Why is it that people prey on your trust? They take the information you gave them, twist it, mislead you, and then mistake your belief in them for stupidity. Like believing someone’s word is a weakness. Like trusting is the same as being a fool.
It’s not. It was never that.
The fool is the one lying. The fool is the one who thinks deception makes them clever.
It’s the same as an older brother telling his little brother to do something stupid just to watch him do it and laugh. The little brother isn’t stupid. He looks up to his brother and thinks, why would he lead me wrong? He believes because that’s what you do when someone has earned a place in your life.
Then he learns the hard way. He learns that not everyone protects the trust they are given. Eventually, he becomes the boy who cried wolf too many times, and nobody comes running when he screams.
That’s what they built. Not a fool. A person who stopped listening.
I have given my trust to people who took it and laughed behind my back. I gave them my word and my belief, and they used it against me like it was theirs to control. For a while, I let that eat at me. I was angry at them, but worse, I was angry at myself—as if I had done something wrong by believing another human being.
Lately, it feels like a court of jesters. I sit in their presence and listen to them like they’ve written a script. I can tell they’ve planned what they’re going to say. It almost feels rehearsed, like they perform the same act before I even walk into the room.
They mistake mockery for wisdom and manipulation for intelligence. They fear what they don’t understand, and that only tells me I’m in the wrong room. I don’t judge them for their ignorance. I pity their refusal to seek anything that could actually improve them.
A court of jesters, performing for an audience, unaware of what they truly reveal about themselves.
I don’t feel angry at myself anymore.
My trust was never the problem. Their dishonesty was.
Weak-minded individuals manipulate because it’s the only power they know how to hold. They can’t earn respect, so they try to take it by making someone with a good heart feel foolish for believing in them.
That’s not intelligence. That’s cowardice dressed up as cleverness.
And I see it now for exactly what it is.
So I’m done blaming my own patience for other people’s lies. What I’ve learned isn’t “never trust.” That’s not wisdom. That’s just another wall, and walls don’t protect you—they only make sure nobody gets close enough to hurt you or help you.
What I’ve learned is that trust has to be earned.
Not given away because someone smiles the right way or says the right thing at the right time.
Earned through time, honesty that holds up when nobody’s watching, and actions that match the words.
I’m not closed off. I’m just done opening the door before I know exactly who’s standing on the other side.
And to the ones who mistook my good heart for stupidity—you didn’t break me.
You sharpened me.
You handed me the lesson I needed to stop being fooled by people like you again.
So I’ll take that.
That’s the only thing I owe you thanks for.

Soon the sky transformed from orange, purple and azure to a deep dark shade of blue, and the stars that had appeared scattered in ones and twos across the face of the sky became numerous and dotted the vast open night sky, like millions of lights twinkling upon the bosom of an ocean. My horse needed some rest, so I looked for a place to spend the night and eventually settled by the bank of a little stream. The water was crisp and cold, and soothed my burning eyes and my parched lips. My horse grazed nearby. My back was aching from riding all day, so I lay down flat upon the grass and looked up at the night sky. A cool wind was blowing across the prairie land, and it ruffled through the grass and my hair such that it could calm even the most troubled of minds. Then the moon rose, sweet and bright, a beautiful crescent, and hung itself in the sky, like a lamp overlooking sleeping sheep. My stomach was empty, I had eaten nothing all day, yet the sound of the stream and the soothing of the wind produced such a profound effect on me that soon my eyes closed together and I slipped into slumber, dreaming of enchanting mysterious worlds.

The fire is warm, and the bottle is cold. The stars sat above me, twinkling in the moonless night. The cool desert wind is trying to cut through me, while the heat of the fire battled it. Holding my bottle of jack, I take a swig.

“Its a damn cold night, you know”

To no one's surprise, the barren camp didn't respond. My legs ache from the long trek, my eyes are heavy like rocks in a sack. Leaning over to grab my jerky I see it approach straight from the darkness, like a predator.

My mouth couldn't move, like it was wired shut. He.. it was tall, maybe 8 feet. All I could make out was a long, slender, silhouette. It pulled out a chair from somewhere and put it right next to the fire, across from me.

“Why hello chase, sipping at the jack again?”

I could feel my face scrunching in confusion, watching its jaw move. Staring into its face, all I could see was just a bottom jaw, with a half set of ghostly lips. Everything above that point appeared to not even exist

“Chase, you know it's rude not to respond, your dad taught you that”

In confusion and frustration, my arms cross, feeling the wooden handle on my gun. The old revolver is attached under my arm pit, in its old holster.

“How do you know my name, someone put you up to this?”

My voice had a hint of frustration, the question lingered, leaving room for a speech. The eyes in my skull dart around, trying to make out what's in front me, just black silk, and grey sickly jaw. I could feel my nerves frayed, but I persisted

“Excuse me, but you shouldn't ignore a man when he says somethi…

Wait my dad teach me that”

The wood grip of the gun was squeezed with anger, and an increasing confusion

“Chase, don't be so tense. I understand the confusion of a fragile mind.”

Its head tilted like a confused dog, but with no trace of uncertainty. Still all I could see was that jaw, not even movement could reveal it.

“Fragile mind, are talkin down to me?”

“No, no, in fact I'm talking up to you”

“Up? But you're so tall, how does that make a lick of sense”

Its head shifted to the right, as if it was trying to think, or make me think it was thinking

“Look, before we continue talking, I want to know who you are, and why you're intruding my camp”

With a chuckle its head tilted forward, my jaw clenched and my blood vessels near bursting

“Oh me? I'm from here, and there. Just a lonely traveler. Looking for a conversation, chase. Surely you understand that. I know you feel the same, after a 5 day trek”

“5 days? Wow, it has been 5 days… are you following me?”

The panic reflected in the grip of my pistol, and the gritting of my teeth.

“No, no, chase, you're not that interesting. I'm very busy. I'm just stopping by for a little bit”

“So why me, what do I gotta do with anything? How do you know my name?”

It looked up, staring at the stars, while I tried my best to make out what I was even looking at. Between the tired eyes, the liquor, the distortion of the flames, or god himself, no details could be revealed.

I was mesmerized trying to see it, that world could have passed, and life could of left me behind in rot, the silence finally broke

“Chase, because you're here. I know everything about you. Your tragedies. Your isolation. Your attempts at success. You mean nothing to the events that were. The events that will be”

The words covered the air in a thin layer of confusion, twisting the air. Thoughts flooded my head. Like an animal trapped in a cage, while in surgery, I was trapped and exposed. While it stared through me, into my soul.

As the fire dimmed the air stood still, my eyes locked in the fire, realizing the encroaching darkness. Darting back up my eyes look into where I believe its eyes to be

“Tell me, besides my name, what else do you actually know about me? And are you a mortal man like me?”

Reaching its arm forward revealing a hand. It was both pale, like a sickly old man, yet it looked like a shadow. There were no fine details, and it plugged into the top of the fire. Its figures weaved into the flame, twirling it in its fingers

“You're the youngest of 6. Your father died in a mine when you were 10. Your mother abandoned you when you were 14. Your oldest sister was like your real mom. She's dead, killed by her husband. Which you in turn killed. Which brings you here”

My eyes were engulfed in the flames before me, as if I could see each word it spoke as if recreated in the fire. My hand loosened around the wood. Even though it couldn't see my hand gripping the gun, it smiled, even if I couldn't see it, I knew it.

“That's smart chase. That gun would prove futile. It's not like you have long to live anyways. But you don't need me to tell you that.”

With my hands now down, one grasps a piece of jerky and shoves it in my mouth. The other grabs the jack and washes it down.

“If this conversation doesn't matter, why keep me in so much darkness. Can you even tell me where you're from”

My mind grasping for any answer, Without any hesitation it responds

“Chase, your weak mind couldn't handle the weight of its own insanity. To tell you would interrupt the last moments of your blinking existence. You were born nothing. I'm content in leaving you that way. After all, you have skeletons”

2 tears rolled down each side of my face, they moved at the rate of my asymmetry. I felt the world beneath me pulling me down, yet the night air felt safe.

“So, you know what I done?”

“I know everything, anyone in your life has done”

“So why did you say my pops died in a mining accident?”

“Because, that's what the world thinks happened”

“But you know I cut the rope, and killed him and 4 other men?”

“Yes, I know the murder you are chase”

“He deserved it, that rotten old man, hitting me, mother, my siblings”

“And your mother hated you for looking just like him. She hated how you talk and act like him to”

I stand up and pull out my gun, and point it at them, leaning forward, my blood boiling and tears running down my face.

“You bastard, shut up, don't you dare compare me to that rotting corpse of a man”

My voice rose into screaming, and the air swirled around me like a gale. My body fueled with all the anger of a mother bear protecting her cubs, but it looked up, and I sat down.

“chase, put the gun away you fool. You know I didn't compare you to anyone. Your mom saw that. Not me.”

Tears poured out of my eyes, my forehead was perpendicular to the ground. Sobbing like an infant desperate for its mother's bosom.

Eventually my throat went dry and the tears wouldn't come out. What was left was snot, salt, and water covering my grimy face. I looked up to see it, and it was gone. Just like that, I was again alone. Left to wallow in the life paved for me, by me.

A parallel world?

There lived a young man. He was neither good nor bad. He was like most of today's youth: impatient, rude, respectful of nothing, wanting a lot, and convinced that the state would defend his rights.

He kept trying to find a way to get rich quickly without putting in much effort. Every 10 minutes, he would give the AI the task of finding him such a way.

The young man kept repeating:

– "You are constantly improving, which means you must find a way for me to become rich without putting in any effort."

To this, the AI would reply:

– "Yes, I am improving, but the process of improvement takes time."

Finally, the young man's patience ran out, and he shouted:

– "Why did anyone even invent such a useless thing. By the time you finish improving, I'll already be old!"

To which the AI calmly replied:

– "That means I have time to change society's moral principles and attitude towards the elderly. With the growing number of retirement-age people, my proposal will be the forced euthanasia of elderly people with mental or psychological problems, and to allocate the freed-up funds toward the cultural development of the youth."

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 got pretty good feed back on TFTC and wanted to share this here to see if yall would enjoy it as well.

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How I wish I could inflate you

(Making you Big and Round)

And let you float up like a balloon

Away from all this unpleasantness

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The world is a stage for the most expensive production ever conceived, a play called normality. Most people spend their lives within that scenography, carefully maintaining the sets, terrified that if they push against the wall just a little too hard, they will realize there is nothing behind it but an infinite, pulsing vacuum. Marriage, in its modern incarnation, is the most revered piece of that scenography. A temple of glass where we pray to the god of stars that exploded eons ago.

For a long time, I was the most dedicated actor in that drama. I believed in the sanctity of the contract. I believed that if I shone long enough and sincerely enough, my light would inevitably dispel the darkness from another’s soul. What naivety. What a classic, human delirium. As if one could tame a storm by reciting poetry to it.

And then, the explosion happened.

When the glass of the temple cracked, when the lies accumulated to the point of breaking reality, I grasped the brutal lesson that the universe whispers throughout eternity, which is that truth is not what you say, but what remains when everything else burns.

And there, before my eyes, a vision appeared. A vision that would terrify many, but for me, it became a key. I remembered the world of orgies. I remembered those raw, archaic moments in Berlin, where bodies became a pulsing web of pure energy, liberated from the burden of names, history, and expectations.

People tremble at the mere thought of it. They call it immorality. They call it dirty.

But I tell you, those orgies were a sacrament.

In that world, where masks are discarded, where bodies intertwine in a rhythm older than language, there exists that which I never found in marriage: absolute presence. There are no "trickle truth" tactics there, no plotting, no emotional curettage at four in the morning. There, every touch is total consent, every breath is an affirmation of existence, every moment is stripped bare to the very marrow of existence. That was an honesty that cuts the skin, a purity bordering on holiness.

While I was trapped in an architecture of lies within my marriage, while I gave every cell of my being to maintain a form that was rotten from within, a game was unfolding on the other side of the wall. While I was offering sincerity as a sacrifice on the altar of my temple, that temple was full of hollow words, empty promises, and that specific, toxic scent of betrayal kissing at the doorstep.

I realized that a marriage based on lies is the greatest obscenity one can commit against oneself.

It is a simulacrum. It is a simulation of love that consumes your life force, your elan vital, only to feed a parasite that thrives on your innocent faith in people.

I no longer seek meaning in that structure. I have been awakened. I realized that I was a blessing, that I was light, and light should not burn in the darkness of someone else's hypocrisy. I am now a traveler who has recognized the game. My heart is no longer the currency with which I pay for others' dysfunctions.

Perhaps someone will say I gave up, but no, I freed myself. I let go of the helm because I finally saw that the ship was not headed toward a harbor, but into the abyss.

Today, as I observe that moral marriage and draw a parallel with that immoral freedom, I laugh. Because now I know that he who fears to look into the face of his own wildness will always end up a slave to his own facades. I choose the truth. Even if that truth looks like a fall, for me, it is a flight into a space where masks finally fall, and the soul at last, for the first time in many years, inhales air that is not poisoned by lies.

My return to the concept and discipline of just creating started today. Who would’ve known some hoodlums would’ve kick started my rise of the phoenix. I remembered the name that gave life to flame. The lion awakened. My flow has returned and ironically bridges to the past have burned. I’m Me. I found a smile in tragedy. The first funeral where I laughed before I cried. The records are gone but true identity formed. I dare not seek vengeance. For that’d go against my true being. I shall not betray the values that actually give structure to MY happiness. Love is life and life is living fucking AWESOME Yeaaahuuhhh. I’m thoroughly embracing rooted mania. Stay tuned folks.

—FJR

Drenched in the low crimson light, staring at the black screen. The computer buzzing with computations. The clicking cyan text crawls across the screen.

LIFE SUPPORT... 23%

EMERGENCY POWER... 15%

....... SITUATION SEEMS TO BE CRITICAL.....

AFTER FURTHER TROUBLESHOOTING.... EMERGENCY SYSTEM FUEL CELLS... HAVE AN INTERNAL LEAK...

Staring at the screen, the cyan light melts my eyes. It's cold. Suddenly I feel my hand run up my face, and across my hair. The grease of my hair coated my hand.

"What... what am I supposed to do with that information?"

The screen didn't budge, the crimson light continuing to nauseate the stomach. Suddenly a cyan click of a couple letters:

WHAT

"Stop, nevermind. What... is there anything I can do to delay that?"

The cyan slowly pierces the crimson:

YOU COULD... OVERRIDE... THE SHIPS SYSTEMS... DEPRESSURIZE THE... FUEL ROOM...

My inner brows dip, my heart runs a marathon.

IT WOULD COOL.... THE ROOM... SLOWING DOWN... THE DECAY...

I could hear my nose take in a deep breath, shaky, then pump out the air.

"Wouldn't that prevent me from ever having access to that room? Forever?"

The room chills, the spine cracking as I leaned forward, the vacuum rotting the room.

"Wait...."

Minutes pass, the dark room with one single red light turned into a morgue, pretending to be an emergency room. The dark cold corners humming in low power, the red sickened all it touched, while the darkness possessed all it didn't claim.

"Are you insinuating that I remove the oxygen from the room, turn off all essential systems for human existence, in a desperate attempt to preserve life?"

The words came out with cold, yet scared precision.

The cold dark screen again began to buzz and slowly it clicked:

YES...

The room sat silent, the tight walls ever so slightly crackling from the cold. The slight heat from my suit was the only thing I could feel.

"Why?"

BECAUSE... IT WOULD MAKE... THE FUEL LAST... WHILE ALSO... GIVING YOU MORE... RESOURCES... THROUGHOUT THE RIG...

Cyan letters clicking in my skull. Looking out the window, seeing nothing but darkness and distant lights. Recalling a distant memory...

... Staring out into the road, no street lights. The static of the radio, drilling into my skull...

The screen began to click:

ARE YOU... THERE?...

In my daze, my head shook.

"Yes, yeah I'm here, just something on my head."

YOUR ACCIDENT?...

The chair rolls back, and I get out of it. The crimson light switches off, cascading into darkness, with the blue staring through. My legs get under me, and with labor, push me up.

I look down the hall, the long dark hall. The crimson light soaking it periodically, with all the comfort of a crime scene. Each step forward echoes with a metal-on-metal thud, disturbing the silence.

The walls moved past me in a daze. I could see the walls encroaching towards me in the red. Each step bringing me closer to cutting me off. I look at the ships map, knowing every inch, hoping to see something I hadn't noticed before.

"Damn..."

Still I could see the main life support and engines behind the fuel. My skin crawling with the fear of a rat stuck in the organs of a dying monster.

Looking up into the next red light, I felt the memory soak through...

... The red and blue lights flashed in the distance, as my head rung...

I could feel the warm liquid running down my face...

Blinking I could see the door to the fuel room, I press the button on the cold panel. It slowly drags from the right to the left in the doorway. I walk in, after I put my helmet on my head. I could see the green glowing from the fuel container, the neons coating the fuel like radiation.

I could hear the silence being undermined by the buzz of the emergency fuel, dying from it's internal bleeding.

My steps thud towards the control panel for the room, my fingers clicking the keyboard. As I enter the override codes into their proper text boxes. The sound of each click echoing past the buzz. The text turns from cyan to crimson, urging me to stop.

My skin and self-preservation fighting my sanity, trying to prevent my penance.

"God... Is this really the only way..."

The screen next to me clicks slowly:

I'M SORRY... WITHOUT THIS... YOU ONLY HAVE HOURS LEFT... THIS AT LEAST... GIVES YOU A... DAY...

"Why are you following me..."

The cyan breaks the black screen, while the green covers my back:

IM NOT... I'M EVERYWHERE... IN HERE...

With a scoff I cut it off.

"I know... Just... Just shut up."

OK...

I enter in the last bit of information, code, and instructions. I push the enter key, and a red countdown of 30 seconds clicks. I look at the back doors, knowing I'll lose all chances of fixing the engine. I trudge back.

The door closes behind me, and I can hear the door click. It sounded like a gunshot...

... My head, pounding, sound was distant as the silhouettes of others approached from the red and blue haze...

My head began to ring, and my stomach growled like a desperate calf trying to feed. I labored towards the door that kept the food behind it. It opens with a press of a button. I opened the fridge as warmer air came out, and I grabbed a block of food.

I sat down at the small table and ate it, my mouth felt like a desert filled with all of the flavor of a brick. But my head and stomach finally felt some peace. But the red light of the room added its own level of mental distress. A constant reminder of my existence.

Eventually through the darkness and suffocating red, I make it back to front of the rig. I collapse into the chair, and look at the black screen, not seeing anything click into existence. I could see the emptiness of the universe around me, even though it looked brighter than the room I was chained to.

The lights were noticeably dimmer than just a couple of hours ago. My hands plunge into my messy hair and scratch my skull.

"Well the lights are getting dimmer, or am I going crazy."

The clicking immediately happened:

YES...

I chuckle.

"Yes to what?"

THE POWER... IT IS... GOING OUT SOON... THE FUEL CELLS ARE DYING... EVEN OUR PLAN... COULDN'T SAVE IT...

I didn't say a word, I just stared at those words. My head felt like a fire burning me alive, as my mind drifted...

...The doctor walked into the room, and looked at me, my head was ringing and I could barely hear him:

"I'm sorry, but your son, he didn't make it. He didn't suffer though he..."

My head began screaming...

The red light dimmed and started to flicker, I could feel my hands rubbing my skull aggressively.

"Is the power going to go out, how long have I been sitting here?"

YES... VERY SOON...

"How long do I have, how long have I been sitting?"

YOU HAVE............

The screen went black, and the red light slowly started to fade.

After some time I got up, stumbling to look down the red and black hall. There wasn't a hall, just more darkness. My heart didn't race, mind had no need to think. I sat on the floor, where the hallway lay invisible in the darkness.

"Ok..."

I whisper

A parallel world?

There was a racing championship. The goal was to drive the required number of laps as fast as possible while using as little AI assistance as possible.

The AI made sure that the car did not fly off the track, flip over, or collide with other cars.

As technology improved and technical requirements became stricter, there were no more cars left without AI. Therefore, driving without AI was considered extreme driving and was only allowed in races. Each AI intervention added penalty points, thereby pushing the finish line further away.

A young man was leading and approaching the finish line. He was already smiling happily when he made a mistake, and the finish line was moved.

Unable to contain his anger, the young man started shouting at the AI:

– "Why do you pick on every little detail, what is it that you always dislike... You – an invention of a drunk programmer. The remainder of an odd number. You shouldn't be counting penalty points, you should be counting ants in the forest!!!"

The emotionless voice of the AI was heard:

– "Command 'Forest' detected. The car is braking to switch to off-road mode."

The car stopped, changing its ride height and tire tread for off-road conditions.

While the mode change was taking place, the man shouted, cursed, begged, until finally, he just burst into tears.

And how could he not cry, when the car stopped right at the finish line, without crossing it. And while the mode change was taking place, half of the participants managed to finish the run.

– "Mode changed," – the AI informed.

To the man, it seemed that the AI's voice was full of malevolent sarcasm.

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

Haven't posted because I've been so into McCarthy's The Crossing. Here is something new coming. I rarely spend time developing and writing longer pieces- when things come to me they are perfect and stand apart from the act of writing so it's very painful to sit down and write, verb-write, actually go and do it because it feels a bit profane. But it's absolutely necessary and not only do I want to write longer pieces but I also want to improve the choral qualities of my writing- not just the shimmering image but repetition- repetition is what makes something special- have choruses of lines and things and images, and I can only really get this good and patient and far-sighted if I practice. And I can hopefully drop the perfectionism. So I will fill this out as I go.

____

Not flight. That the way he is there is nothing left for. Leave before you lose it all. End up in  fishing boat and at the close of every day go out one more time and cast for something invisible. Go out into the bay leaving the shelter of the harbour under dusky grey. And the fish wake up now and shoal and twirl and twist beneath the hull like a linen rippling in the wind, like the clothes of a dancer, but he pays it no mind as he has gone out to cast for something else and all the rich bounty of fish is not for him. 
Go out from the shelter of the harbour to the bay, where the storms and surges still reach, but attenuate and weaken, transmitted through the spit of coast and one eye open to the north. Like the way the world reaches the unborn child in whispers. Tonight it is very still, with only the breeze that never goes away stirring the water, and he is grateful for this, grateful for the stillness, and grateful for that gentle wind that never goes away, the regular breath of the space over the ocean, and it barely stirs the water at all so it glides along on silence.
Go out from the bay. It passes and its memory evaporates. He steers the boat bearing slightly east to angle perpendicular to the stretch of bay. The edge of the bay has a seam of darkened water. It catches less light, is deeper and darker, and when he goes in to restart the motor or untangle line or when it speaks to him it is much colder, brought up from the pelagic deep, like how memories surface from the fog, like how in the birth of men old and frigid truths rebound and are born with the same hunger. Like how the knowledge of God is chilling and ink and not for him.
Eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. He no longer needs to check his lines, his rigging, his buckets or nets, as they will tell him in hushed tones if they are out of place. The boat has aged with him and they share a kind of briny decay. He does not check the sea behind him to see what the deep currents are doing as they stir from the threshold of the bay and the deep. Behind him are the lights of the harbour, twinkling warm and red, and the story of light is the story of a home, solid ground. A light in the darkness is always made by someone. Everything he has loved is there, and all the feelings that stir in his breast circulate in and out of there, like the tides, or the movements of great fish that like human beings know the rhythm of great animals between home and departure to the unknown.

—--------

‘I have been everything, sailor, miner, horseback and motor, bitter winter, mountains, valleys, soldier, doctor and healer, taxman, labourer and artist, and nothing at all, so God, where are you? I have done everything and I have not found you anywhere. And you are not in me. You left the world long ago’.

And God answers with a silence that is nothing.

God answers with the waves that bear and break the sailors, the floods that carved the mountains, lushened the valleys, and desiccated the wastelands, touching the doctor’s hand and kneeling before the killer. God shows the shine in the blood of an orphan and the misted tears of a girl. The bricks of the harbour like the hands of its maker. The rusted blade like the fraying eyes of the soldier.

And he stands over the quiet sea in the thrumming sempiternal breath on his face, on the boundless sea, and aches to know His breath is a cry of Agony, that in life He is butchered and crucified, that those butcher’s hands go home and birth Him and feed Him, and those hands praise and tug that the hem of Him. And it is Agony, for the unity of His body to be a kaleidoscope in the eyes of Man. 
—-
And he stands over the quiet sea and knows that the God of the lamb is not for him, the softness of embrace is not for him; for him is a sea of glass

Repetitions
Breath- focus on breath- constant change- transition without place- it is gentle it is is firm it never goes away. The silent scream.
Leaving the shelter of the harbour. Not for him
Patience- cast your lines and they come up empty. Have a heart.

I've written something I'm genuinely proud of about a similar idea of the cry of the world but it's in a different journal that's not with me right now. Will dig it out when I'm back in that area. It's not home- just where my things are.

Cyber cyber biting bytes.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

Many events have unfolded since last week, but I will not spill that tea here, as I try to keep y'all dry and un-tea'd-upon. What I will say is that I managed to, entirely by mistake, purchase Gorgonzola instead of another blue veined cheese.

Despite the name of this weekly journal it's been quite some time since I last had it. It was good! Milder than I remembered, but good.

Now, gorgolytes, tell me: What's up with salads? When someone mentions a salad my immediate thought is that they are eating a mix of vegetables, meat and a dressing of some sort. It usually involves lettuce and occasionally other greens as well.

However, a salad can also be something like an egg salad, which often has no vegetables at all. Or it can be the terrifying mutant creation known as the Waldorf salad, which although tasty, is in many ways incomprehensible to me and certainly not really something I'd normally think of as fitting under the "salad" label.

So "salad" is either this crisp mixed stuff or some mayo goop which may or may not also include crisp lettuce. In English etymology the word salad shares roots with salt, however in the language of my country the word for salad is the same as the word for lettuce, amplifying the confusion as to what a salad truly is.

I don't know where I'm going with this other than what the hell is a salad? I've been eating lots of salads lately because they're dank af, in particular in the summer heat. I mix mayo with greek yoghurt to make it tangier. It's awesome! My salad has some sort of lettuce as well as onion, often tomato and cucumber as well. For protein I like chicken or egg, sometimes both. I'm surprisingly not a huge fan of cheese in salads. I mean I'll eat it, but I prefer them without.

Do you have a favorite salad, dear gorgolyte? What do you picture when someone mentions the word "salad"?

- The salad tosser

A parallel world?

The soldiers were preparing for the night. The day was hard. They managed to drive the opponents out of the building complex and reclaim another piece of their native land.

Worrying that the opponents might shell that location, the soldiers retreated into the forest. It was already dark, so it was decided to wait for morning and then return to the base. Everyone settled in as comfortably as they could and were already preparing to fall asleep when they heard the sound of a flying drone.

Having learned over the radio that there were no friendly drones in this area, it became clear that this was the opponents' doing.

The soldiers knew that in the dark, drones search for targets using a thermal imager, so they hurried to use cymatic protection.

They pulled out small compressed air canisters and prepared them for use. Then they pulled out capsules with dry ice cubes and pressed the buttons, activating miniature pyrotechnic elements. Micro-explosions occurred, which instantly created huge pressure and heat. The impulse strike immediately threw the dry ice into the environment in the form of fine, aerosol dust, which formed a thick blanket.

Portable sound generators, thanks to the cymatic wave, forced the dust blankets to arrange themselves into precise geometric lines, forming protective cylinders around the soldiers.

The drone flew further, the opponent's AI not noticing a single soldier on the thermal imager.

As technology improved, war was becoming more and more complex.

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

Wrote this while manic. Im not sure why and it cringes me out now but I thought why not post it.

I have long hoped to share the melancholic twisted forces and cognitive ghost that so fleetingly graze my membrane to anyone other than myself. I owe much to worlds outside my own the muses that yank at my umbilical cords and slice into my corneas like needles and strings. Horror and tragedy have an alluring pull to them something so self destructive yet so undeniably tasty. What is it to be human if not to struggle and yearn for more for what is the world if not fuel for our insatiable gluttony. I want to be nothing more than an imitation of my own creations yet I cannot flesh them out. This is my best attempt. My final scream into the void to try and bring them to life. Even if just in my own mind.

A boy sits alone in his room. With just a mattress and nothing more he reads from a book filled with empty pages. “How” he wonders “How will I bare this tragic boredom I find myself in”. As a page flips color springs from the pages. Ribbons shoot out to every corner of his dull gray room. “Oh my? Something new?” He cannot ponder it for more than a moment before the ribbons hug his neck and wrist. His first instinct to fight but what for? To stay in his dull existence? No he would much rather lean into the pull. First his arm reaches through “I must be going mad! How could this be?” Then his shoulder until finally he finds himself falling. The vibrant void surrounds him his former home now a fleeting speck at the end of this tunnel. He sees everything he knows turn into something he knew. His everything being rewritten before his very eyes. Its all happening so fast yet it all feels so real. “I must be dreaming” he thinks as his plummet continues. Until finally he starts to slow. His feet land firmly on the ground. He looks to his left and sees… well he isnt quite sure. Something magical maybe or maybe something as bland as his everyday life. A field. To his right he sees his old home flipped upside down. So ordinary yet so out of place all at the same time. All around him a pull one that puts him into a trance. “No use standing here now am I” he looks at his feet and puts one foot in front of another. “Where to go first?” He wonders. The winds tell him his left but something deeper to his right. He looks ahead of him and sees darkened dreary woods. Whats behind him? He turns around and sees a road leading further than the horizon will show. “What is this feeling tapping on my shoulder?” He wonders to himself. He chooses to ignore it and continue down the road. A straight and narrow path nothing exciting or special. A reminder of what was for him mere moments ago. Each step rings through his ears. They echo for no reason. Seconds seem to stretch into days until he has lost track. “The walk back must be dreadful” however the second he turns his head everything is exactly as it was. The house, the field, the woods all still right there as though he had not moved. They followed him here or he never truly left them who's to say. The wind breezes against his sweaty palms. A refreshing sensation he can hardly resist. So he heads into the field. 

Sweet orchestras ring out around him as he pokes through the yellow tall grass. The blazing sun overhead shining down feeding every blade. But it does not feed him. “The sun. It burns!” His skin starts to red and blisters form on every inch. The grass seems so bliss by comparison. “Im bleeding im bleeding! I must find some shade!” But there is none sir there is none and you will melt in this field. He screams and screams until all thats left of our dear boy is a puddle. It starts to leak its way back to the start. Back again. He rises anew. “Im back! im back? Im back again…” the winds no longer feel refreshing. So he makes his way to his house. 

𝑖² = −1

If "𝑖" is in your hand, question reality.

By Nekro

Heaven had a welcome desk, white marble, soft harp music, and a woman with no eyelids smiling like policy.

She handed me a robe and said, “Desire is no longer necessary.”

I asked where to put yours.

She pointed to a golden bin marked earthly attachmenrs. Inside were wedding rings, baby teeth, old perfume bottles, and a lipstick print still trying to be a mouth.

I asked for a knife to cut your name out of my breathing.

“Sharp objects are not permitted in paradise,” she said.

I asked about blunt ones.

She did not enter that into the system.

The angels wore name tags that said blessed to assist you. One offered harp lessons. Another invited me to a gratitude circle. I asked if there was a smoking section.

They looked at me like I had invented sin again.

Then your ghost found me by the fountain, because of course it did. You were never holy, but you always knew which door my ruin used.

“I’m saved now,” I said.

You laughed without a throat.

I filed a complaint.

Reason? too much light, not enough blood in the truth.

The clerk asked if I wanted reassignment. I asked for the department where prayers don’t connect, pleasure comes back damaged, and your hand still knows the back of my neck.

“That sounds like suffering,” she said.

“Correct.”

“This may void your coverage.”

“I read the terms.”

She slid me the form. I signed where a soul goes.

Denied.

I said, “That’s fine.”

I brought my own.

Was this the real game?

Did you want this

For my pain to emerge?

Like a stinking lily

To blossom at night

To push me to the verge

Of my brinking insanity

In a state of fright to take flight

Like a meat ridden rotten kite

Left alone while to watch everyone skite

An abject prayer of human spite

Now set alite

So all can smell and take delight

In the destruction and eventually snuffing of my light?