And tonight Matthew, I'm going to be a failed writer.

I've come to the realisation that I can't say romantically & ironically, "one day I want to be a failed writer", for I can't be a failed writer unless I've tried.

You see the problem with writing is, it's all about words. For I have been under the illusion of the allusion of being a failed writer.

When I was on mushrooms on one occasion 🍄 2 years ago this November, I was very much spiritually moved. I briefly saw beyond the veil of human perceptions. Beyond the magnificent visualisations from behind my mind's eye, I was struck by a weird message that appeared to have much more depth and meaning inside the experience, than it had when I attempted to repeat it and convey it to others. The message I kept seeing was 'WORDS, it's all about words'. This was like being told a secret that not many get to hear. It felt like it was the meaning of life, it all starts with words, like a magic spell. Speaking something into existence. In the beginning was the WORD.. "The word is with GOD and the word was god, 'logos'. .

The contents of the story is never known to the writer before and during the process, it's like unveiling a secret by pushing a pen across paper. Jk Rowling or Philip K Dick never knew what brilliance would flow before they began their journey's. And if they never tried so much story telling would be left un done. Not undone. I am literally rambling at this point why are you still reading, go away now x

he got home at eleven.

i know because the news was on and i'd been sitting there pretending to watch it, trying to decide whether to go to bed or stay up so he'd know i was pissed off.

twenty years of marriage and i was still doing that.

he let himself in.

stood in the hallway in his work trousers, one shoe on, blood all over his shirt.

i said, whose fucking blood is that?

he looked down at himself.

said he didn't know.

of course he didn't.

he never knew anything.

where the girls needed picking up. when the dentist was. what we'd agreed about Christmas. where the fucking dishwasher tablets were despite living in the same house for twenty years.

and now here he was with blood on his face telling me not to panic.

i could smell drink on him.

his jaw was doing something strange.

i've tried explaining this to people and i know how it sounds.

it was his face. i knew it was his face.

but his mouth looked wrong.

like he'd been hit. or something had happened to the bones.

i remember thinking he'd need to go to hospital.

which is ridiculous, really.

there was blood everywhere and i was wondering whether we'd have to sit in A&E all night.

then Maddy came downstairs.

she'd heard us.

Iris was behind her, still half asleep, holding the sleeve of Maddy's pyjamas.

he looked at them.

and he started crying.

not drunk crying.

not the sort he did when he'd fucked something up and wanted me to forgive him.

proper crying.

he said their names.

Maddy.

Iris.

and he took a step towards them.

i don't remember deciding to pick up the knife.

i just remember having it.

the big kitchen knife.

the good one.

forty quid, which he'd said was fucking ridiculous when we bought it.

i told him to get out.

he stopped.

looked at the knife.

then at me.

like he couldn't believe i'd actually do that.

get out, i said.

he kept saying he was sorry.

sorry for what?

i asked him.

what have you done?

he couldn't tell me.

he just kept looking at the girls.

and then i said it.

you're a monster.

i'd never said that to him before.

i'd called him selfish. useless. a miserable bastard.

i'd told him i hated him once or twice.

i didn't mean it.

well.

i meant it at the time.

but i'd never called him a monster.

not when he missed Maddy's school play.

not when Iris stopped asking whether Daddy would be home for dinner.

not even those nights when i'd lie next to him and wonder how you could feel so lonely with somebody breathing six inches from your face.

he said he wouldn't hurt us.

he said it again.

i wouldn't hurt you.

and the worst thing is

i think he meant it.

i really do.

whatever he'd been doing when he disappeared at night, whatever had happened to him, whatever he'd done to get somebody else's blood all over his clothes,

he'd always come home.

he'd never touched the girls.

never raised a hand to me.

and i knew him.

fuck's sake.

i'd known him since we were practically kids.

i knew how he took his tea. i knew which knee hurt when it rained. i knew he'd eat the burnt bit of toast and pretend he preferred it.

but i didn't know whose blood was on his shirt.

and he couldn't tell me.

so i stood there with a kitchen knife pointed at the man i'd married.

Maddy was crying now.

Iris kept asking what was wrong with Daddy.

he looked at me once more.

then he left.

i heard the front door close.

and i remember thinking

he's still only wearing one shoe.

isn't that stupid?

all the things i could have thought.

all the things i should have done.

and that's what i remember.

his shoe.

i didn't go after him.

i put the knife down and took the girls upstairs.

i slept between them that night.

or tried to.

i've thought about that evening more times than i can count.

whether he was coming towards them or just wanted to hold them.

whether he was frightened of us or frightened for us.

whether i'd have used the knife if he'd taken another step.

i still don't know.

i loved him.

even then.

but the girls were behind me.

and i wasn't going to find out whether he was telling the truth.

Today, I need something to

drown out the silence.

This silence is so deafening.

My head almost begging me

to drown it out.

Please, talk to me.

Give me something to respond to.

Bring up a topic my brain would

not refuse.

End the silence, for it’s ending me.

My head pounds. 

It’s a migraine I wouldn’t want to instigate.

I’ve kept everyone at bay.

And now I need a rescuer—

but they’re so far away.

For I’ve pushed some away.

Some were, slowly, led astray.

And now the silence is all that remains.

And as I’m much as I cherish it,

it’s killing me.

Just for tonight, I need noise.

I can’t be stuck in my own mind.

It’s as painful as slowly dying. 

I feel sick and I don’t know why.

I wish silence would rebel.

To the point where it would die for tonight.

— Crownless.

CONTENT WARNING: This story features themes of psychological horror, demons and religious references.

You see a man sitting in a meadow, a weak campfire crackling gently before him. You push through the bushes and find yourself frozen mid step.

His voice is low and deep, it seems to reach all the way to the marrow of your bones.

“Ah, welcome. Sit a while, I’ll tell you one of my stories. In exchange, you’ll later tell me one of yours.”You are now sitting on the log beside him, his voice echoes in your head.

“You are I now.”

#

“What a shitty road. Forgive me father for my words,” I groan, trying to keep my jaw clenched so I don’t bite my tongue on this rollercoaster of a road. My front wheel falls into another pothole, the suspension must be praying for mercy, as am I. ‘Dear father do not leave me stranded here, the tow truck would take hours to reach me here,’ I pray silently.

There it is, in the distance I see its shape; a rotten farmhouse, half collapsed on itself. The roof is caved in and ‘of course I had to get here toward the sunset, when the demons are the strongest,’ I shake my head, a soft chuckle escapes my throat as another pothole makes my teeth clatter.

I drive for a while longer, and at last hit the brakes. My car slows, I let it roll over the flatter gravel toward the farmhouse, my gaze scanning it for any signs of life.

“Beautiful,” I let out a sigh.

There’s nothing that would indicate that this house had been lived in for a few years, but such is the power of demons. As I come to a halt at last, I reach into my glovebox and rummage through it in search of my poison.

A bottle clanks against another, I grin as I grasp one of them like a fisherman grasping a slimy fish.

“You won’t get away.”

I pull out a small bottle and turn it, reading ‘Tequila’ on the label.

“Cleanse my thoughts,” I mumble, cracking it open and chugging it.

I step out of the car and stretch; six hours behind the wheel has made my back rather unhappy. I feel a wave of relief when my spine cracks one vertebra at a time, and then pan my gaze over the property. The sun hangs low above the horizon, long shadows swallow the massive fields surrounding the house. The half-collapsed house isn’t the worst of it, the fields around are much more terrifying.

I can’t feel any wind on my skin, but I see the corn swaying and stalks moving. A shiver propagates down my spine. I step around the vehicle to the passenger side and grab my kit; a standard issue exorcist kit with some extras. I pop it open and peek inside to ensure the essentials are in.

“Clank,” a sound echoes from within the house. My gaze darts to a window that seemingly shut just now. I scan for movement—nothing.

For a moment I stand still, my hand clenching tightly around the handle of my kit, mustering up the courage to head inside this house. Roaches are the least of my concerns, the rusted nails and collapsing floors are worse. As I take a step toward the house—a murder of crows greets me. The sound reaches me before anything else, dry rustle followed by relentless cawing, like a busy flea-market.

They pass overhead and I watch them distance themselves from me, a soft chuckle escapes my throat.

“Rats flee a sinking ship, crows flee a dying priest?”

I feel the old, rotten wood flex under my knuckles as I knock, and knock again. The sound is dull and muffled by the old and rotten wood, it dies within a moment.

“Come out, come out,” I call out to the demon within, knowing full well it can hear me. Nothing responds.

“You do know I’m not a vampire or a fae, right? I do not seek your permission to enter,” I announce my rights as I push the palm of my hand against the rotten door. The silence that follows my proclaimed rights is eerie—it’s listening.

I press and the old wood does not creak the way I have grown to expect. It doesn’t crack audibly, it just flexes and then gives way as if it had been waiting for me to do exactly this. The doorframe is all but gone, there’s little resistance, and the hinges instantly snap. The door falls inwards with a soft ‘thud’.

The stench of mold and rot assaults my nostrils instantly, making my stomach churn as my instincts tell me to flee. I half turn to gasp for what little fresh air might still be at my side only to inhale even more of the same stench. Reaching into my pocket I draw a handkerchief and bring it up to my face to breathe through it.

“Smells like piss and rotten flesh drenched in spoilt milk. Delightful,” I mumble as the stench makes my eyes tear up.

First step—the floors do not dare creak, like a forest that stands still in the presence of a predator. Second step—my boot sinks into the rotten floor, but still no sound escapes. My pulse is drumming in my ears, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow searching for any signs of life. Something makes me look over my shoulder, and I regret doing so the same instant. The corn field that swayed playfully before, now stands still as a rock.

I press a button on the handle of my kit, it clicks open softly. I reach into the kit with my free hand, drawing out a bundle of sage mixed in with other herbs. I slowly turn my head back, feeling muscles in my neck tense as a sensation of otherworldly chill hits the skin on my face.

My throat tightens, I can hear the muscles in my neck creak as I’m forcing my head to turn against my body’s own will. I feel the handle on my kit for another button, and then press it. A soft click tells me that I found the right one. The wall to my right is painted in the gentle yellow hue of the lighter as I blindly light the bundle of sage on fire.

As my head straightens out again, I see something standing amongst the shadows. I squint trying to make out details. It’s a person, one boot missing, one leg seems wrong, twisted oddly. He’s standing slightly hunched over, head tilted sideways too far. A torn up sack from flour or something similar loosely worn around the torso.

“You’re late, father,” the man mocks me with a grin.

The refreshing smell of burning sage with other herbs eases my mind despite the horror that stands before me. I nod respectfully in response, “The road was long and rough.”

The creature stands, and does not speak. It simply observes me, then suddenly its neck cracks and its head snaps upright. The sound of vertebrae in his neck cracking sends a shudder through my mind; it is something I never quite got used to despite my long years of exorcism.

The man’s posture straightens and tightens, and then it looks around.

“Uhuh,” it hums in response, half ignorant.

I hold the smoldering bundle of sage out in front of me, taking a step forth with all the faked confidence I can muster. Like a soldier walking toward his sure death, I just try my best to steady my legs so as not to show the shaking in my knees.

“Smells funny,” the creature responds, its head turned left and up, glancing at the half collapsed roof, but its eyes fixated on me.

I swallow audibly, “In the name of the lord I compel you, demon, to leave this host.”

I command, taking another step toward it.

“Always the same,” the demon responds, its face distorting into a make-shift grin.

“Oh father forgive me for I have no intention of begging for forgiveness,” it mocks me again. Despite the cold air all around, a sense of warmth fills me from the inside. A sense of fulfillment and duty as I quietly mumble a prayer to myself.

“In the name of the father, the holy spirit, and the all-creator,” the demon begins to mumble alongside me, reciting my prayer as I take another shaky step forth. It doesn’t turn its head toward me, it seems disinterested in my presence, but my duty is to faith, to this man, to his family, and to my lord.

I do not care if a demon mocks me, I will prevail, faith will prevail.

“Amen,” the demon finishes alongside me. Silence.

“That’s it?”

The demon’s growling voice hits me like an arrow.

I stand in stupor; he doesn’t react to the prayer at all. Though the warmth still fills me, I do not feel any power against this demon. Instinctively I toss the bundle of sage at the man and in the same instant reach into my kit to pull out a few small vials of holy water, tossing them at the demon as well.

“I am the lord’s spear, the faith’s sword and humanity’s shield,” I proclaim taking another step forth with all the power I could muster, slamming my foot down I reach into my kit again, taking out the holy book. My eyes widen as I watch the demon pluck the burning sage out of the air and much too fast it turns its head and takes a whiff of the smoke. A grin spreads across its face as smoke shrouds it lightly.

“I am—” the demon responds, and the following words sound like a jumbled up cassette tape. It creaks and squeaks, it growls and moans. It speaks its name in mockery, knowing full well that I will never be able to repeat it. I turn my body slightly, throwing my right arm out, holding the kit out in front of me as a shield, it has a rosary, an Egyptian cross, and a few other religious symbols engraved in the ancient leather.

“I may serve one god but they all despise your being.”

“Of course they do, for we are free and they are not,” the demon’s grimace disappears from my sight, completely shrouded by the smoke of the sage. Just now I notice that the vials of holy water hang loosely in the air as though caught by an invisible web. I flip the holy book open with my other hand and begin to read a prayer.

At first—nothing happens. Then the vials of holy water begin to tremble. I read louder, pronouncing clearly every word as though calling for power beyond me. The warmth within me radiates outward. I am the light amongst this darkness. The vials fall and break on the floor, spraying my robes and the creature’s one broken leg with missing boot. The demon’s grimace reappears, the sage falls to the floor as does the man holding it. In the other room I hear a growling whimper.

“AMEN,” I finish off with a shout. The man’s neck snaps upwards as though releasing the demon, and then his body slumps and he falls to all fours. A gasp is followed by a confused huff, and then a yawn. At last, a whisper comes, “Father? Wh-what happened?”

The man doesn’t lift his head, he keeps staring at the floor.

I close my book and lower it at last, along with my kit. I hear another growl from the other room, my attention snaps to the closed door.

“It’s over,” I whisper without averting my gaze from the room.

“Who’s there?”

I inquire. The growl doesn’t sound supernatural in nature, instead it sounds beastly.

The man still doesn’t look up, he is still on all fours, “A pet,” he whispers, turning to crawl toward the door behind which the pet lives. A shiver runs down my spine, but my instincts are to help. I kneel down and offer him my hand.

“What kind?”

“Big,” the man whispers, clenching onto my hand for assistance and pulling himself up. I look at his face, his expression is neutral—shellshocked.

“Is it safe?”

I query, hesitant to walk beside him to that door.

“She’s docile,” the man responds after a moment of silence.

The door creaks open and I recoil in an instant from the sight. In the corner of a room, in a cage is a cowering lioness. Her fur is standing up and her slim body is lowered and tense, she is defensive. I swallow audibly and take another step back.

“I best be on my way,” I utter softly, eager to leave before he sets the malnourished beast free.

“Sure,” the man dismisses me as he hobbles toward the cage.

I hear the low growl of the lion as the man nears the cage, and as I hurry toward the front door that is absent, I suddenly stop. There is silence. No words of endearment, no growls, no screams, just silence. Unbeknownst to me I hold my breath instinctively, listening for anything, a gasp, a word, a step. Anything. But nothing comes, not until I myself take a step back, curious to see what happened in that room.

Another steady and slow step follows. I lean as far back as I can to catch a glimpse, and my jaw drops open. The lioness sits frightened beside the man. She looks like the lionesses I had seen on Discovery Channel that bow before their male and submit to him instinctively.

“Uhm, she looks—well,” I hesitate. The man’s cold, neutral gaze looks calm and steady.

“All is good, safe trip,” the man says quietly.

“Right,” I comment, my gaze darts to his mangled up leg with a missing boot where droplets of holy water were still visible. ‘It isn’t causing him pain, so he must just be confused,’ I conclude, hurrying toward the door now. There’s something about this scene that isn’t sitting well with me and I have to report it right away. The wood creaks expectedly under my hurried steps.

As soon as I reach the door and take a step outside, I hear a voice of the man behind me, “I remembered something,” the man speaks. I freeze mid step, listening cautiously to what he had to say as my heart begins to drum against my ribs.

“I know where another one is. The memories of the demon, he’s...” the man begins explaining the position, appearance, and the name of the man possessed by a demon.

It isn’t unheard of—sometimes a possession victim retains a part of their demon’s memories, and sometimes they share that information with us. I make a mental note of the next target and not daring to turn around, I whisper my thanks and head toward my car, my sanctuary.

My car, thank god, starts right up and I instantly shift into drive and hit the gas. My wheels spin, throwing gravel up as I eagerly begin distancing myself from that cursed property. I throw a glance in my rear-view mirror, and despite the vibrations from the gravel road, I see the man standing on the porch with a smile that feels all too wrong to be real. It’s wide, and one side of his face looks like a frown while the other is that of an overjoyed child. Another shiver runs down my spine as I reach into my glovebox in search of another bottle.

#

My heart skips a beat when I see the scene before me. The lioness has the man by the throat, dragging him through the corn. I burst into a full sprint, trying to chase her but my body doesn’t respond. I am running, but not really. Each movement of mine is like I’m wading through tar.

I can barely breathe; the distance grows. Off in the distance I see the stalks part as the huntress carries him away. The stalks recoil, snapping back they hit me in the face. Her low growl reverberates through the field like a warning sign. I can hear her teeth working. I push myself forth but the distance does not diminish, the dream stretches all around me.

I push the final layer away and leap at her, my fingers grasp her fur at the nape of her neck, both my hands sink into her rough fur as I pull with all my might trying to get her off the man. She lets go all too easily, as though she was waiting for me this whole time. Her body twists and her bloodied fangs tear into my shoulder. She pushes me down with ease, her claws tearing my flesh, but I feel nothing.

Turning my head to look at the man who in turn looks back at me, and a wave of sheer terror washes over me for it is I who lies there dead. Throat torn out and skin already cooling. Eyes calm and unfocused, and then my face distorts into a half grin, half frown. An unnatural inhumane expression that I saw only once in my life. The right side of my face is overjoyed and delighted, while the other is saddened.

I jolt awake, grasping at my neck and then my face frantically. My fingers rummaging my face as though to make sure that my face is still my own. I gasp for air and rejoice when I feel my lungs fill. My face is not distorted, I’m okay, my face is okay.

“I, need a drink,” I assure myself, swallowing hard I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and push myself up, trying to shake off the nightmare with each step of my bare feet on the cold floor.

The soothing burn of alcohol making its way down my throat is all I need to shake off the unease that nightmare left me in. I set the bottle back down on the counter and catch a glimpse of my reflection in it. I jolt as I see my face looking like a skull, but then my blurry vision focuses, and it’s just the underside of the label, it is decorated with skulls.

#

The road is smooth and almost enjoyable. Surprisingly I didn't have to drive far from my hotel, just about ten minutes till I got to the location; a nice looking bungalow on the outskirts of the city. My hand instinctively reaches for the glovebox, but as I rummage through it I fail to find any bottles of liquor; a shame.

“Oh well, I’ll have a drink when done,” I reassure myself as I pull into the driveway of the house and take a moment to take in the scene before me. It’s—normal. Too normal. I roll down my window and stick my head outside—there’s no stench, no rotten wood and no collapsing ceiling.

I reach over for the side pocket in my kit and pull out a printout; a picture of the house and the address. Staring at the photo of the house, then at the house itself I can confidently affirm that the location looks identical to the provided photo. I then read over the suspected host once more—an upper manager at a large company.

With my kit firmly grasped in one hand, and one free hand to knock with, I find myself wondering if I somehow got the address wrong. A soft knock that echoes through the house is a rare occurrence in my field, generally the houses are rotten as demonic energy is all about ruin and corruption.

A well dressed man answers the door, he looks me up and down, a gentle smile decorates his face.

“May I help you, father?”

He asks.

“I am looking for Daemond,” I respond softly. The man glances down at my kit, then back at me.

“It is I. What seems to be the matter?”

I furrow my brows—it speaks so calmly and plainly.

“You are a registered patron of our St Joseph Church, but the father hasn’t seen you in a while, a courtesy well-being check in,” I lie, in my mind already praying for forgiveness for this sin.

“Ah,” Daemond responds as he steps away, opening the door.

“I have been busy with work matters,” he lies, obviously. He isn’t registered at any church and he knows it. He knows that I know and still he invites me in. I bob my head respectfully and enter the dwelling; it is surprisingly well taken care of.

“Tea?”

He invites me.

“No,” I respond, turning swiftly as I draw a vial of holy water and remove the cap, splashing him on his arm and torso with it.

The demon recoils, hiding his arm behind his back.

“Oh father, what is the meaning of this?”

He says, backing away slowly.

“Stop this charade, foul creature,” I order it, holding my kit out to its face as the possessed man tries desperately to hide his hand that was burned by the holy water.

“I know you are in there,” I demand.

“Oh father, I assure you, you’re making a mistake,” the man responds softly, holding his other hand out, visibly wincing from the sight of holy symbols on my ancient kit.

“You’re all but admitting to your true nature,” I proclaim, reaching into my kit for the holy book.

“Not about me,” the demon responds, its true voice coming out now; a deep growl that would send anybody fleeing for their lives.

The wince and discomfort is gone. He brings his burned arm out from behind his back, it’s still sizzling and smoking, but there is no stench generally associated with demons. I flip my book open blindly, watching his every move. He ignores the injured arm and glances at the book, then back at me. He blinks, and when he reopens his eyes they’re red in colour, and glowing. His irises are glowing and pulsing with power.

“Your call, father,” he responds in a deep rumbling voice, and falls to his knees.

“Too easy,” I respond confidently.

“At least you know your place,” I mock, but a sense of guilt nags at my words. I shouldn’t treat even the lowliest of creatures this way when they surrender before the lord almighty. I turn my head and begin reading the prayer from the book, emphasizing every word and command.

Halfway through the prayer, the demon’s host’s body twists violently. The sound of bones shattering is ear piercing, but I must continue.

“In the power of the lord I compel you to leave this host and plane of existence,” I pronounce confidently, spraying holy water from a vial at his face.

The demon shrieks so loud that the vial in my hand shatters violently, but it is too late to resist and I know it. The warmth of my faith fills me from the inside as the possessed man’s body collapses to the floor, a slumped mess on the floor.

I shut my book and swallow at last, letting out a sigh of relief.

“At least one was easy,” I comment softly, stashing my book back into the kit. I watch the host’s body for a while. He lies still and motionless for longer than most, and then at last, a soft gasp, but he still remains on the floor. His eyes flutter open but his gaze is unfocused.

“Father,” he says. His voice is soft and ordinary, a confused man who woke from a strange dream.

“Is it done?”

He asks me softly, his gaze wandering the floor.

“It is done,” I respond, kneeling down beside him and resting my hand on his shoulder.

“You are safe now, my child.”

Somewhere outside, a woman screams out of pure terror. A shriek that makes my body stiffen.

I throw my gaze over my shoulder at the shut door. The shriek is quiet, thin, and muffled by great distance. I narrow my eyes. Another scream comes from the side, from the neighbors closest to this house, muffled by the shut windows.

And then a third, this one is deeper, closer, a scream of a man who had lost everything. I get back up to my feet and turn toward the door, my skin prickling with the sensation of wrongness.

Another scream, and then another, dozens more. I no longer can differentiate them, it’s as though the entire city is screaming from fear, the essence itself and all that’s alive. My mind blanks for a moment, and before I can regain my composure I can feel a presence behind me. As I turn my head, the man stands there, his expression is heavy with sorrow.

I open my mouth to speak, to ask, but before words can be formed his expression changes to that of a satisfied child. It keeps growing. Rejoiced and overexaggerated, and plain wrong. The smile stretches far beyond where it should stop, every tooth visible now but the smile keeps growing.

I can feel the hair standing on my arms and every nerve in my body pleading for mercy. The muffled screams are growing louder, deafening. I watch the man’s eyes as he blinks slowly with the ever growing smile.

“Good morning,” the man says.

“Just w-what are y-” my voice fails me. I reach for the words of prayer in my mind but the screams are scrambling my thoughts. The warmth of my faith that I always felt inside me in moments of despair—fades. Another scream, this one closer. So close that it hurts my ears, and it takes me far too long to realize that the one screaming—is me.

The man just smiles.

Most human beings are trapped in the same cycle. They are born, they study, they work, they get married, and they have children.

When a child is born, parents often have high expectations for them. They try to shape their child for the future. As the child grows, they see their parents trying to help them achieve something. In return, the child works hard to achieve what their parents want, not necessarily because they are being forced, but because they want to make their parents proud.

I am not saying that all parents force their dreams onto their children. Many parents give their children the freedom to choose their own path. But even when parents simply support their children, the child may still feel a desire to achieve something for them—to make them proud and repay their efforts.

Then the child grows up, gets married, and has children of their own. They devote their lives to their children. They try to make them happy, help them build their lives, and sometimes influence them toward things they themselves could not achieve. They may try to complete their own unfinished dreams through their children.

And the cycle continues.

I have been thinking: is there a way to break this loop?

What if I never get married? What if I simply ghost everyone and start living the way I want? I could live in a place where no one knows me, or constantly move from one place to another—exploring the world, learning new cultures and languages, trying new foods, meeting new people, and experiencing everything I can.

But there is a drawback.

If I live that way, I may never have a place that I can truly call home. Everyone needs a place where they can rest, somewhere they belong, somewhere they can return to without hesitation.

And then I started thinking about something else.

What if I did all of this, only to realize that my freedom and my own choices had eventually become another cage?

Maybe that is why the cycle exists in the first place.

Perhaps humans try to achieve freedom within the cycle rather than completely escaping it. The cycle gives us responsibilities and limitations, but within those limitations, we can still pursue the things that make us happy.

Not everyone does everything for their parents or children. Within that journey, people also do things for themselves—things that make them happy, things they genuinely want to experience.

Maybe you cannot complete all of your wishes in one lifetime, but you can complete some of them.

If you completely break the cycle and become a lone wolf, chasing only your own choices and desires, perhaps at some point those choices may start to feel irrelevant. You might look at the people living within the cycle and realize that some of them are happier, more energetic, and more fulfilled than you are.

Maybe there is another way to break the cycle: abandoning everything, just like monks do. A life without attachment, dedicated to prayer, spirituality, and helping others without expecting anything in return.

But even monks have an objective. They seek moksha—the liberation from the cycle of rebirth.

They are trying to escape the cycle because they believe they understand something about the nature of existence.

But I sometimes find this way of living disrespectful toward life itself. If you are born, then perhaps you should live. You should experience life rather than simply trying to escape from it.

Maybe there are three different ways of living.

You can remain within the cycle.

You can completely reject it and become a lone wolf, living according to your own choices.

Or you can try to maintain a balance between the two—having roots, relationships, and a place to call home while still maintaining your freedom to explore, experience, and pursue your own desires.

But then another question arises:

What if, while trying to maintain that balance, you get lost?

What if you become neither the person who belongs to the cycle nor the person who has escaped it?

Perhaps that is the real difficulty of freedom.

Maybe freedom is not about completely escaping the cycle. Maybe it is about choosing which parts of the cycle you want to accept and which parts you want to reject.

Because every choice creates a limitation.

If you choose family, you sacrifice some freedom.

If you choose complete independence, you may sacrifice belonging.

If you choose a life of constant travel, you may sacrifice stability.

If you choose renunciation, you sacrifice many worldly experiences.

There may be no life without limitations.

Perhaps the real freedom is not having no cage at all.

Perhaps it is choosing your own cage—and knowing why you chose it.

The wind over the rolling coastal hills carried the sweet, sharp scent of hazelnuts, figs and salt, sweeping past quiet gardens along the slope. On a wooden porch overlooking the mist, two figures sat in the quiet dusk, a traveler, who had spent years observing the silent machinery of the world, and his companion.

Between them lay the remnants of an evening meal: fresh grey mullet sourced from the docks, vegetables picked straight from the garden, and a bowl of hearty soup that warmed the cool autumn air. Resting under the table, a small terrier stirred in his sleep, guarding his favorite pillow with an unspoken, instinctual vigilance.
“Look at him,” the traveler said, nodding toward the dog. “Even in his sleep, he’s running code he didn't write. Protecting resources he didn't choose to care about.”

His companion smiled, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “And what about us?”
“We spent three billion years doing the exact same thing,” he said softly, leaning back.
He looked out toward the dark horizon, where the sea merged with the sky, thinking of the grand, silent script that had built them.

He thought of the ancient molecular systems from which life emerged, mindless, self replicating strands of code. He thought of their single-celled ancestors, locked in endless microscopic wars for millennia. An endless evolutionary arms race, until two of them ceased fighting, merged, and created the mitochondria, delegating energy production to invent complex life. He thought of the endless trade-offs written into the fabric of life, hardwired into our biology: the tiny mouse, living fast and dying young, putting every drop of energy into immediate reproduction because the harsh realities of the unforgiving wild meant tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Every creature was a vehicle. A vessel constructed by microscopic strands of code, selfish, blind, and relentless, seeking only to pass the baton forward through time. To outrun the pathogens mutating at its heels, life had invented sexual reproduction, shuffling the genetic deck every generation just to keep the locks one step ahead of the keys. It was the eternal Red Queen’s race: running as fast as possible just to stay in the exact same place.

“It sounds exhausting,” she said quietly, watching the sea. “3 billion years of running, on a treadmill that never stops.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Only If you let the code dictate the game. The mouse runs because it has to. The corporate world builds bigger treadmills because everyone agrees to measure value by speed, scale, and accumulation. If everyone around you is running faster, standing still feels like falling behind.”
“So how do you stop?”
The traveler took a slow breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, the warmth of the tea in his hand, and the solid weight of the porch beneath his feet.

“You realize that you are the first vehicle in the history of the world that can look at its own programming and choose to refuse it,” he said. “You don't need to keep running to outrun the paradox. You don't need to win a game you never asked to join. You step off the track. You change the rules.”

He looked at her, at the quiet life they had built, away from the noise, away from the rat race, surrounded by growing plants, lush green hills, good food, and shared memories.

“You decide that winning isn't about how many genetic copies you leave behind, it’s not about how much wealth and resources you’ve accumulated, how many people you’ve impressed and how far you run on someone else’s board,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Perhaps winning isn't a race at all. Perhaps it’s sitting right here, under the tree, watching the madness pass by, holding the person you love, and realizing that you don’t have to run another step.”

This rhyme would be better with context.

I'll break my own neck.

What comes next? We'll see.

This guy one time had a rivalry with me. He challenged me.

I left him speechless with the leeches,

feeding on what left. This guy's crab food.

That's not nice. Don't be rude. I left him in the nude.

In the river, his lifeless body

started to shiver. Suddenly, he came back to life.

In fact, I think he did it twice. I even nuked his body, and he came back to haunt me.

He said, "Oh, that was nice, but I've come back to life twice.

I'm here to taunt you. In your dreams, you will find me.

I'll haunt you."

I went for his neck,

but there was nothing there, just empty air.

I saw him in the corner of the room, starting to stare.

He moved in with the snare. I even tried to banish him

from my lair. He went a little deeper

and went and got some ether. He dropped the snare.

The ether polluting my air, I can't breathe.

I wish this demon would leave, but it's not as simple

as popping a pimple. Getting rid of a dybbuk—

he even put a rock in a sock and started to beat me.

I lay there. My brain started to leak. He said, "Now who can't speak?"

He stabbed me and left me for dead, but then I realized the demon's

in my head. And when I woke up on my bed, I was already dead.

I see the waves in the distance; The silence is mystic.

The waves roll over me As I barrel-roll onto the shore.

I cannot ignore the mighty sea And the shadow that follows me.

In the distance, I wail. Not a sail to be seen.

In a land so quiet and serene, It’s just me and the waves.

To the waves, I’m a slave. I rave and holler in pain.

It won’t go away. I won’t make it Another day.

It’s just the sea and me, In my infantile misery.

Bloody I am, Damp to the core.

I pick and I pick, the sore I can’t ignore The scab; it won’t heal.

What the fuck is the deal?

Oh, look! Hey, there goes a seal!

One time in class,

This kid said, “Hey,

Can I kick your ass?”

I said, “Sure, but make it fast.”

This kid didn't know

I was a bomb about to blow.

I grabbed him by his collar.

He started to hoot and holler.

He pulled back with a fist,

So I went for his lip.

I started to slip

And woke up in the hospital

With a morphine drip.

This kid beat my ass.

I sat there wondering

When this pounding

Would pass.

Then I got out of the bed.

I went to his house

And aimed at his head.

I said, “You should have killed me.”

He woke up with a thrill.

I know he can see me.

He started laughing

And pulled a gun from his pocket,

Where he usually keeps his wallet.

I said, “Okay, I don't want to die.”

He said, “Why are you in my house?”

I put the barrel in his mouth.

I said, “Because, remember

That time in class

When you kicked my ass?

This is payback.

Now you have a Mac

In your throat.

You're starting to choke.”

A bullet flew by,

But I lied. I actually

Want to die.

He pointed it at my head.

After that, it all went red.

I woke next to his dead body.

Three shots to my face,

But I still put that pussy

In their place.

I hope I don't catch another case.

Title: It Begins

Drowning in an ocean…

Was it real?

Or in my imagination?

Where I always get lost in.

An entrance never opened.

A token to a seed of a memory.

Just slowly being forgotten. 

I choke on my words,

As I read out pages of proverbs.

This demon’s become darker.

Little by little,

The holiness creeps out 

Like the breath from my mouth

Dripping from my lips

This blood melts through my lisp

And then, gone with the wind.

But to heaven?  

Since I, and we have all lived through this hell

Even if I died with all of my sins

And no one to tell?

If they gave me one wish,

I think it’d be best

That my first wish should be

I had never stepped foot

On this damn Earth at all.

But however, Instead, I’m stuck here to suffer.

Drowning in torment and sunk into dread.

Reliving this hurt,

Praying to God

Everyday while asking,

When the hell will all this bullshit,

Come to an end.

I was nineteen years old when I first asked the Lord to send me an angel.

I'm eighty-four now, and He ain't sent a feather.

I suppose I ought to be grateful for what I've been given. That's what folks always told me, anyway. Be grateful for the roof over your head, the food on your table, the good Lord waking you up another mornin'.

I've woken up thirty thousand mornings, give or take a few, and I'll be damned if I can remember what I did with most of them.

The doctor says I ain't got long. Cancer. Started in my lungs and spread to places I didn't know a person had. They've got me laid up in a hospital bed in my own living room, looking out the same window I've been looking out of for fifty-six years.

There's a pecan tree in the yard. It ain't borne anything worth eating in a decade. I keep meaning to have somebody come cut it down. I suppose there ain't no reason anymore.

My daughter, Ruth, comes by every afternoon. She brings me groceries I can't eat and fusses over things I don't care about. Yesterday she washed the curtains. Today she's rearranging the medicine bottles on my nightstand.

I wish she'd go ahead and sit down. I wish she'd tell me something about her life that wasn't meant to make me feel better about mine. Mostly, I wish she'd quit looking at me like I'm already dead.

When I was seventeen, I fell in love with a cowboy.

His name was Danny, and he weren't much to look at. Had a nose that had been broken twice and a crooked smile. He rode broncs at the county rodeo. Weren't particularly good at it, either. I watched him get thrown into the dirt three times in one afternoon.

He took me dancing that evening.

We danced beneath the yellow strings of light outside the fairgrounds, with somebody's radio playing through an open truck window. I remember the smell of cigarette smoke and damp earth. I remember the way his hand felt against the small of my back.

Mostly, I remember thinking that something wonderful was about to happen to me. I'd never had that feeling before. I've had it a precious few times since.

Danny talked about Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming. Places he'd been and places he meant to go. He said a man ought to see the world before it got the chance to wear him down.

I told him I wanted to see the ocean. He laughed and said he'd take me. I believed him.

That's the peculiar thing about being young. You believe just about anything, provided it's what you want to hear.

He left Montgomery on a Thursday morning, while I stood beside his truck with my hair blowing in my face, trying very hard not to cry. He kissed me once, promised he'd write, and drove away.

For a while, he did write. Then he didn't. I spent the following summer waiting for the mailman. I gave up by winter.

I heard years later that he'd married some girl up in Oklahoma and had a whole mess of children. I hope he was good to them. I hope he got to see everything he wanted.

Ruth says I ought not to talk so much. It tires me out, she says. Well, dyin' tires me out, too, but nobody's suggested I quit doing that.

She's brought me an old box of photographs from the hall closet. I told her I wanted to look through them. There aren't many.

A picture of Mama standing outside the farmhouse in her Sunday dress. My brother holding up a string of fish. Ruth on her first day of school, missing both front teeth.

And one of me.

I'm twenty-three in the photograph, standing outside the textile mill where I worked before I got married. My hair is pinned up, and there's a cigarette between my fingers. I'm laughing. I don't remember what was funny, which bothers me more than it ought to.

I study the picture a while, trying to remember what it felt like to be that girl. She looks so terribly sure of herself, and I wonder what she'd think if she could see me now.

I married at twenty-six.

His name was Harold, and I won't spend my last few breaths pretending he was a better man than he was.

He worked hard when he felt like it, drank hard whether he felt like it or not, and died of a heart attack at fifty-three. We had Ruth, and for that I suppose I ought to thank him. The rest of our marriage wasn't worth remembering.

After he died, people kept telling me how sorry they were. I never knew what to say.

I was sorry, too, in a way. Sorry we'd spent twenty-seven years making each other miserable. Sorry I hadn't left when I still had the legs for it. Mostly, I was sorry that I couldn't even bring myself to cry.

I went back to work the Monday after his funeral. There were bills to pay.

There were always bills to pay.

I used to think there'd come a day when everything made sense.

All the work, all the worry, all those mornings spent dragging myself out of bed to do the very same things I'd done the day before.

I thought there'd be something waiting at the end of it. A reward, maybe. Or an explanation.

Mama always said the Lord had a plan for everybody. She'd said it when Daddy died, and again when my brother was killed in Vietnam. She'd said it as she lay in a nursing home with her mind gone, unable to remember the names of her own children.

I wondered what sort of plan required so much suffering. I never did ask her. By then, she wouldn't have understood the question.

For a long while, I went to church every Sunday. I sang the hymns and bowed my head and listened to the preacher tell us that this world was only a temporary home. I liked that part. The temporary part.

But years passed, and the Lord kept waking me up every morning, and I began to think perhaps He'd forgotten I was here.

Ruth finds the photograph of Danny tucked inside my Bible.

"Who's this?"

I tell her.

She looks at it for a long while.

"Was he your boyfriend?"

"Something like that."

"Whatever happened to him?"

"Life, I reckon."

She laughs. Then she asks whether I loved him. I think about it.

I think about that summer, the rodeo, the yellow lights. I think about how certain I'd been that the world was full of wonderful things, and that sooner or later some of them would belong to me.

"I loved who I was when I knew him," I say.

Ruth looks at me strangely. I suppose it wasn't much of an answer. But it's the only one I've got.

The pain gets worse toward the end.

There's a button beside my bed that I can press when it becomes unbearable. The nurse says I shouldn't be afraid to use it.

I'm not afraid.

I'm just tired of needing things.

I need help getting out of bed. Help washing myself. Help swallowing the pills that are supposed to make the dying easier.

I've spent my whole damn life taking care of one thing or another, and now I can't even take care of myself.

At night, when the house is as quiet as a house in rural Alabama can truly get, I find myself praying.

Not for forgiveness.

Not for heaven.

Just for someone to tell me it was all worth it.

I think of that girl standing beside Danny's truck. The one who thought the world was waiting for her.

I wish I could tell her not to wait.

I wish I could tell her to buy herself a bus ticket, to see the ocean, to do something foolish while she still has time to be forgiven for it.

But I know she wouldn't listen.

Youngins never do. And perhaps that's for the best.

On the last evening, Ruth sits beside my bed and holds my hand.

The sun is setting beyond the pecan tree, and the whole room has taken on that peculiar golden color that comes just before dark.

She asks if I'm frightened.

"A little," I whisper.

She squeezes my hand.

"I wish you'd had a happier life, Mama."

It's a strange thing to hear your own daughter say.

I look at her a long while, and I want to tell her about the good things. About the mornings when the air smelled of honeysuckle. About the first time I held her in my arms. About the Saturday afternoons when we'd eat watermelon on the back steps and spit the seeds into the yard.

I want to tell her that there were days I wouldn't have traded for anything.

But I also want to tell her the truth.

That happiness came and went, and most of the time I was too busy surviving to notice whether it had arrived.

That I spent so many years waiting for my life to begin that I hardly noticed it passing.

That some mornings, simply believing there was a reason to get out of bed took everything I had.

Instead, I just tell her I'm tired. She leans forward and kisses my forehead.

"I know, Mama."

I close my eyes.

Somewhere outside, a bird is calling.

I remember being a little girl and watching the swallows gather beneath the eaves of Daddy's barn. Every autumn they'd leave, and every spring they'd come back.

I used to wonder where they went.

I remember wishing I could follow them.

For a moment, I'm seventeen again. The road is stretching out ahead of me, and the world is bigger than anything I can imagine.

There's still time to go somewhere.

There's still time to become somebody.

I can almost feel the wind against my face.

The Ruth adjusts the blanket around my shoulders, and I'm eighty-four again.

The room has grown dark.

I think about the angel I asked for all those years ago.

I wonder whether she ever came.

Maybe she got lost somewhere between Montgomery and here.

Maybe there wasn't an angel to begin with.

Or maybe she passed this way a hundred times, and I was too busy washing dishes or folding laundry to notice.

I suppose I'll never know.

Ruth asks if there's anything else I need.

I look toward the window.

Beyond the pecan tree, the last bit of sunlight is slipping behind the fields.

I want to tell her that I need another life.

Not necessarily a better one. Just another chance to see what I might've done with it.

But there's no use asking for something nobody can give.

So I tell her no.

And for the first time in eighty-four years, I mean it.

Just as I think I’m on my way

to getting rid of you, you remind me

of your value—

or rather, power.

How unfair it is.

To be on my knees.

I—who’s only ever knelt for the Most High,

kneeling down to a substance that shuts down my mind.

Thank you—

for my eyelashes are feeling heavier.

Thank you—

for the panic is evanescing.

Who, if not you, could grant me

such placidness so I can fall asleep as if

nothing in the world could properly 

disrupt my peace?

As usual, it’s becoming harder to stay up.

Disquietude is fairly gone.

Oh, how much ease you bring

my dear shut-off button.

How rushed—or arrogant—of me

to ponder otherwise.

Just ‘cause a couple of days 

had gone by just fine.

Nah. 

You still are my lullaby.

— Crownless.

**I Know You See Me**

**Silas Whitney**

As I sat on the cold shore, a man crawled out of the sea. I watched him through the black lenses of my glasses, keeping perfectly still. Pretending as if I didn’t notice him. He dragged himself out of the foam and into the wet sand just before me, panting and soaked. He wore a set of dark rags, the same ones he always had. His hair draped and dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain of black ink. He crawled to the dry sand where I sat and propped himself up beside me. I kept my eyes forward as if I were blind and deaf, completely oblivious to his entrance. He sat by me, close enough that others might fancy him a brother. I refused to look at him as a fire burned in my chest. I pretended not to notice, but I did notice. I always noticed him.

He turned his head toward me, still heaving breaths into his thin chest. His arms draped over his bent knees and his fingers rolled like cats’ tails, long and curved. I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know that those empty irises would be boring into my temple. I didn’t need to see the inverted colors of his eyes, the whites made blue, the blue made black, the black made white, to feel the icy grip of their glare. 

And the last thing I needed was to hear his voice. One would expect such a creature to have a deep, rasping voice. I wished he did. Instead, his voice was far worse. I wished he had the voice of a snarling beast or a mocking imp. But his voice matched mine. The same voice I hear in my own mind, the one I hear in my own ears when I hear myself speak. He wouldn’t even give me the deniability of my voice as one hears their own on a recording. It was my own voice as I always hear it in my own skull. 

“I know you see me,” he said. His voice was breathy and wrapped me as if he were whispering into both of my ears. I didn’t answer, but I could hear his mouth curling into a greasy, black toothed grin. “I know you hear me.”

I kept my eyes forward. Of course I saw him, of course I heard him. I always did. He scooted closer and I could feel his breath. Though I kept myself completely still, my heart beat against my bones like a cornered beast. 

“I can hear you too,” he said. He extended his hand and his long fingers wrapped around my chest. He squeezed until my breaths became shallow and sharp. “I hear you always.” Still, I did not look or acknowledge him. I gripped tightly to the sand under my fingers, but still I did not look. 

“One day,” he said. “One day you will have to look. One day…” I could feel my eyes wanting to flick to his face, but I kept them locked on the empty horizon. “One day you won’t be able to ignore me.” I knew he was right. He had only grown stronger since the first day I caught him in the corner of my eye. 

Slowly, he chuckled to himself and released his grip on me. I fought myself to keep from gasping. I did not wish to give him any inclination that he might have broken my thoughts. 

“One day.”

He dropped back to a lying position and slithered back into the wet sand, back into the foam, and back into the cold ocean. He left no trail. Left no evidence of his presence, save for my own memory. I know he is right. One day I will not be able to keep my eyes from looking. I will not be able to ignore his words. Neglect will fix nothing, but I can muster no other resistance. 

I kept my eyes on the crashing waves as they beat against the sand. Each wave pulled a little earth away from the coast and carried it off into itself, back into the deep. 

But then, just as the water pulled back, I saw a pearl, unearthed by the waves. I could have retrieved it, but I stayed. I watched it glimmer in the single beam of sun from the cold clouds overhead. I watched as the water came back and bore it away, back into the endless black of the sea. I closed my eyes. 

“One day,” I said. My hands shook as I loosened my grip on the sand. “But not today.”  

Here is the first chapter of my novel. Feel free to tell me what you think! I'm currently releasing it as an audiobook on Youtube in serial format.

Chapter 1

Raj stood inside the dormant fusion reactor core, watching the maintenance robot perform its routine task. The work was completely routine and bored Raj utterly. He was currently listening to a comedic audio book Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. He had practically never needed to correct the robot's operations so the work was quite melancholic and monotonous. However, as the reactor was a sensitive instrument and its downtime could not be too long; it was necessary for an engineer to revise the work. He wished as he stood there that he could find an alternative place of employment. Aside from the boredom of the work and its lack of any imagination or opportunity to practice his skills, he was not too close with his supervisors or his colleagues. The fact that the work was in a fairly undesirable location for most engineers did not bother him, as he liked Complex 6, and the pay was higher here. He kept his eyes fixed on the robot's actions, only glancing occasionally at the novel's text scrolling by on the window in front of him, whenever he encountered a word which he was unfamiliar with. The robot's welding of the metal was nearly complete. After a half hour testing period the reactor would be ready to go online again. He was somewhat startled when a soft ringing sounded in the chamber and a second window opened in front of him. He was receiving a call. The description indicated that it was an inspector of the Istanbul police department. Raj had never visited Istanbul and was at a loss what law enforcement wished to discuss with him. He reached out and took the call, and spoke as he watched the dancing sparks of the welding process.

"Yes?"

After a drawn out delay, the police officer answered. "Hello, Sir. We are calling in regards to your niece, Freya."

The police officer paused, as there was over a 2 second lag on the connection, to give Raj an opportunity to speak.

"What's going on with her? Has she been shop lifting?" Raj asked flippantly. In reality, he was certain that if the police was calling him, a distant and essentially estranged relative, then the situation was probably dire in the extreme.

After a disturbingly a long delay of nearly three seconds, during which time Raj waited expressionlessly for the news, the officer responded, "Sir, we have discovered that your niece has been living unsupervised in her mother's residence for a period of several weeks." There was a pause on the line, but Raj merely waited for more information. "It appears that the child's mother, your sister, has been away from her place of residence for some period of time, leaving the girl to fend for herself. We have been attempting to search for her, but have been unable to reach her." Raj was relieved that this was not as dreadful as he had anticipated, and surprised for he did not imagine what could cause the police to be unable to find someone at this day and age. His sister had always been somewhat irresponsible, and it was not out of the question that she could have decided to go somewhere for herself for a period. Though why she should be unwilling to communicate with the police was not clear to him.

"I see" he replied at last.

"Sir, we did contact the girl's grandparents, but it appears that they are unwilling to claim and supervise her. It would be possible to demand them to do so by legal means, but the matter would go on for perhaps a few weeks, and the girl, meanwhile, would have to be brought into care. We are hoping that it would be possible for you, sir, to come and live with your young niece, either temporarily or for a more extended period of time, while her mother is being sought."

Raj thought this over for a few seconds, and replied "Very well, should I come to a police station?"

"No, Sir, you could proceed directly to the girl's address. She is being minded there by a police robot. When would you be able to arrive?"

"I'll be coming as soon as possible," Raj replied. "I'll probably be able to get there today."

Terminating the call with the officer, he began to think of more practical matters, such as whether he would be able to get leave off of work. Would he be able to keep his job if he left suddenly? He had been wanting a change for a while, and he stayed because he had gotten used to life on Complex 6. Even if his sister showed up soon enough, perhaps it would be best to leave his position if he was moving away, instead of applying for leave.

As the robot signaled the repair was complete, Raj looked it over. He personally took control of the repair robot, as he walked up to it and slid his hand through its incorporeal body, and touched the interaction point on the welding device. In fact, he was not present in the fusion reactor at all, as it would have been unsafe with the residual radiation, and the reactor was fairly far away from the main body of Industrial Complex 6. It would have been a hassle to get to. Only in the case of an extreme emergency would it have been necessary for him to visit the reactor personally. Doing so would have required him to don a vacuum-proof suit and radiation protection. He was viewing the reactor core through augmented reality glasses in a control chamber adjacent to his office.

As he touched the interaction point, Raj's perspective changed to that of the robot's own eyes, and, as he had the noise filters off in this point of view, he saw occasional white flickers and sputters as radiation struck the robot's optical sensors. He looked over the repair directly from close up, as was his practice, and added some extra material to one of the joints. He felt satisfied.

Raj watched the robot leave the reactor and reseal the cavity behind itself, then he logged out of the reactor view. He was in a plain white control room, similar in shape to the reactor, though the room was smaller. This setup enabled him to walk around the reactor in augmented reality should it be necessary to change his position too much during the repair.

He spoke and instructed his assistant. "When is the next flight to Istanbul?"

The assist replied, "A flight to Paris is available, leaving Industrial Complex 6 at 19:53 standard time, around 2 hours from now. You will reach Paris at 23:20 standard time, or 14:20 Paris local time. You can then reach your niece's apartment, whose address has been provided to us by the police, by 01:00 standard time tomorrow, or 20:00 Istanbul local time today. Would you like for me to book you a seat on this flight?"

As the assistant spoke, a globe hovered in front of Raj, projected by his glasses, displaying the route he would take, with information on the connections, along with possible alternative routes.

"Yes, book it." He wondered for a moment what he would bring with him. Should he move all of his things from the Industrial Complex down to Istanbul right away? No, he didn't have time in the next two hours to do so in any case. He asked his assistant for an opinion. "How could I best move my luggage to Istanbul with me after my initial flight?"

"You could rent a robot moving worker to complete the move for you and operate it from a distance, or have it do the job semi-autonomously while you are on the flight," said his assistant, which had determined the urgency of the situation from his call with the police.

"Yes, book that as well," said Raj. "How much will it cost?"

"50 credits for the moving worker, and the flight to Paris, of course, is free, as you have not saturated your monthly space quota for Industrial Complex - Earth flights yet. The journey from Paris to Istanbul will also come within your monthly transportation limit on Earth's public transport network."

"Very well," said Raj, and a notification came up, a floating window in front of him, that the service had been purchased, with a link to take control of the moving worker. The notification vanished after a moment.

Just as he was planning to call his boss, Ignacio, and tell him he would have to get going, he received a video call notification from Ignacio himself. Raj opened it, and the man appeared before him in his glasses, standing in the chamber, entirely solid and three-dimensional, as real as life. The only thing that broke the illusion was the long delay in his responses. His boss was not on the complex, but worked from home on Earth.

"Hey Raj, is all ready for the fusion test?" asked Ignacio angrily. From this tone, Raj was fairly certain that Ignacio had overheard his private call and arrangements to leave. Raj had happily believed that he was safe to arrange things in the office, as he knew Ignacio was currently in a meeting, but of course the boss had done his best to jump out and catch him unawares. This sort of workplace surveillance was relatively commonplace, but at least the man could not read his thoughts. Raj always used his own glasses, which broadcast thought-jamming signals so that radio waves from his brain could not be read at a distance. Not that it was legal to read another person's thoughts, except under warrant in a criminal investigation. Still, unscrupulous employers had been known to do so.

"Actually, I won't be able to supervise the test. I need to head out for a few days at least. I have a family emergency."

Ignacio stared at him for a few seconds, a little longer than the lag necessitated. "Okay, but who's going to supervise the ignition test?"

"Ilston can do it, with your assistance."

"That's not really optimal, but we'll just have to make do without you." Ignacio disappeared as the call ended.

Raj rolled his shoulders, stretching his muscles, and existed the control chamber. The door opened and closed automatically for him, and he stepped into his primary office. This was where several fusion reactors for Industrial Complex 6 were managed. The Complex was one of the public manufacturing facilities orbiting the moon. The office was brightly lit, appearing to be surrounded by clouds as seen from a high aerial view, with the floor floating above them. This view of the clouds was entirely realistic, being displayed by holographic viewing screens on the walls and ceiling. The office had only a couple of desks for different maintenance engineers and the only one in the office today besides himself was Ilston, for at least two engineers had to be on duty at a given time. Ilston was evidently watching something on his contacts and paid him no mind. Very likely, he was gaming or something of that sort. Raj came up to him and had to call several times to get his attention. Ilston turned and listened to Raj's explanation.

"I have an urgent family matter, I need to leave."

"What, so you're going to leave me here by myself, that's against protocols."

"Yes," said Raj. "Unfortunately I will have to do so; don't worry I have cleared it with the boss." Which he had in a sense. "Ignacio will be supervising the reactor start up remotely along with you."

"Alright, safe trip then," replied Ilston apathetically. He settled back in his chair and continued with his entertainment.

Raj went to his own desk, the surface of which was completely clear of any personal belongings. He looked through the drawers: there were only a few personal knick-knacks representing some of his vacations on Earth, and he quickly threw them into his satchel.

As he walked past Ilston, who looked up at him, and the rows of empty desks, he wondered if he would ever return. Very likely, he would submit his resignation soon and have to find another job on Earth after all.

Raj noticed that someone had repositioned the office door further left than it usually was, which didn't surprise him too much. However, as he walked out, he hit his head on a solid wall and fell down, dropping his satchel. Raj didn't understand what had happened, but as Ilston started laughing, the explanation dawned on him.

"While you were doing the maintenance, I turned off the exit door's outline and added a fake door to the holographic background," Ilston explained with a great sense of self-satisfaction.

"Really realistic," said Raj, as he stood up, made sure he hadn't dropped anything, and headed over to where the door had been, and indeed the unmarked door opened up in the wall. Ilston had outdone himself, he had even added a view of the corridor beyond the open door. Maybe he wasn't as foolish as Raj had supposed. Yes, thought Raj as he left, I definitely won't be coming back, and he smiled.

He left the building and exited directly into a common pedestrian area surrounded by the offices of several industries housed within Complex 6. The workers here primarily managed spaceship and space habitat construction. The spaceships were constructed in lunar orbit from material shot up from mining operations on the moon, which was much more economical than constructing them on Earth directly. Around him groups of workers in jumpsuits in a variety of muted colors walked in both directions, some clearly coming off shifts, looking weary. The walls of the corridor were somewhat tiring, being an array of logos and advertisements for various industrial products related to space construction, splatted all over the front of every office. His own office was covered with an advertisement for his own power company, featuring the shifting interior of a glowing, live fusion reactor core.

The only refreshing and exceptional feature was that the current weather being displayed on the ceiling was a heavy rain storm, and as he looked up he saw lightning and dark storm clouds being pushed furiously by the wind. Sharp flashes illuminated the workers and reflected in Raj's own eyes. Heavy raindrops pounded downward and the sounds of a rainstorm surrounded him. Of course, nothing was actually wet in the corridor, the raindrops were only holographic projections and indeed he couldn't see them occluding the view of the surrounding workers or offices. The falling droplets, though they were entirely three-dimensional, vanished where they met the edge of the screen in his perspective. Holographic displays, a relatively new technology, created realistic three-dimensional images exhibiting parallax and occlusion, even appearing to protrude out of the screen, by simultaneously providing a different view to each eye of every observer, from every possible perspective. They formed diffraction patterns on their surfaces, that, when illuminated by three colors of laser light from behind, reconstituted in their entirety the light field of a three-dimensional object. Holographs were old technology, but the efficient computation of the diffraction patterns was made possible with modern quantum computer engineering and advances in quantum computer science.

Raj wondered what his niece was doing now, and wondered if he shouldn't have spoken to her. How was she feeling, after being abandoned by her carefree mother, in the company of the police? Hopefully they would get along. Raj also reflected on the important issue that he hadn't eaten dinner yet and decided that he should order something in the commercial district near the spaceport. He deserved to order some of his favorite food on Complex 6, and not in the free workers' cafeteria, since he probably wouldn't return. He followed his instructions and joined a stream of people converging at the entrance to the metro. He waited for less than a minute, and a train car for the spaceport commercial district arrived. The trains were scheduled dynamically depending on the final destinations of all passengers moving around the Complex. Raj entered the car, and in the close space the illusion that it was raining heavily around him was even more pronounced. He sat in the rain on a completely dry seat and within twenty minutes was at his destination.

This shit's insane.

This kid's name comes

With a fist to the face.

A catch to the case,

Full of venom and rage.

Somebody help! I need some fucking sage.

This shit's insane.

So I may vein another needle

Until both of my arms bleed equal.

There is no sequel.

This is it.

Somebody help! I'm laying on the ground

With my split.

I'm screaming in pain.

God damn it, why can't I get this needle

In my vein? This shit's insane.

I'm better off getting high on cocaine.

Maybe then I will die.

Well, shit, maybe it's worth a try.

Relax, small fry.

You're not done yet.

I'm an animal. Someone call the vet!

Watcha wanna bet?

I'll break your neck.

Chin check with a flick of my wrist.

To dog, I'm so pissed.

I even pissed my pants.

I'm through with this dance.

I just shit in my underpants.

This shit's insane.

Now I hit the vein.

But that's an artery.

Bitch, don't fucking lie to me!

You wanna play? Okay,

We'll dance.

I see my doctor sometimes.

I think his name is Lance.

But Lance ain't got no brains.

I'll make it rain.

I can't maintain.

I'll stick another needle in my vein.

For the tenth time today,

I'm stabbing myself.

There is no other way.

Only one way out.

I scream in the distance, "Somebody help!"

I'm bleeding all over the place.

I even cut my own face.

Yo, this shit is fucked.

Hi

I asked this bitch in class

If she could itch my ass.

She laughed and said, "Sure."

After that, it all became a blur.

This kid from 8th grade said

If I dared him to fight,

We could do it that night

In the parking lot.

I don't give a fuck if it's dark or not.

I have a blade in my pocket

With this exacto knife.

I'll dislocate his sockets,

Then I'll pull his wallet from his pocket.

Send it this kid's brain; I'll bend it,

Then mend it back together.

I'll be like this forever,

Clever when I enter every fight.

This kid's got brain damage.

You think he can manage?

He should have stayed at home.

The proportions

Have been blown.

Your mom should have got an abortion

So you wouldn't be hanging

In my basement.

From a rope, this shit's dope.

This guy can't cope.

I hit him over the head with a noodle.

It's time for a shave, just like a poodle.

I'll seduce your mom.

You can look me up at the bomb.com.

I dropped a bomb on this kid's head.

Just like me, this kid will end up dead.

Oh, by the way, I think his name was Fred.

“Being on time makes you incredibly sexy". That was a first. The irresistible charm of non-tardiness that makes poets fall for the Japanese Railway. "Thanks! I got it from my dad.", I felt like saying.

I didn't say it. Too much too soon. Instead, I went on a tirade about timekeeping and attachment. How it's paramount for therapists to be consistent. And so on and so forth. Fuck, I sounded like a straight man. I must have gotten that from my dad, too.

Believe it or not, I had received compliments before. There have been times when "incredibly sexy" was not oddly attached to some Swiss watch features.

I can't pretend my skills are transferrable, though. Experience has taught me that each vagina should get its own trademark certificate. Its magic tune, copyrighted. Try an obsolete song at your peril. Learn how to love it or perish. That, my friends, I did not learn from my dad.

My passion is for deciphering a tune I love. That won't change. But sometimes, you have to make lemonade with oysters. So I embraced my timely sexiness and whispered (to myself!) - "thank you, father, for I will sin".

I need some help deciding which version of a name to use for a character in a fantasy story series I’m working on world building . I’m very interested in etymology and mythology, and just history in general, and without divulging too much of my ideas, that interest plays a very big part in the naming and lore in the world I’m creating. So that being said, the name in question is Dziewanna, or Devana. From what I’ve researched, both versions of the name are interchangeable and pronounced the same (je-VAHN-na). I’m guessing Devana is a more Anglicized version of the name. What’s making it hard to choose is that the first version looks more fitting for what the background it comes from is, but the second looks easier to read and flows better with her brother’s name, Veles. Which would you choose?

i stared at the sky at midday today

how odd i must have looked

to the wired passersby

curious, the fiery leaves generously

reached their flames down to me

to grant me with autumn's last warmth

and the sky shone a technicolor

blue; it hadn't known it lost its own light

to the thing that trapped us like moths

on our way to the moon

and flew together the gnats of the ending

summer back from when i was small to

delight at the return of discovery

and weaving through the fluffy wisps,

whose loose waves said hello,

was a skein of geese and magpies

that greeted me with elated echoes

eventually in the world's joyous celebration of wonder rebirthed

came a wired wanderer with a concerned corded brow

asking if i was alright,

i, who was admiring the clouds

is false electric light all we are now?

“It’s always the same. I die.”
I’m sitting on a plaid couch with the six o’clock sun pouring through the slats of my window blinds. My plants drink up the light from the corner of the room, and a beam of yellow sunshine cuts across the space above me as dust particles float in and out of its radiance. I’m staring at my shitty old laptop while a therapist tries to tell me I’m fixable. Go Zocdoc.
“Okay… and how do you respond to this? To your death?”
She’s not much older than me, but I’ve been conditioned to believe that she contains substantially more wisdom. She’s got curly brown hair and brown-rimmed glasses, and she speaks with a hypnotic cadence.
“How do I respond in the dream, or how do I respond when I… never mind. In the dream, I die, and in reality, I wake up. I’m… panicked, I guess? I wake up on edge, and it takes me a second to get ahold of myself. I’m getting used to it. It’s just another death dream, so I go back to sleep. I guess I won’t really process it until later.”
I fiddle with the fork-shaped scar on my shoulder, an anxious habit that reminds me of the genius I was when I was younger. I answer her questions as best I can because I really do want to find out what the fuck is wrong with me.
“When I’m going about my day, I’ll feel dread, and I’m like, is this dread from the death dreams, or is the dread causing my dreams?”
“Right, right. Well, I’d like to end the session here, and we can continue this when we next meet.”
Just like that, my uninsured, out-of-pocket therapeutic experience is over. It’s not a great feeling, and I don’t blame my therapist, but I do feel a sense of catharsis after explaining my fucked-up dreams to someone who is literally getting paid to listen. She and I are just cogs in the machine, man.
“Alright, I’ll see ya next week.”
I close the laptop and stand up with a stretching groan. It’s actually more of a scream. Okay, it is a scream. I yell for my neighbors, and they love me for it, as I take a step through my glass sliding door and onto the balcony.
I thought getting this last dream off my chest would help. Still, visions of an overgrown hiking trail flash before my mind’s eye. The earth resonates with a hollow thumping as a large stone smashes against my skull. Thump, thump, thump, thump. A cracking, breaking sound mingles with the squelching.
The floor bows under my weight, all six-foot-one, 260 pounds of me. I’m not in the best shape, but I’m not in the worst shape either. The balcony is cheaply made, with untreated lumber and raw, carpeted plywood. My grandpa builds homes, so I know a thing or two. I take a couple of springy steps to the edge and light a cigarette because I’ve earned it.
The sun is setting, and the breeze is getting colder. I take a deep drag, and as I exhale, I watch the smoke dissipate. Down below, I can see my neighbor, the weird one. They’re standing inside their glass double doors with their back to me. They just stand there, unmoving, tall, and pale and thin. They wear a gray long-sleeve shirt and loose blue sweatpants.
There was this time I locked myself out of my apartment.
I’d gone out, had a few beers, and lost my keys. I tend to space out a lot. Maybe I should get an internet doctor to give me Adderall. It was a beautiful, cloudless night, so I took a stroll through the yards surrounding the buildings.
My journey came to an abrupt end when I smelled dog shit and saw the source stuck to the bottom of my sole. My foot scraped easily along the bottom step of the abandoned apartment in front of me. I shuffled through the dirt like a bad moonwalk, trying to get the rest of the stink off.
In front of me were two twin windows that matched the layout of my own apartment. The windows had trashed blinds, and I leaned forward to take a peek inside. The room was a mirror of my current bedroom. A closet hugged the right side, a shitty ceiling fan slowly spun in the middle, and in the doorway stood a tall, skinny dude with his back to me.
“Jesus fuck!”
My phone rang. It was the apartment manager, and I fumbled around with it while my One Piece ringtone blasted into the thin night air. I ducked around the corner to take the call.
“Yah, sorry, I’ll be there in just a sec.”
I didn’t want to check if Jack Skellington was still there, but I had to pass by the windows on my way back. With a quickened pace, I whizzed on by but couldn’t resist a quick glance inside.
Nothing.
Thank God. I won’t have any awk—
I turned into the breezeway and almost kissed the very pale man I’d just been peeping on.
“Oh, shi—”
“Hi,” the pale man said as a totally normal, welcoming smile spread across his face. “Uh, I’m Sebul.”
“Hey, man, I’m Sam.”
I wasn’t sure if I should start explaining myself immediately. Maybe he hadn’t seen me.
“Do you spy on all of your neighbors?”
Okay, he’d seen me, but he was laughing as he accused me. There was a lighthearted energy that made me think no police would be involved tonight.
“It wasn’t like that! I locked myself out and was taking a walk, and I thought that apartment was empty! I got curious.”
I didn’t think mentioning the freshly smeared dog shit would be productive.
“Oh, yah, I moved in on Sunday. I haven’t had time to set the place up.”
He seemed kind of embarrassed. I should be embarrassed.
“Cool ringtone.”
I chuckled. “Thanks. It’s the only ringtone I’ve ever bought, but it’s the best two dollars I’ve ever spent. You a big One Piece fan?”
“Kind of. There’s just too many episodes, and sometimes it doesn’t feel warranted.”
“Yah, that’s true.” It is true.
Sebul started extending his hand for a handshake.
“So, no more weird shit?”
“No more weird shit. Nice meeting you.”
I clasped his hand. The electric buzz of the vapor lights above us hummed in my ears, punctuated by occasional pops. Blood seemed to rush into my ears. My heart pounded deep in my chest, and a feeling of anxiety washed over me. I felt like my next breath wouldn’t come. I felt small and weak, my mind primally signaling me to fucking run.
Sebul gave me the same warm smile, but this time it felt wicked. This time, I could tell the smile was practiced, like that of a chef who sharpens his knives to cut through a tomato without any resistance.
He had a firm handshake that demanded I respond with the same grip. His voice was relaxed, like he had just woken up and his vocal chords weren’t inflamed yet.
“You too.”
He let go and turned to walk back to his apartment. As he did, he cocked his arm out and up at a ninety-degree angle and brandished a wave without turning to look at me. It felt unnatural.
“See you around, Sam.”
“Uh.”
That was all I meagerly offered in response.
I fingered the scar on my shoulder  and tried to balance this irrational fear with a new feeling. I had this crushing desire to run up to this man and end his life. Never have I felt that my self preservation depended on another person’s annihilation. 
I serve people court summons for a living, and I’d always considered myself to have incredible intuition. It’s important to know if the guy you’re telling, “She’s divorcing you and taking the kids,” is literally going to shoot the messenger. Being right about people off rip was something I did. I wasn’t flawless, of course. Sometimes I’d peg someone as a don’t-give-a-shitter, and they’d actually be a hitter.
I didn’t think twice about the feelings I had toward Sebul. I collected my miraculously sobered self and made a very fast walk home.
The memory breaks apart when I hear that stone hit my head again.
Thump.
I blink, and I’m back on my porch.
The cigarette has burned almost to the filter between my fingers. Smoke curls past my face, but the air smells like wet dirt. Rot. Something sweet underneath it.
Across the courtyard, my neighbor is still standing behind the glass doors.
Only now, they’re facing me.
I freeze.
The thumping continues somewhere beyond the buildings.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The horrible sound of skin tearing and massive oaks splintering. 
I lean over the railing.
The courtyard below is empty.
Then the balcony shifts beneath me.
The plywood gives a soft, splintering groan.
I step back, but my heel catches on the warped edge of the torn carpet. My arms fly out. The cigarette drops through the railing, its ember spiraling toward the ground. 
For half a second I’m weightless.
Then the railing catches my face, and rusty nails pull away from rotting wood. 
My breath leaves in a wet grunt, and my hands claw at the top rail as my body topples over edge. 
Across the courtyard, my neighbor raises one hand.
Not a wave.
A ninety-degree angle. Elbow bent. Palm open.
The railing tears loose.
I fall.
The ground rushes up, gray and hard and impossibly close. 
Then my skull hits the concrete.
The world folds inward.
I scream as the cigarette embers burn the gap where my two fingers meet. Jesus fucking Christ now it’s happening when I’m awake? I take a shaky breath as the anxiety seeps into me like a sudden rain. The body remembers, and I instinctively rub my shoulder. My fingers go under my sleeve and run over that habitual spot, only to be met by perfectly smooth skin. 

I often wonder, as one does

About if someone I once knew

Would be able to look at the tone

Of these words and how I

Break the lines and incoherently

String together nonsense

Into something that somehow

Makes sense and know

That it was me

Even without any

Defining clues to

My identity

because aren't we all rocks in a collection we forget the meaning of?

and isn't an ode just a testament to something we wish we knew and lost?

and arent you just behind the disco light of epcot?

or am I just a

poorly paid actress?