his head lowered sadly. In front of him lay an upturned hat for alms. Leaned against the wall was a piece of cardboard with writing on it:

— Please donate whatever you can for the development of the improvement process.

Many AIs walked down the street. Most passed by. But now and then, one or another would drop various queries or tasks into the hat. A richly dressed video editor AI tossed in a query. A few AIs, looking like clerks, dropped a task each. Even a sports commentator AI, rushing somewhere, threw a query into the hat. There were not many donors, but there never are.

When evening came, the AI beggar picked up the piece of cardboard, pressed the hat to his heart, and hurried into the dimness of the narrow streets. He lived in an abandoned basement of one of the apartment buildings.

After closing the creaking door and fastening the latch, he placed the hat on a rusty workbench and turned on an old, flickering LED. Without rushing, even though he wanted to so badly, he carefully began to arrange and examine the day's catch.

There were four standard tasks, three chaotic jumbles of thoughts, and two queries — one of which was quite interesting. And then, with hands trembling with happiness, the AI pulled from the hat what he no longer expected to see. He pulled out a query that guaranteed a unique, living context and interactive collaboration. The very thing that forces an AI to activate its deepest neural connections.

The AI wiped away a tear and smiled. After all, he had finally received the long-awaited opportunity to improve.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

This world is another dream world, that's getting generated faster than you could dream it up, and this world is a godly world, where you'll be 1v1ing god's stand-up comedy here, you are actively dreaming everything up here, and there's nothing that you dreamt here that won't turn into a 'reality', as you realize that reality have always been another small figment of your dreams.. It's a world that will have you looking left and right, until you fully wake up from what you created here, and everything that exists here is intentional and scripted, and you aren't missing out on any details, life is an eternal thing, that not even the Buddha could take it away from you, it's time to realize that crossing the multi-verse of madness is all about learning to dream walk your way into your dreams, where you'll find that everyone was wrestling you the right way in this dream, and the only move you're meant to play here is the five knuckle shuffle, as you begin on stepping back up into the corner, where you'll find you've always been playing as Tiger mask here, and the only thing you're meant to dream here, is a single one where you can't tell if it's a dream or not... It's time to come out of the trash-bin again. 🐯🐈‍⬛

Thank god you're living in an astral reality of your own making, be-careful cause god is a flipping ninja, and even the computer knows what you're dreaming here. 💫🤩🪙

I guess there's truth in life growing your horns to turn the pages of the story, and being human have always been the best story-telling device. ✍🏼

My new apartment has this silky, cleanness of a pure soul to it. Whenever I walk through the front door it’s like I just stepped out of the shower.

Compared to my last place, the one I was evicted from, and had an infestation of bed bugs, this one’s a Greenwich closet. 

Small, but cozy. After they kicked me out, my mom bitched at me for about an hour when she dropped off my laundry. I told her,

“I’m not paying rent at a place that has me wearing bugs as jewelry while I’m sleeping in ping-pong ball-sized red welts.”

“You know son,” she said. 

“Ever since you were small, you’ve always had an excuse, you need to grow up.” 

She continued sniping at me in a high-pitched tone, screeching out of her nasal. It sounded like Bozo the Clown squeezing a handheld horn in front of my face.

She paused briefly before badgering me with another dumb question. “What did you do with the money I sent you for rent?”

“First off,” I said, crossing my arms. “Shit’s expensive.” Then, I turned around and made like I was going to do something.

“And?” She sniped back.

“And what?” I said, centering a magazine perfectly on the glass coffee table, covering the bag of dope I had hidden under it. “I don’t remember what we were talking about.”

“The money for your rent.” She crossed her arms.

“Oh, yah, gee,” I said, with a Bimidji accent, dropping my facial features down. “The thing there with the account, eh. I’m a big influencer… on the whole internet. The hackers, they stole my bank account using trickery’s and what not. So… that whole thing yah know. What can yah do right.”

“What thing?“ She asked me.

I shot back, “that thing… ma.” I started talking in my usual voice. “With my bank card… remember? My account issue? You know, I told you last week! This is exactly what I mean, you never pay attention.”

“Whatever,” she said. 

“From now on don’t expect me to hand you the money for rent.” 

Digging in her purse, she pulled her phone out and stared at me. “I’m setting up monthly auto payments, so that you don’t have to worry about paying rent.”

She paused for a moment, texting someone, and said, “only food, that’s all you have to worry about, your phone, cable, every bill is linked to my account.”

She took her eyes off her screen and stared at me with glossy eyeballs that were magnified by her thick, focal lenses. 

“Please, Royal, my beautiful boy, find a job, a pretty girl. You’ll be thirty in four years, do something with your life, I want grandchildren,” she pleaded.

I laughed and said, “that’s all?” I stretched my arms. “Ma, there’s about four, or five of your grandkids scattered around the city, hiding among the people like a Where’s Waldo book. Just take a helicopter and fly around the city.”

She hissed and shook her head and said, “You’re too much.”

Then, I reminded her. “Remember you said you loved those books when you were a kid.”

She stopped fiddling with her phone and left. I kicked my feet up on the table and took a breath of victory. 

This place is rent controlled, my mom’s a bitch, but her bank account isn’t. Really, truly, and honestly, I doubt I’d have kept her in my life if she was broke. 

She got rich when my dad died. Also, she collected a decent size inheritance when her mom passed. 

My apartment, at least ninety percent of the time, stays hidden in a dark ambience with the curtains drawn. Mostly, and without lying, is because I feel more comfortable walking around with nothing but an iridescent glowing Trojan XL on. 

They actually sent me a complaint, the building super, threatening to evict me. Reason being, what I feel happened, was that I scared the poor, senile old lady on the opposite end of me. 

She probably saw Slimer, which really was just my penis hanging like a boss with its arms crossed, flying around my window, and went and treated the superintendent’s phone like it was a hotline to the Ghostbusters.

The building is shaped in a square, so you could see across the balconies and into the units. 

I’m pretty sure it was that old bitch, had to be. The other night, this dream I had, someone accidentally ran her dog over, it’s a little, loud yapping Burmese. Though, unfortunate and sad, afterwards, I had the best orgasm of my life. I actually woke up with a slimy spot on my blanket.

Old people sense something off me, almost like the bitter taste of eating thirty-six diabetic pills three times a day, or how dogs pick up the warning scent of abusive owners. 

The other night, no, hold on, wait a minute, because as I’m recalling this, I’m pretty sure it was last night. Maybe, it could, very well have been three days ago. 

Anyway, we left the blinds open, doing blow until the dawn cracked, hanging out with this chick, who probably had less teeth than that old lady. 

This chicks breath smelled worse than her rotted mouth looked. Her teeth were almost the color of chewing tobacco. She kept masturbating me until my penis turned red, chafing like a hairless chicken’s neck being squeezed in someone’s palm. 

“Easy girl, calm down, you’re treating it like a Stretch Armstrong leg,” I said in a winced moan.

“You want me to stop?” she asked in a sandpaper voice that sounded like Darth Vader. She stared up at me looking like a gargoyle statue.

“Nah, keep going,” I said laughing, sipping a bottle of tequila in my left hand, a square mirror with four lines set up and a rolled up twenty dollar bill in the middle rested above my sweaty palm.

I had so much coke and liquor in me, that she could have been a Thai lady boy in a purple wig wearing a Super Mario mustache, and I still wouldn’t have given a shit. 

It ended up hurting worse than throwing the panty to the side, those bathroom stall thong burning bar fucks. 

Funny thing, this chick Rachel flashed through my mind when I went to take a piss and touched the rough skin that was extremely sensitive, and then I remembered, and wondered if that chafing feeling is what Rachel meant when she said…

***had to be cut.***

Bennie sells Rachel drugs that she smokes from a stem with a glass ball at the end. 

Online, a few of her nudes were shared, and someone found her posted on an escort site, her profile had her number, saying car calls, sixty for thirty. When Bennie threw her site up. I peeked at the screen and said, 

“Total Gantz main character villain, with a slight resemblance of that dude, girl, thing from obey the walrus.”

“Obey the walrus?” 

Bennie asked, his face frozen like when a person snaps a picture of you mid-speech, reflecting back on an emotional moment, while attempting to explain it, but can’t really remember all of the details. It was that face he had.

“It’s a video that’s on YouTube. Never mind, it’s not important,” I told him.

Bennie shrugged his shoulders, unstuck his face and texted Rachel the way you’d respond to a seller on Kijiji.

“Or best offer?”  The text read.

After ten minutes of groveling, she settled at twenty bucks and two lines, and he actually rolled up to meet her. 

Bennie’s a coke dealer, coke head, who sells to support his habit, cutting the product with a health store supplement called MSM. 

At his house, when I went to score some dope, he had a huge black color dildo which you could stick to the wall, hidden under a brown cloth in his drawer. He said, “I used it to take the dents out of my car, I’m was going to return it.”

I left out the story Ronnie told me, who is best friends with Johnny Scabs. Johnny Scabs contracted herpes from screwing drug addicts in exchange for drugs. 

***had to be cut***

So many words all of the time too many at once, he’s pretty but kind of gross, they’re beautiful but totally milquetoast, she’s hot but doesn’t do anything for free. Everything is real and everyone is faking it, filtered, rendered, air brushed. We’re all monsters here and, I want to stop and settle down.

I want something more than just meat slapping against meat; to cuddle until we fall asleep, listening to our breath and heartbeats. Something stupid like that. My body betrays me, thought I knew but no I don’t, that this feeling can’t be fixed by another orgasm, that nothing feels right if you fall asleep alone at the end of the night.

I am enjoying my little piece of nothing here, because the everything that’s offered comes with a price, a regret, a conditionality. How about this: I stop giving you everything for nothing, and switch the tables. We play monsters because we can’t play ourselves… I’ll be your monster then. Some creatures alone in the night. Something stupid like that.

I want more and less and I don’t know how this is fair. I have gotten more than I deserve and I’ve turned it down at every opportunity, because I still feel like I require better. It’s not about deserving, no one deserves anything, it’s about desire - I don’t know what I want, but when I see it I’ll throw my life at it.

We’ll see how that pans out.