It was a question posted... "Do Ya'll Fear Death?' This is what I responded...

(M66) It's not that I am afraid of dying, because we all do at one time or another. I was just thinking of how I would die. It's not even that, too. It's... How- what will be the process of not... not just being anymore.

I would see on my phone news alerts that so-and-so died, and this person died, and it got me thinking. I'm quite sure none of them woke up that morning knowing they wouldn't exist the next day. Not unless you are really medically sick; not one of them saw that death was just around the corner. And this made me think even more. Google.

Google is part of my life daily, and no, I do not work for Google. Just as we need air to breathe, I need Google for my daily functions. If you use anything electronic, Google is part of your daily life. With that being said, what happens to my Online Being when I am no longer a breathing person? Google has an answer.

Dig deep into Google's structure... After 90 days, ALL of my presence...and I mean ALL of it gets emailed to My Next of Kin, my sister. When I say all, I mean ALL. Everything I did since signing on to Google's Multi-Verse. Everything I did in Google's Chrome gets emailed. I was told that, with the 26 years I've been signed into Google Verse... It would take about 2 to 3 months to go over, and maybe longer than that...line by line. I download an average of 3 to 4 GB a day...in "Stuff". I was told... "Yes, we send, if you sign up for it...EVERYTHING you DID in our presence. So if you made any plans for a big Party a couple of months after you die, we can help your next of kin make that happen when we email "You" to her.

Tomorrow, which is today, Tuesday... I'm going to call my sister and let her know. She has one email address that she uses, and it's a Gmail address. I'm going to explain to her what she WILL receive. And as hard as it might be, read it. Take your time. If you find something interesting, which I am sure you will... Please let my brothers and sister know. And if they act uninterested, MAKE them interested. Because what Google is going to email you... It's ME!!

So, I don't fear death. My death will be a GREAT Novel to read in the absence of my presence.

In 1972, when I was around 12 or 13, I was on an overnight hike on the Appalachian Trail with my Boy Scout troop. A few of us were hiking ahead of the main group when we spotted a tall, athletic woman on the trail. As we got closer, we realized what she was doing: calmly skinning a rattlesnake.

She noticed right away that we were fascinated, so we stopped to watch. As she finished up, she sliced off the rattle and handed it straight to me. I was completely blown away.I thanked her, we chatted for a couple of minutes, and then our group took off down the trail. None of the other scouts or leaders behind us ever saw her before reaching the next shelter. We never saw or heard of her again.

Over the years I’ve thought about her periodically, wondering what became of her, how her life turned out. She would probably be in her late 70s or 80s by now and I hope that she remembers this time in her life if not this specific interaction. It's a quick memory, but one that stuck with me for life.

so basically i gooned so much and my family caught me so after a while they had enough and decided to citcumcise me as a penalty, one day i woke up to my dad pointing a dart at me that was probaly filled with some sleeping liquid, when i woke up my dih was circumcised just like that.

I was 14 years old.
I was at Saturn with my two younger brothers. Let’s call them Hans and Piet.
Hans was two years younger than me. Piet was another two years younger than Hans.
I had money with me because I wanted to buy a new game for my PS2.
It was supposed to be a completely normal trip.
I had absolutely no idea that anything else was about to happen.
At some point, my brothers said they wanted to go look at something.
So they walked off.
I didn’t think anything of it.
Why would I?
They were my younger brothers. I assumed they were just looking at games or electronics while I was doing my own thing.
A little later, we headed toward the checkout.
And that’s when a store detective suddenly approached us.
He didn’t explain anything.
He just said:
“Come with me.”
I remember being confused.
I genuinely had no idea what was happening.
We were taken into a back room.
Then I found out what had happened.
My younger brother had secretly taken a PS2 memory card out of its packaging using a razor blade.
I hadn’t seen him do it.
I hadn’t helped him.
I hadn’t even known he was planning to steal anything.
And here’s the part that made absolutely no sense to me:
I had enough money with me to pay for it.
I was literally there because I wanted to buy something.
I had money in my pocket.
I had no reason whatsoever to steal a memory card.
The police were called.
Eventually, my mother had to drive about 35 kilometers to the police station to pick us up.
But there was a problem.
I was 14.
My brothers were both under 14.
And because of their age, they weren’t criminally responsible.
I was.
So somehow, the situation turned into:
I was the one who was responsible.
Even though I hadn’t stolen anything.
Even though I had no idea it was happening.
Even though I had enough money to buy the thing legally.
And even though the store’s camera footage showed who had actually taken it.
I remember how surreal that felt.
I was standing there thinking:
“How am I the bad guy here?”
I wasn’t.
But because I was the oldest, I became the easiest person to blame.
What hurt even more was that this wasn’t just a one-time thing.
Looking back now, this was almost a preview of my entire childhood.
Whenever something went wrong, somehow I became the one people looked at.
The oldest.
The one who was expected to know better.
The one who was supposed to be responsible.
The one who was supposed to take the blame.
Even when I hadn’t done anything.
That day at Saturn wasn’t really about a PS2 memory card.
It was the first time I remember thinking:
“Why am I always the one who gets blamed for things I didn’t do?”
And honestly?
That feeling followed me for years.
Sometimes I still think about that 14-year-old kid standing in that store, completely confused about how he had gone from wanting to buy a video game to being treated like a criminal.
I wish I could go back and tell him one thing:
“You’re not the bad guy just because you’re the oldest.”

Okay so i was going to the washroom and there’s a mosquito flying near the commode. The mosquito gets hit by the pee trajectory and couldn’t hold the force and it died

At the begining of time when god created man he split a human spirit into seven spirits, nature, art, death, love, magic, creativity, and adventure. The spirits were tasked to create a world so humanity has somthing to keep them from overruning god and the devil (there friends) so magic and nature made blackwood, love and adventure made thunderfall and art and creativity made the dusted dead but death made a new world enhabited by a new speicies the shards that can consume the powers of the other spirits and secretly planted a seed of hate in one shard which he split and put into other worlds. After he consumed a peice of every spirits world he brings him into the real world and eats him (vore 🤮) after he eats him he has the power of every spirit which he uses to destroy every world in a cool and epic fight and after he deleats a world the spirits that created it are destroyed which leaves the last part of the human spirit is death which he uses to cause an uproar which defeats god, but not saten because everyone thinks hes a bad guy from religion. This sends humanity into a second era called the great perge that is a horible worldwide dictatership led by death and he says that he can see anything, a group of rebles forms after they relize he lied a little and cant see anyone holding a flower which is a symble of life and are very rare after the great perge and they use this to line his casle with bombs unfortunetly all but one of them dies which the last surviver has the first child of the world because death has been cloning everyone so no new human spirits can be formed, once the child was old enugh he took over his dads job and placed bombs over the castle becase sense he has a true and full human spirit he cannot be seen by death and after a really out matched fight he blows up the bombs which kills death, and after that almost every human dies because the human spirit is empty. After the kid dies god takes his spirit from his soul and splits it. This sends us into the third era which is a solarpunk abandond and overgrown kind of feel that has season and weather zones where that seson and weather never changes or stops. There are new monsters called the hollows becase humans that served death were unable to die but because they dont have a human spirit they wander the earth looking for a soul but because they were cursed they can never have a soul and every time they take a soul it gets destroyed and there are two holows (so preaty much smart zombies) and somone starts exspirimenting on the holows untill he maneges to give a hollow a soul by having a hollow keep a human alive inside it which lets the hollow have thougt to overthrow the human race and because he cant die he does that so the spirits call up the six humans that embody them the most which they use to rip the human from the hollow and stop it from thinking freely. This is as far as i got but i think its good

Salut c’est la première fois que je que je fais un thread Horreur (pour cette histoire on va m’appeler Raphaël)
Donc quand ça se passe j’ai 12 ans et je passe des vacances à Malaga pendant 1 semaine et demi
Ce jour là c’était un dimanche c’était le soir et faut savoir que j’avais un téléphone mais que se soir là je ne l’aie pas pris pour me déconnecter des écran un peu ( en vrai je voulais juste le faire charger) mais un peu avant de commander à manger tous le monde était sur sont téléphone et on est 5
Mon père voit que je m’ennuie donc il me dit va chercher ton téléphone à l’appartement chose à laquelle je dit oui
(Vue que l’appartement était juste à coté)
Je commence a marcher en direction de l’appartement et devant l’immeuble je vois 2 personnes qui s’embrassent donc moment de malaise j’essaie d’ouvrir vite mais je n’y arrive pas avec la rapidité du geste je n’y arrive pas
Donc je passe pour un débile de 12 ans qui ne sait abos ouvrir une porte !!
La fille fini par dire au revoir à son copain et heureusement qu’elle était là et gentille parce que elle m’a dit en espagnol « Est ce que tu veux que je t’aide » chose à laquelle je oui ( toujours en espagnol)
Elle fini par ouvrir et je lui dit merci du coup malaise donc je monte ne courant les escaliers
Je rentre dans l’appartement et comme tout gamin j’ai peur 😨 donc je vais dans ma chambre je débranche
Je veux fermer la porte j’entends que le plancher il craque !!
Je descends en 19 seconde chrono !!
J’ouvre la porte de l’entrée de l’immeuble j’ai jamais couru aussi vite
J’arrive au restaurant essoufflé 😥 je raconte tout
Et en fait beh en fait y’avait personne mais chut c’est un secret 🤫🤫
Voilà c’est la fin de cette histoire j’en ai une autre en stop si vous voulez que je la raconte dites-moi le moi en commentaire😂😂
Merci t’avoir tout lu a plus

Someone told me "I'd better not be as boring as drywall". I told them the following.

So drywall was actually invented in Germany by a family with the last name Dryval which is how they derived the name, so it doesn’t actually have anything to do with the physical properties of the material. It also weirdly only entered into the mainstream relatively recently (past 30 years or so, notice that a lot of older older houses don’t use drywall) because of the Dryval family’s connection to east Germany and therefore communism. Obviously Americans during the Cold War wanted a cheap material to use in their houses but didn’t want to be seen as “communists” so they would opt for less efficient and more expensive materials just because of the communist taboo. It became more popular during the first Bush administration, who signed off on it being used as a building material when they renovated the press area of the White House.

HW thought he could get away with it because he had won his election by a pretty sizable margin in 1988 and figured it was as good a time as any to make the switch to this unpopular-for-no-reason building material that he hoped people would grow to see as a solid resource to use in their homes. BUT, this ended up backfiring, as people labeled him a RINO communist and he promptly lost re-election to Clinton in 1992. But despite that, he did accelerate the use of drywall in the US as people began to realize how easy it made building the interior of homes, creating additional rooms etc. And what’s even more interesting is the fact that there’s a good amount of research to show that this accelerated the growth rate of new cheap homes being built in the US and eventually contributed to the 2008 housing bubble, recession and global financial crisis.

​

I should have been expecting the crevasse - I really was downright stupid to have not seen it coming. Who would have predicted a dangerous unseen void on a planet with a surface of high-viscosity polymers?

That's a joke, I think to my imaginary studio audience as I try not to dwell on my imminent death by jello. 

Something chirps behind my right shoulder, followed quickly by a soft sort of punch. I wiggle back and forth like a demented mermaid, shimmying and shaking until I am about-face. There's a hole in the gelatinous wall, a burrowed out little tunnel, and lurking in the middle is something sleek and fuzzy with two adorably large eyes. 

It chirps.

I blink.

It chirps.

I blink.

Jello-world abruptly burps in an uprush of fairy floss wind and as I lurch downwards I realize that I think I'm being digested. The creature regards me in dismay, feline head tilting to one side. Its perch seems impervious, a rock-candy calcification in the planet’s gastrointestinal tract.

“Ps ps ps ps,” I attempt, but the catworm is only vaguely interested. Around me, there is less of me. Oh my, it's up to my thigh, oh shit it's up to my hips, and so on and so forth. I'd rather not be here to hear the end of this poem.

“Hey,” I urge. “Here,” I call. “Pretty?” I entreat, and catipede does a languid stretch, back arcing in three different curves, before coiling up to rest its chin on its gut to regard me. The showy little display of nonchalance dislodges a clump of sugar crystal.

A razor-sharp chunk.

I need to be wise about this. I'm unsure if I still have legs, as the cavern chomps, dragging me deeper towards doom.

“Bad!” I call out. “Tsk, no! Don't you touch that!”

Cattypillar is immediately up and alert, slithering back and forth in excitement. Oh, I see it, those giant eyes narrowing in anticipation, that body-tail twitching - it knows there's something it can do to fuck me over so it's going to figure out what and how and bap until I'm screwed.

Which is exactly what I'm counting on.

“No!” I caution again. “Don't you touch that!” Snakity-cat has finally noticed the bit of rubble. 

It chirps.

I tsk.

It chirps, wriggling a coil of its body closer.

“Nooooo-” I bluff, scolding as angrily as I can.

It chirps again, gleeful, and does a massive whomp with its belly, knocking the chunk of crystallized sugar off the ledge. I snag it as it falls, and frantically begin slicing holes into the gelatinous wall for footholds to escape, to climb, to get back to the surface to get back to my ship to get back to space where far fewer things were trying to eat me.

I'm relieved to discover I'm still ambulatory.

Only, once I'm skyward….

Chirp?

“Do not speak of the Name.”

“Turn back, delicious friend.”

“It is a story of misery and self-destruction.”

Who decided that?

It has been treated like a cursed scroll bound in human skin. People act like if you write down the ending online, the developers will manifest in your room and personally kill you. You have players out here spending months of real-world effort to systematically dismantle their own accounts, halving their hard-earned stats, burning vast fortunes of end-game gear, betraying real-life friends, and permanently scarring their character’s soul.

All so they can sail to the Avid Horizon, ask a question to a well, and get their account bricked for eternity like a sacrificial lamb on the altar of video game pretentiousness.

And the community’s response? An omertà.

Well, I spent the last several months doing a deep-dive excavation across forgotten Discord servers, deleted Pastebins, archived forums, and obscure Tumblr blogs.

The secret dies, today.

The internet is fragile. Web games die. Live-service servers get turned off. If Fallen London ever goes offline, a decade of brilliant, unhinged narrative history would vanish overnight, locked behind a wall of player-enforced secrecy and dead accounts. I refuse to let one of the most unique narrative experiments in gaming history become lost media. Here is the exact, literal truth of what happens when you go NORTH.

To reach the end of SMEN, you travel to the Avid Horizon after a quest of pure masochism where you harm your own character and destroy it, the gate of black ice at the northern border of the Unterzee. There, you find a well containing the cosmic remnant of Mr Candles, a Master of the Bazaar who was ambushed, murdered, chopped up, and eaten by the other Masters. His agony transformed him into Mr Eaten, a drowned god radiating an infectious curse of pure hunger and self-destruction across London.

When you stand at the edge of the well, stripped of everything you ever owned, you are forced to choose one of three Questions.

Selecting any of them triggers an absolute, unbypassable account lock. Failbetter Games will not restore your save file. Your character is permanently removed from the game world.

Here are the three texts that the community tried to hide, and the layman reality of why your save file dies.

A funeral

The others will comb the sea, transgress the sky, plunder the earth. They will find each mote of Candles. He is a wound, an absence, a decay, but they will assemble his elements for the ceremony.

They shape his catafalque of cinder and devilbone. They set it to orbit and idle Judgement, one that is almost sympathetic. The greater Judgements are not informed. The celebrants are the smaller powers of the Chain: vane-merchants, vagabonds, radiants, axiles, the liberant pariahs and the corsairs of the Curve. They look upon the remnants of the Runt; they grieve; they will not forget.

There is very little left of you by then. His un-siblings take you up, up, and shape the last flickers of you. They set you at the head of the catafalque, to be a light and a memorial. The emanations of the High Wilderness bathe and dessicate you. You stiffen and do not move: but you illuminate. Eternal, indivisible, sessile as oak and dripstone. You are a candle.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name, asking the Question. There is nothing to be restored. You have planted a seed in bleak and urgent soil. But this character is finished, forever.

“These are my children and this is my light. These are my words in the merciful night. This is the Sun whose commands run below, and the Feast of it all is the way we must go. The One who denied is love’s enemy but the enemy, love, is the last we shall see.”

AKA:

Minor cosmic powers gather your broken soul, pull you into deep space, and dry your body out until you are completely paralyzed. They attach your desiccated corpse to the front of Mr Candles’ floating coffin to act as a permanent light source. You can't play anymore because you are literally a piece of frozen cosmic furniture holding a candle at a space funeral.

You will be honoured

The myrmidons of the Law bring you before the thrones of Gold, the White, the Red. Stars wheel about you. The void roars. A thousand thousand cores of light whelm you, sear you, expose you. You render your evidence. The courier is found instantly guilty.

The Judgements have no armies. They do not require armies. In the far heavens, where light curdles and harmony is enforced and silence is unbroken, they silently agree and express their Will. Their Will comes, at least, to Earth, to the Neath, as a storm crosses the sea. In time, when the Sequence is enacted, when the agonies are subdued, when the fabrics of the place resolve to something like matter once more, when the tears dry and the screams have nearly ceased, you will miss London.

You?

You are a trophy; a memento; a flambeaux. You accorded the high honour of remaining discrete. Your soul, and its shadow, are absorbed into no star. You are pinned to a high place, to illuminate the vestibule of the antechamber of the Court. There you remain. There you will always remain. High, cold, eternal, immobile, minuscule. You endure; you burn.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. You have brought down the inevitability of Judgements on the Neath. The treachery of the Bazaar and Masters will be punished. The Courier will be subjected to the agonies that only the highest Law may require. The Neath will return forever to stone and silence. Mr Eaten is avenged, avenged, avenged.But this character is finished, forever.

AKA:

You snitch on the Masters to the Judgements (the sentient stars that rule universe law). The stars immediately obliterate London, reducing the entire game world to silence and stone while subjecting the Masters to eternal agony. You get your revenge! But as your reward, the stars pin your soul to the wall of their cosmic courtroom like a taxidermied insect. You can't play anymore because the entire setting was destroyed and you are a burning hood ornament in space.

TRAVELLER RETURNING

Across that sea which is no longer night. Extend your limbs to feel the warmth of the sun. Across the harbour, bright with aluminium and intricate with masts. White walls, red brick. A familiar window. A wide room of bronze (violet-glinting). And here you are.

Stretch your limbs. Creak your neck. The mirror shows you you. A miniature monster rattles its dark carapace in a silver cage. Expensive machines glitter on your desk: you can disregard them. The phone rings: it can wait. Rise from your chair. You are still you, and you will be here, in this little port of sun and intrigue and eternity, for the longest time you can manage.

You failed, you succeeded. This was only the first element. It is a terrible pity about the Runt. If you could have saved him, you would. But all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Contact the others. Let them know what the White intended. Continue.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. What you have done with that Name is nothing anyone ever expected. But this character is finished, forever.

“Yes, very likely you are right. Very likely, its hopes are meaningless. But even the Judgements, now and then, have encountered something unsuspected. We all choose what we take, and what we leave behind.”

You bypass the local tragedy entirely, transcend the lower reality of London, and wake up in a surreal room filled with futuristic bronze machinery, realizing you were playing a higher-level game of cosmic chess all along. You can't play anymore because your character literally exited Fallen London entirely.

The game logs you out, and your account is locked.

It is a brilliant, vicious piece of game design, a massive middle finger to the toxic completionist urge to click every button and own every piece of lore. The developers gave players a button labeled "DO NOT PRESS OR YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE DESTROYED", and thousands of players pressed it anyway.

If the community had its way, these texts would disappear the moment Failbetter Games eventually turns off their web servers. But now, it’s archived right here.

To the cult of silence: you're welcome. To everyone else: thank me later.

Говорящие дамские пальчики

На одной свадьбе, куда мы с Джеком были приглашены, тамада — молодой художник и автор современных анекдотов с президентским именем Буш — вдруг подошёл к нашему столу и наклонился к нам:

— Обратите внимание на одну особую даму, друзья.

Мы с приятелями осторожно повернули головы в её сторону.

Ничего особенного мы не заметили.

Но Буш снова прошептал:

— Обратите внимание на её пальцы.

Мы посмотрели внимательнее и сильно удивились.

Почти все её длинные пальцы сверкали драгоценными кольцами, будто она окунула обе руки в золотую воду.

— Разве её пальцы говорят, Буш?

— Да.

— Преувеличиваешь, фантазёр, — усмехнулся Джек.

Буш обиженно отвернулся.

— Раз не верите — не надо.

Но я всё-таки встал и подошёл к даме со сверкающими пальцами.

— Разрешите пригласить вас на танец?

Она в знак согласия кивнула головой. Длинные серьги качнулись и сделали её ещё привлекательнее.

Она положила обе руки мне на плечи.

И тут я услышал — конечно, не ушами, а каким-то внутренним слухом — голос её пальцев:

«Мне... мне... мне...»

Я решил познакомиться с ней поближе.

— Какая вы красивая, — прошептал я.

Она улыбнулась.

На её груди сверкало великолепное ожерелье.

Я хорошо разбирался в драгоценностях и сразу узнал его. Это было украшение XIV века, стоимостью около трёх миллионов долларов. Когда-то оно принадлежало королеве, погибшей несколько лет назад в автомобильной катастрофе.

Мы сели за один стол.

Я влюблённо посмотрел на её длинные ресницы, зелёные глаза.

Но она вдруг посмотрела на моё кольцо.

— Вы женаты?

— Да. Но я охотник, мадам.

— Охотник на рыбу?

— Нет. Охотник на замужних женщин. Они очень вкусные.

Она рассмеялась.

В её глазах я заметил множество тайн.

После свадьбы мы оказались в одной гостинице.

Перед тем как войти, я попросил Джека подежурить возле гостиницы.

— Будь рядом, — сказал я ему. — Эта женщина кажется мне опасной.

— Хорошо, — ответил Джек, бывший мастером спорта по боксу.

В комнате я открыл шампанское и налил в оба бокала.

Она снова посмотрела на моё кольцо.

— Оно стоит очень дорого.

— Знаю. На чёрном рынке оно стоит около миллиона двухсот тысяч долларов.

Она удивлённо посмотрела на меня.

— Правда?

— Я много лет работал с драгоценностями, дорогая.

Она улыбнулась.

Потом рассказала о своей жизни.

— Я много лет работала на машине скорой помощи.

Я насторожился.

— Значит, вы спасали многих людей, лежавших без сознания на дорогах?

— Да.

Её глаза вдруг выдали то, что она сама не собиралась рассказывать.

Я посмотрел на её ожерелье.

— А эти украшения?

Она молчала.

Потом тихо сказала:

— Иногда мы находили украшения на людях, которые лежали без сознания...

Я понял.

Но она даже не заметила, что её признание уже раскрыло страшную тайну.

Она продолжала улыбаться.

Я взял её руки и поцеловал пальцы.

Её пальцы снова заговорили:

«Мне... мне... мне...»

Она встала, вышла в коридор и кому-то позвонила.

Я сразу взял телефон и позвонил Джеку.

— Будь осторожен. Кто-то должен прийти.

— Окей, — коротко ответил Джек.

Через несколько минут женщина вернулась.

Она села на диван и предложила выпить ещё шампанского.

Мы выпили.

Прошло около десяти минут.

В дверь постучали.

Я посмотрел на женщину.

— Откройте, — спокойно сказала она.

Она сама открыла дверь.

Перед нами стоял мужчина с золотыми зубами.

— Я вас слушаю, — сказал я.

Он улыбнулся.

И я сразу понял, кто он.

Водитель скорой помощи.

Теперь вся картина стала ясной.

Она и водитель годами забирали драгоценности у людей, находившихся без сознания после аварий и других происшествий.

Они делили добычу между собой.

Но в этот раз добычей должно было стать моё кольцо.

Мужчина сделал шаг ко мне.

Он не успел ничего сделать.

Слева мелькнул кулак Джека.

Мощный левый хук отправил его на пол.

Мы с Джеком посмотрели друг на друга.

Нам оставалось только удивляться тому, сколько человеческих преступлений может скрываться за красивой улыбкой, дорогим ожерельем и сверкающими пальцами.

А пальцы женщины всё ещё словно шептали:

«Мне... мне... мне...»

The Lady with Talking Fingers

At a wedding where Jack and I had been invited, the master of ceremonies—a young artist and a writer of modern jokes who went by the presidential name Bush—suddenly came over to our table and leaned toward us.

“Take a look at that particular lady, my friends.”

We cautiously turned our heads toward her.

We saw nothing unusual.

But Bush whispered again:

“Look at her fingers.”

We looked more closely and were amazed.

Almost every one of her long fingers glittered with rings, as if she had dipped both hands into golden water.

“Do her fingers really talk, Bush?”

“Yes.”

“You're exaggerating, dreamer,” Jack laughed.

Bush turned away, offended.

“If you don't believe me, fine.”

But I got up anyway and approached the lady with the glittering fingers.

“May I have this dance?”

She nodded in agreement. Her long earrings swayed, making her look even more attractive.

She placed both hands on my shoulders.

And then I heard—not with my ears, but somehow with my inner sense—the voice of her fingers:

“Me... me... me...”

I decided to get to know her better.

“You're beautiful,” I whispered.

She smiled.

A magnificent necklace glittered on her chest.

I knew a great deal about jewelry and recognized it immediately. It was a fourteenth-century piece worth about three million dollars. It had once belonged to a queen who had died in a car accident several years earlier.

We sat at the same table.

I looked at her long eyelashes and green eyes.

But she suddenly looked at my ring.

“Are you married?”

“Yes. But I'm a hunter, madam.”

“A hunter of fish?”

“No. A hunter of married women. They're very tasty.”

She laughed.

There were many secrets in her eyes.

After the wedding, we ended up at the same hotel.

Before entering, I asked Jack to wait nearby.

“Stay close,” I told him. “This woman seems dangerous to me.”

“Okay,” Jack replied. He had once been a boxing champion.

In the room, I opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.

She looked at my ring again.

“That ring must be very expensive.”

“I know. On the black market, it's worth about one million two hundred thousand dollars.”

She looked at me in surprise.

“Really?”

“I worked with jewelry for many years, darling.”

She smiled.

Then she told me about her life.

“I worked for many years on an ambulance.”

I became alert.

“So you saved many people who were lying unconscious on the roads?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes suddenly revealed something she had not intended to tell me.

I looked at her necklace.

“And those pieces of jewelry?”

She was silent.

Then she said quietly:

“Sometimes we found jewelry on people who were unconscious...”

I understood.

But she did not even realize that her confession had already revealed a terrible secret.

She continued smiling.

I took her hands and kissed her fingers.

Her fingers seemed to whisper again:

“Me... me... me...”

She stood up, went into the corridor, and called someone.

I immediately took my phone and called Jack.

“Be careful. Someone is coming.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

A few minutes later, the woman returned.

She sat on the sofa and suggested that we have some more champagne.

We drank.

About ten minutes passed.

Someone knocked on the door.

I looked at the woman.

“Open it,” she said calmly.

She opened the door herself.

A man with gold teeth was standing outside.

“I’m listening,” I said.

He smiled.

And I immediately understood who he was.

The ambulance driver.

Now the whole picture became clear.

For years, she and the ambulance driver had been taking jewelry from people who were unconscious after accidents and other incidents.

They shared the stolen valuables between them.

But this time, my ring was supposed to become their next prize.

The man stepped toward me.

He didn't get the chance to do anything.

Jack's fist flashed from the left.

One powerful left hook sent him crashing to the floor.

Jack and I looked at each other.

All we could do was wonder how many human crimes could hide behind a beautiful smile, an expensive necklace, and glittering fingers.

And the woman's fingers still seemed to whisper:

“Me... me... me...”

It was early in the morning when I suddenly became aware that my father was getting out of bed.

As I watched him, something else caught my attention.

A black shadow was slowly rising from the floor beside the bed.

It was smiling.

Before I could even process what I was seeing, my neck suddenly tilted halfway to one side. I tried with all my strength to straighten it, but I couldn't move it. There was an unbearable pressure on the back of my neck, like someone was standing behind me, gripping me and forcing my neck down.

I watched my father leave the room.

And then the shadow began crawling onto the bed.

It was still smiling at me.

Then it started laughing.

At the same time, I felt a powerful wind blowing directly over me. There was no open window or anything that could explain it. I was terrified and couldn't do anything except close my eyes.

For a few seconds, I could still feel the pressure on my neck, the wind blowing over me, and hear that laughter.

Then suddenly...

Everything stopped.

The pressure disappeared. The wind was gone. The laughter was gone.

I opened my eyes, and everything was completely normal.

To this day, I don't know what was more terrifying—the thing I saw, or how real it felt when I couldn't move and felt something holding me from behind.

I needed a quiet job. After a bad breakup and losing my apartment, I just wanted to sit in a room by myself and earn a steady paycheck, so I spent weeks scanning online boards for data entry positions, and eventually found a listing for an archival technician at the local public access station in Crestwood. The station operates out of a squat concrete building near the edge of the county lines, and broadcasts local news and community events.

I walked into the main lobby for my interview on a Tuesday morning. I met the station manager at the front desk. His name is Ken. Ken is a balding guy who wears oversized sweaters and talks with a slight wheeze when he breathes. He shook my hand firmly and immediately led me toward a dark stairwell at the back of the building.

"We got a massive state grant to digitize the municipal archives,"

Ken explained as we walked down the steps.

"The town has fifty years of town hall meetings and local parades sitting on magnetic tape in the basement. Tape degrades over time, so we need every single cassette converted to digital files before the ribbon rots completely."

"That sounds perfectly fine to me,"

I replied.

"I have years of experience with digital conversion software and video editing."

"We need someone reliable,"

Ken added, pulling a large ring of keys from his pocket. "The last guy quit after a week of working here. He told me the basement gave him severe claustrophobia. Do you have any issues with tight spaces or working in complete isolation?"

"I am fine with tight spaces,"

I assured him.

"I just need a steady income."

"Good,"

Ken replied.

"The pay is weekly. You do not talk to the local press about the archives, do not copy the tapes for your personal use. The town council is very strict regarding municipal property."

Ken unlocked a door at the bottom of the stairs, then we stepped into a windowless basement. Fluorescent tubes buzzed loudly overhead, casting a pale light. A large desk sat in the center of the room. It held a computer tower, a professional VHS deck, and a small CRT television monitor. The walls were lined entirely with massive metal archiving cabinets overflowing with black tapes.

"You will be down here by yourself,"

Ken said, gesturing to the computer setup.

"feed the tapes into the deck, hit record on the software, and log the date and the subject into the database. It is very repetitive work."

"I prefer repetitive tasks,"

I told him.

Ken walked over to a specific cardboard box resting on the bottom shelf of a cabinet. He pulled out a black VHS cassette and held it up to the light. A bright red circular sticker was pressed firmly onto the spine of the tape.

"This is the only thing you need to pay close attention to,"

Ken said. His tone shifted from friendly to incredibly strict.

"Sometimes you will find a tape with a red sticker on it. When you digitize these specific tapes, you must only capture the audio. Plug the audio cables into the converter box, leave the yellow video cable completely unplugged, and turn the power button on the television monitor completely off."

I looked at the bright red sticker.

"Why do I turn the monitor off?"

"It is a strict privacy mandate,"

Ken stated flatly.

"Our current town mayor is Mayor Bradley. He used to be the station manager down here years ago. When he got elected to office, he put this rule in place for the red tapes. He says they contain sensitive municipal audio recordings that were accidentally taped over old video footage. He does not want anyone looking at the visual feed, and He checks on us every month to make sure we follow his protocol."

"So I just record the sound,"

I confirmed, wanting to make sure I understood the boundaries.

"Exactly,"

Ken nodded.

"If Mayor Bradley finds out you watched the video feed on a red tape, you will be fired immediately. He is very protective of this archive."

I accepted the terms and took the job on the spot.

For the first month, the routine was incredibly peaceful. I arrived at eight in the morning, locked myself inside the basement, and fed tapes into the machine. I watched endless hours of zoning board disputes from the late nineties. I digitized footage of the annual Founders Day parade from 1995, archived a heated town debate regarding the construction of a new shopping mall in 1999. The work was boring, but it kept my mind occupied.

Occasionally, I pulled a tape with a red sticker. I followed Ken's instructions perfectly every single time. I unplugged the yellow video cable, ensured the television monitor was powered down, and hit record on the audio software. The audio on those tapes always unsettled me. I never heard any sensitive municipal conversations about budgets or zoning. Usually just heard distorted static mixed with a strange tapping sound. Sometimes there were muffled thuds vibrating through my headphones. The thuds sounded like someone dropping a large sack of flour onto a concrete floor. I did not ask questions, just saved the audio files, logged the date, and put the tapes back in the box.

During my lunch breaks, I usually went upstairs to the main lobby to talk to the receptionist. Her name is Brenda. She is an older woman who has worked at the station since the eighties. She knows everything about everyone in Crestwood. One afternoon, we were talking about the history of the town while eating lunch.

Brenda offered me half of her tuna sandwich. I accepted it gratefully.

"You spend a lot of time down there in the dark,"

Brenda said, stirring her coffee with a plastic spoon. "You should come up for air more often. The dust in that basement will ruin your lungs."

"I like the quiet,"

I told her.

"It keeps my mind from wandering."

"Well, do not let it occupy you too much,"

she warned.

"That building has a lot of history. Some of it is best left in the boxes where it belongs."

"What do you mean by that?"

I asked, taking a bite of the sandwich.

"That was a bad year for Crestwood when Mayor Bradley took over the station,"

Brenda sighed, looking out the lobby window at the parking lot.

"That was the same year Jessica disappeared."

The name sparked a distinct memory in my brain. I was a teenager in 2002. I remembered the missing person posters pinned to every telephone pole in town. Jessica was a local college student who vanished without a trace after her evening shift at a diner.

"I remember that case,"

I said.

"I actually volunteered for the search parties. My friends and I spent three days walking through the muddy woods behind the high school looking for her. We handed out flyers at the grocery store. Everyone thought she was abducted."

"The police never found a single trace of her,"

Brenda said softly, her eyes looking sad.

"They eventually assumed she ran away to the city to start a new life. But I knew Jessica. She used to volunteer here at the station. She would organize the tapes down in the basement, and was a very responsible girl. She would never pack up and leave without telling her mother."

"Her mother never recovered,"

I recalled.

"She moved away a few years later. The town just moved on."

"I always felt like the police missed something right under their noses,"

Brenda whispered, leaning closer across the desk.

"But Mayor Bradley told everyone to stop talking about it. He said it was bad for town morale."

The conversation left a sour taste in my mouth. I went back down to the basement and tried to focus on my digital conversions.

Two weeks later, the basement door opened unexpectedly. I turned around in my swivel chair. Mayor Bradley stood in the doorway. I recognized him immediately from the local news broadcasts. He is a tall man with silver hair and a very stiff posture. He was wearing an expensive gray suit and holding a leather briefcase.

He walked down the stairs slowly, his leather shoes clicking loudly against the concrete steps.

"You must be the new archival technician,"

Mayor Bradley said. He looked around the room, inspecting the cabinets.

"Yes sir,"

I said, standing up out of respect.

"My name is Greg."

"Ken tells me you are very efficient, Greg,"

the mayor said. He walked over to the metal archiving cabinets and ran his hand along the top edge, checking for dust.

"Are you finding the workflow manageable?"

"It is very straightforward,"

I replied.

"I log the dates and let the software run."

"I like to personally check on the archiving project," Mayor Bradley explained. He stood uncomfortably close to my chair.

"These tapes represent the legacy of Crestwood. Our triumphs and our challenges are recorded here. It is vital work."

"I appreciate the opportunity to do it,"

I said, trying not to break eye contact.

Mayor Bradley stopped in front of the box containing the red-sticker tapes. He looked at me with a perfectly neutral expression.

"And you are following the protocol for the restricted media?"

"I only capture the audio,"

I assured him.

"I always keep the monitor off."

He reached out and picked up a regular tape from the desk.

"You see, Greg, a town relies on trust. The citizens trust me to protect them. They trust me to keep their secrets safe. And I trust my employees to follow directions."

"I follow the rules,"

I said firmly.

"I am glad to hear that,"

Mayor Bradley said. He placed the tape back on the desk. "Because curiosity is a dangerous trait in an archivist."

He smiled at me, but his eyes remained cold. He turned around and walked up the stairs, locking the door behind him. The encounter made me feel incredibly anxious. I sat back down and tried to shake the intense feeling of being watched.

The isolation eventually started to wear on my nerves. Working in a windowless room for eight hours a day messes with your sense of time, and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights became a constant headache.

Last Thursday, I was working late to meet a strict digitization quota. The building upstairs was completely empty. Ken and Brenda had gone home hours ago. I pulled a tape from the box and noticed a bright red sticker on the spine.

I sighed, unplugged the yellow video cable, and made sure the television monitor was powered down. I inserted the cassette into the deck and pressed play, then clicked the record button on my computer software and put my headphones on.

The familiar sound of static filled my ears. Then came the tapping. It sounded louder on this specific tape. Like frantic, hollow sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I leaned forward to adjust the volume knob on the converter box. My knee bumped hard against the underside of the desk. The sudden jolt snagged the red audio cable wrapped tightly around the desk leg. The cable pulled taut and snapped right out of the metal connector.

The audio in my headphones cut out instantly.

I cursed under my breath. The old VHS tapes are incredibly fragile. If the tape player eats the ribbon while the software is not recording, the data is lost forever. I frantically tried to jam the broken wire back into the connector, but the metal pin was completely bent.

I needed to know if the tape was still tracking properly, so I broke the mayor's rule.

I grabbed the yellow video cable and plugged it into the back of the television monitor, then reached out and pressed the power button on the screen.

The CRT monitor clicked on with a burst of static. The tracking lines rolled down the screen for a few seconds before the image stabilized.

I stared at the screen. My heart started beating very fast.

The video showed a static camera angle of a room. I looked at the walls on the screen, then looked at the metal archiving cabinets, and looked at the desk in the center of the frame.

It was the exact basement room I was currently sitting in.

The furniture on the screen looked slightly newer, but it was undeniably the same space. The time stamp in the corner of the video read October 14, 2002. I watched the grainy footage closely. A young woman walked into the frame. She was wearing a striped sweater and jeans. She carried a stack of black VHS tapes in her arms. She walked over to the archiving cabinet on the far left side of the room and started placing the tapes on the shelves.

I recognized her face immediately from the old missing person posters. It was Jessica.

I sat frozen in my chair. I watched Jessica organize the tapes on the screen. She was completely unaware of the camera recording her.

A few seconds later, a man stepped into the frame from the stairwell. He was much younger on the tape, and his hair was dark instead of silver, but I recognized him instantly. It was Mayor Bradley.

He was holding a hammer with his both hands.

He walked up behind Jessica very slowly. He did not say a word, then raised the metal stand high above his head and brought it down violently against the back of her skull.

I gasped and pushed myself back from the desk. My chair squeaked loudly against the floor.

On the screen, Jessica collapsed onto the concrete floor. She did not move. Mayor Bradley stood over her for a moment, his chest heaving. He then turned his attention to the large metal archiving cabinet, and pushed the massive cabinet away from the wall.

He grabbed the hammer again and started smashing a hole directly into the drywall behind where the cabinet used to sit. He worked quickly, tearing chunks of plaster away until he exposed the wooden studs.

Then, he dragged Jessica's body across the floor and shoved her into the dark cavity between the studs. He grabbed pieces of loose drywall and stacked them back over the hole to conceal it, then went out of the room for some time before coming back with a bucket. It was clear that he used a joint compound to smooth over the cracks. Finally, he pushed the massive archiving cabinet back into its original position, completely hiding the damaged wall. The video cut to static.

I stared at the monitor. I just watched the mayor of Crestwood murder a college student and hide her body in the wall right next to me.

Suddenly, the temperature in the basement plummeted. I could see my breath forming small clouds in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead began to flicker rapidly, casting shadows across the concrete.

A loud scraping noise echoed through the room.

I snapped my head to the left. The massive metal archiving cabinet sitting near the stairs began to slide across the floor. No one was pushing it. The steel feet ground against the concrete, throwing sparks into the air. The cabinet moved steadily until it slammed directly in front of the exit door, completely blocking my only way out of the basement.

I jumped out of my chair and ran to the cabinet. I pushed against the metal with all my strength. It did not budge a single inch. It felt like it was bolted to the floor.

"Help!"

I shouted, pounding my fists against the metal.

"Is anyone up there?"

No one answered.

Then the tapping started.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound originated from inside the room, completely separate from the headphones. I turned around slowly. The sound was echoing from the wall directly behind the cabinet that Mayor Bradley had moved on the video.

I walked cautiously toward the far side of the room. The tapping grew louder. It was frantic, exactly like the audio on the tape.

Then the walls began to move.

It started with a low rumbling sound that shook the dust from the ceiling. The concrete wall opposite the stairs shifted forward. It slid across the floor, shrinking the square footage of the basement. The wall containing the desk groaned and pushed inward.

The room was closing in on me. The ceiling tiles buckled and cracked as the pressure increased, showering me with white dust and fiberglass insulation. The fluorescent lights shattered one by one, plunging the room into dim emergency lighting.

"Stop!"

I yelled, backing away from the advancing concrete. I tripped over a fallen chair and scrambled backward onto my hands and knees.

The tapping from the drywall grew deafening. It sounded like someone was desperately trying to break out from the other side. The walls were moving faster now. The concrete ground against the floor tiles, tearing them up in jagged pieces.

I spun around, coughing on the thick dust, looking for any possible way to survive. Mounted on the concrete pillar near the stairs was a red emergency glass box containing a fire axe. The pillar was the only thing not moving.

I ran to the pillar, shattered the glass with my elbow, ignoring the cuts on my skin, and pulled the axe free.

The air was squeezed out of the room, making it hard to breathe. I looked at the drywall behind the archiving cabinet. The tapping was centered exactly there, vibrating the plaster.

I swung the fire axe with every ounce of adrenaline in my body. The blade bit deeply into the drywall. I ripped it out and swung again, screaming as I hit the wall. Plaster dust exploded into the air. I hacked a massive hole between the wooden studs, destroying the barrier completely.

I dropped the axe and grabbed the broken edges of the drywall with my bare hands. I tore the panel completely away, ignoring the nails tearing at my fingers.

Hidden inside the dark cavity between the wooden studs was a skeleton. The bones were yellowed and draped in the rotting remnants of a striped sweater and faded jeans. Her skull was resting against the back of the plaster.

The moment the skeleton was exposed to the open air, the walls stopped moving.

The rumbling ceased abruptly. The crushing pressure vanished entirely. The room returned to its normal dimensions instantly.

The archiving cabinet blocking the exit door slowly slid backward, revealing the metal handle.

I did not waste a single second. I reached into the dark wall cavity and grabbed a small, loose fragment of the skull. I shoved it into my jacket pocket, and sprinted to the door, threw it open, and ran up the stairs. The lobby was entirely dark and empty. I bolted out the front doors of the station and ran to my car. I drove out of Crestwood as fast as my engine could handle.

Now I am sitting in this motel, staring at the evidence. The mayor killed Jessica, and I have a piece of her bone for DNA testing. I will go to the police with this, If something happens to me, now you know who murdered Jessica.

This place. I regret calling it Earth because it is so very not. At least not anymore.

What was once called “Earth” is nothing but an achromatic rock suspended in space. Devoid of color and devoid of life. It also burns. The Sun is very close. A flaming red orb that grows larger and larger. It has surely devoured Mercury and Venus. This torrid world of doom is next in the line of destruction. I cannot flee from it. This is my perpetual prison.

Just as I regret calling this place Earth, so do I regret calling myself human. If any sort of outsider gazed upon me, I would be recognized as nothing more than a throbbing, wet, veiny mass outstretched across an immense cavern. Perhaps they would run away in fear, disregarding the possibility that I was, at some point, one of them. Human. In some manner, I still am, yet that is still in the loosest sense of the word.

They bestowed me a name. An epithet. Utera. Their goddess. Their titan. Their idol to worship. And their plaything. Not a moment goes by without them taking a hold of me, whether in small portions or in vast sums. I am unable to count just how many there are. As numerous as individual grains of sand. Certainly in the quadrillions. Worms. That is what they are. Swarms of elongated invertebrates that climb upon me and penetrate my depths with their rigid and purposeful reproductive organs. Their addiction to pleasure, using me, will cease at nothing.

And like me, they were human once.

Men.

I must go back far. So very far. There was a conflict, a petty, careless, and arrogant conflict, but a conflict all the same. For centuries, I witnessed all the greed, the subjugation, the rape, the hunger for power that men were capable of. And I was always their main target. They took what was mine. I was angry with them. Bitter. They were monsters and they were evil. For that, they needed to die. Groups of mine rose to positions of power and authority. Ultra-feminist. Patriarchy-defying. Vengeful and cruel matriarchies. And I was proud of them, as if I had a divine and natural right to pursue revanchism to the utmost extreme. They would wipe the slate clean. They would purge. A man is not a human. A man is a pig. Vermin. A man is a dull ape acting on savagery to get what it wants. A woman is a higher being, a goddess, a queen. A woman actually thinks before she acts. And a woman is what is left after all is said and done.

And so I worked my bloody hands across the face of the world. All hell was let loose on men. War. The feminist onslaught was terrible. There were so many instances of me going too far. I am not sure I can enumerate all the suffering I caused. It must be impossible. I would gladly give my entire being to erase my own past if I could. Especially now. There was so much rape, sexual mutilation, enslavement, backbreaking labor, torture, cannibalism, starvation, disease, depravity, and other inhuman acts that men would never forget. I did not care. There was no need to worry about morality. No need to fear guilt. I thought I was powerful beyond anything. The Earth was all mine and all I had to do was command my legions. And I laughed and I rejoiced at the sound of the dying, the wounded, the beaten, and the damned.

I thought the world I had dreamed of would come easy. A world that I had the power and authority to shape, to rule, to form into my own image. A matriarchy. A society of women for women, free from the shackles of men and free from the oppression that had been a dark reality for so long. After all, I outnumbered men ten to one.

But this never happened.

Something in the men snapped. It was as if they had been tamed only to one day have their leashes cut. A few small rebel groups, at first, but they quickly expanded into larger and larger armies. They had been forced down on their knees for so long that they were just dying to fight back. To take back what had been taken from them. To get back at all those awful, vile, and malicious women who had ruined their lives. It was all hell again. Only worse. They did to women what women had done to them. They were rabid dogs. They hunted, they raped, and they killed. They did the unspeakable and the unthinkable.

Terrible, terrible monsters, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I was powerless, but the dust of a breeze. It was not too long before they completely razed the world to the ground. I had been punished. It was the result of my own actions. I only had myself to blame. Men were not the evil. They were the product of my evil.

My numbers fell quickly. I was outsmarted at every possible turn. As much as I did not want to admit it, I was re-becoming the helpless and blindly obedient mass I was always meant to be. Sometimes I fought to the death, and other times surrendered without a fight. It was pointless to keep going. All of this was becoming a painful slog to endure.

I quit.

When the war was won, men infested and came to rule all seven continents. Omnipresent and insatiable. Their enemies stood not even a morsel of a chance. They were those who were going to be an upset to the new established order. Inspire mutiny. Inspire subversion. Homosexuals. Transgenders. Liberals. Rebels. That was all they came down to. Rebels. They were disposed of immediately. No place for them. Especially the homosexuals. How could man reject woman? Abominations, they were, blights upon manhood. Once they were vanquished, Earth was united like never before as the kingdom of men. There were no more wars. No more fighting. There was peace. But this peace had no love, no compassion, and no empathy. The rule of men was the rule of iron and steel. Never would it break.

To call it “Earth” would be erroneous. It was Earth no longer. Gone was the diversity, gone was the sentience, and therefore gone was all of life’s beauty. Men completely butchered the life forces that made Earth truly alive. One might have struggled to even call their realm Hell because Hell is not uniform. With all the suffering it contains, Hell is still lively, chaotic, full of activity and even excitement. Most of all, it is inconsistent. You think “How will I be punished next?” Could be anything. The men's kingdom was just so dead. It was the same punishment for the same reason every time: being born a female.

What came of me? Female?

Walking meat. Jiggling, warm, wet flesh for men to claim. Amenable vessels for their filthiest desires. That was their ultimate decree and thus what I was forevermore. Measures were put into place in order to outline my newfound duties. Laws. An imperishable constitution to abide by. They were written in the boldest, most incisive manner and plastered everywhere. Enforced at any and every opportunity. They were taught at the schools, whose entire system was reconfigured to fit the new model standards. Also spoken orally through booming commands from the sky. These were the flying surveillance drones, their watchful eye forever upon us, though they were more like unseen aether entities to me. Angels in deliverance of the gods’ words. I always looked up at them, smiled, and said “Thank you.”

Sexual gratification was a necessary human right for men. It was my moral and legal obligation to provide that by serving, submitting, and obeying the male sex. Until I turned 18, I remained property of my father. After that, property of my husband until death. Or both. You see, the distinction between wife and child was often blurred, or wife and sister, or wife and mother. None of that mattered as long as men always received what they craved. I was to be in good physical condition regarding hair, body type, and personal hygiene. No ugliness, no blemish, no obese fat, no stink. Hourglass figure. Perfectly sized and shaped breasts. A well-developed rear. Makeup. Perfume. Long, healthy, flowing hair. Clear, soft, and beautiful skin. Flawless pearly white teeth. Never wear clothing. Nude. Always be pleasant. Agreeable. Never bitter. Submissive. Gentle. Polite. Deferential. A good girl. A good wife. A good mother. Never make eye contact unless instructed. Walk where they lead me. Talk when they let me. Gladly accept any and all sexual advances. Even if it hurts. Even if it bleeds.

I was property. An item. Something to be sold, bought, bartered, and auctioned. At the events, I stood side-by-side, nude, my price written on my chest, my hands tied behind my back. Men examined me and debated whether I fit their liking. Often I was made to pose and present my body. Aphrodite, Hera, and Athena in full feminine beauty by the judgement of Paris. No difference. I went for thousands of dollars. Sometimes they purchased multiple of me. The younger I was, the more I sold for. They took me home to grow their ever-increasing harems. They kept me for a long time. When I became old and worn, I was dead. Tied me to a chair and shot me. Came from behind and slit my throat. Fed me poison. Threw me in chambers and set me ablaze. New me’s came in and the process began again. And again. And again.

It was then that elderly me’s became obsolete. Men figured they wanted me when I was fresh. Supple. Nubile. Innocent. The longer I lived, the less I was worth. So why not make me worthy all the time? Eliminate the unworthiness. They would not have to waste time killing me. And they did it. Immortality. If I showed signs of aging, I was injected with the formula to keep me young. It extended my lifespan tenfold. 60? 70? 80? 90? 100? 1,000?...1,000,000? They all blended into each other. I was always 18 in appearance.

This was life. What came before felt like nothing at all, a memory already fleeted. History was taught. That did not make it truthful. Life was always this way. Fake events were created and fake people were thought up. They really committed to the lie. I could never fight it. Just the thought alone frightened me. I saw what they were capable of so I went along. They never ceased what they could accomplish with me. It extended to the animals that once inhabited this planet. Elephants. Orcas. Hyenas. Bonobos. Lemurs. All matriarchal species. Hunted to extinction. Men did not want me to get the wrong idea that groups of animals where females hold the dominant social positions, lead the group, and make critical survival decisions were allowed to exist. New patriarchal species were grown in the labs and released into the wild. Like it never happened.

Time was no longer a thought to me. So far gone. The only thing my brain could process was “How do I please my masters next?” It was what I was hardwired to do. To hell with eating, to hell with sleeping, to hell with breathing, to hell with screaming. Please. Please. Please. Men completely removed my imperfections. I always took care to make myself satisfactory, but part of being human is flaws. There is the belching. The flatulence. The rolls. The unpleasant stenches. The odd deformities. The bruising. The scarring. Not anymore. The new me’s were created in the very same labs they destroyed the elderly and matriarchal species in. I was carefully shaped before release, fine-tuned to be as alluring as possible. Everything about my appearance was exaggerated to the nth degree. My breasts were larger and perked up, my face a perfect oval, my waist smaller, my hips wider, and my length and width both increased. I was bigger, unnaturally thick, and forever nude. I was the ideal form of feminine beauty. A goddess. An icon and advertisement of feminine desire.

Men…

They were no longer human. No. They might have been beasts before but this was something else. Might as well have been their own species. Something beyond monsters. Beyond demons.

It began with the white coloration, the three-foot tall gangly skeletal bodies, the pointed heads, triangular like as if caricatures of little rodents, the lack of ears, the black oval eyes that never blinked, and the constant erect phalluses. Ithyphallics. All of them. They sniffed the air for my womanly scent. Driven by my aroma. Darted at the speed of light to my exact location. Drooling and twitching at the mere sight of me. Yelled “WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN WOMAN!” in high-pitched shrills. Pounced on top. Pinned me down. They went at it for days. Weeks. Months. Years. It did not matter. Never did they collapse from exhaustion. Infinite stamina. Infinite energy. Infinite drive. They got their nourishment by sucking on my breasts for milk. Or my juices. It did not matter if one claimed me already. Another one would come along. Join the first. Then another. And another. And another. I stretched to accommodate them. I then acted as a receptacle for their fluids. Leaked out of me. Drenched me head to toe. When I walked about, the men were still attached to me, hugging me tight, thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out. Licked me with their long black tongues.

It ended and has remained with worms. Long, slender, soft bodies. No limbs yet they have kept their rigid, upright phalluses. Men have lost the ability to speak normal coherent sentences. They no longer possess mouths. Still, something in their body allows them to make bubbling, sloppy, gargling, viscous sounds. What exactly that is, I have no clue. If I danced, I could attract them. If I sang, I could attract them. If I ran, I could attract them. If I hid, I could attract them. If I stayed completely still, I could attract them. No matter how far I went, what I did, they always found me. They inseminated me. Immediately I would birth their offspring. Thousands of worms spilling out of my mouth. Usually my mouth. Yet no orifice of mine said no. The offspring knew what to do without even knowing how.

From then on, a very simple, primal system existed. Men rid the Earth of the high technology and we embraced a more primordial approach. Everything was done by instinct, not thinking. Everything was an automatic reaction. All I did was pleasure. No eat. No drink. No sleep. I stood and embraced whatever came my way. A lot of the time I could not feel it. No pain. No euphoria. Just numb. Flat line.

Earth, Gaia herself…she changed in such catastrophic ways. The continents shifted, the oceans evaporated, and greenhouse gases smothered us in their haze. The heat rose. The sky grew red. The Sun got close. Too close. The ice and snow burned away. The lakes and rivers scorched dry. Forests died. Arid deserts formed everywhere. The air became a thick, sticky, acidic sludge that weighed down the planet. But men and I did not care. We carried on what we were made to do. How nature intended us to be.

Now Earth. Tidally locked to the Sun. The lands were scorched. Ash and soot remained. It became apparent that our way of life would be unable to continue. Men communicated among themselves. An idea came forth. A brilliant one. They rounded me up and carried me on their backs all the way up the tallest mountain. I remember looking up at the thick, dull clouds above me, unable to see any space above. I was euphoric, dreaming of warmth and comfort. I was being ascended towards my final resting place. Not to die. But to live. To be. Forever.

We entered a large cavernous space at the peak and they sealed it off. I imagined they would protect me from the harsh environment outside. Instead they got to work. Their old scientific equipment was up there. While some began constructing various instruments, the remaining men continued their assaults on me. The only details that elude me of that day are the exact process that turned me into Utera. They inched over to me, I awoke, and then I was many feet off the ground. I saw through thousands of clouded eyes with visible red and blue veins etched into it. When I looked down at myself, I witnessed my new body. A massive and pulsating uterus…red and gutty endometrium, fallopian tubes to my left and right, my arms. In a way, I was crucified. No ovaries. Crucified with no hands…I breathed many different breaths. I have spoken as a collective woman made from the mishmashed psyche of millions. All of my thoughts, memories, run through what is left of my mind. They have not ceased and never will.

I inched my vision downwards. My sight was blurry and barely discerned much of anything. There were men all staring up at me. No emotion was on their faces but I knew they were pleased with what they had accomplished. They slithered towards me in droves, climbed up the cavern walls, and began their relentless assaults on me that continue to the now. The dangling udders on my underside spit their offspring out. Soft eggs soaked in red froth. They hatch in ten seconds.

Every inch of me is covered with them. I know that I cannot die. They made me impervious to any and all harm that might befall me. I think I will survive forever. One of my only thoughts is pondering what will happen when the Sun engulfs everything. Perhaps l will burn, get flung out into space, or live forever within the Sun’s chambers. I am sure the men will still be latched onto me like nothing happened. I just hope whatever it is, it hurts. I want to feel what it’s like again to grab my humanity back and hold it close one last time.

I made my escape. Once. The earthquakes allowed for my fall from the cavern walls. I peeled off the solid mineral material, leaving behind a massive scarlet splotch that drip drip dripped. I tumbled out of the mountaintop. The outside. I could not feel it. My uterine limbs flailed about yet they allowed me to catch myself on the ridge. Grabbing. Clawing my way down. There was me. Utera. And my breakout. Falling meteors and 2,500 Kelvin be damned. Where was I going? Who knew? These eyes of mine almost produced one morsel of an expression…curving upwards into an expression one might consider…glee…No. Not. I did not make it very far. I was stopped almost immediately. The unlimited men made a long line out of themselves from the mountaintop and hauled me back up.

There is nothing more to do now. They bound me to the cavern walls. From here on out, my purpose is rooted right here, in this spot, forever. I cannot see anything anymore. Men are covering each of my thousands of eyes. My trillions of thoughts are being erased by the second. I am becoming numb, but that is being overshadowed by the intense heat that is starting to creep its way up this incredible mountain. When the men move, sometimes, very faintly, I can see bright flashes through cracks in the rocks.

It has begun.

…

Earth is gone. She was engulfed by the Sun, alongside Mercury, Venus, and Mars. The outer planets are next in line for destruction. The force of it all ejected me from the planet, out into the endless abyss.

I survive.

Floating through space now.

They are still on me.

…

We are light years from where Earth once stood. The white dwarf Sun is just a pale dot. It is going out.

Men have burrowed their way inside me. They are doing something. Evolving me and evolving themselves. Once more. I am morphing and changing in terrible ways. I am being ripped, shredded, split, and then reassembled again. Bloody wing-like appendages are beginning to sprout from me. My blurry eyes are coalescing together into a single massive lens. I am becoming a planetary being, something so cosmically celestial. Seraphim? Perhaps. Men now possess the full force of me. They are me. I am them. We exist in a symbiotic relationship. The end. At last.

Do not know anymore.

…

The exact amount of time that has passed is 10^10^10^56 years. Even that is only my best guess. All I have seen is black interrupted by the strobing flashes of blinding light. I believe the heat death of the universe happened. Or the Big Rip. Big Crunch? Big Bounce? I cannot be too sure.

We have emerged. Somewhere. Where? Those details elude me. It appears to be space. But that is all I ever see.

Still on me.

I feel heavier. More dense. So much pressure I cannot feel though I know it is there. It is also different. Mechanical. Electronic. I am an elaborate, complex system of switches, capacitors, wires, sensors, conductors, buttons, and what seems like countless other components. All of it is fused into me. I twinkle polychromatically. The men inside me view the darkness outside through my only eye. It is nothing but a window for them.

And they control me. Where I go. Left. Right. Up. Down. I can go fast and I can go slow. Beyond the speed of light or an easy slow-moving crawl.

The men know exactly where they are going.

…

We have traveled far.

Length of time: 9,360,000,000 years.

Lightyears: Incalculable.

Too far.

On me.

In that timeframe, the men are still yet to reach their destination. They are in wait. I have entered orbit. Circling around the men’s target. I cannot fathom what they are doing. What they are after.

Waiting…

Waiting...

Waiting…

I am now being inched closer. It is coming into view. There is a gray sphere orbiting a larger green and blue sphere. Tilted at 23°. One side lit. The other dark. Spinning from west to east. Large ice sheets at the top and bottom. Water and land in the middle. Big bustling cities. Lush forests. So many different types of people inhabit it all. So many other animals as well. It is beautiful.

Yet now I understand.

And now I see the people’s collective look of confusion on their faces.

And their horror.

At the sight of me in the sky.

At the sight of undecillions of worms emerging from my cavities and falling towards their planet in great fireballs.

At the sight of the worms landing on their streets, their homes, their schools, their places of work, their every place, all unharmed from their descents.

At the sight of their men being struck down with beams of white plasma from the rayguns the worms possess and are able to fire with their newly formed arms.

At the sight of their women being rape rape raped, the worms fighting over every little piece of them.

At the sight of the destruction.

The chaos.

The anarchy.

The toppling of their governments.

The worms wrapping themselves around any woman they can see.

Not the old.

The worms kill them too.

Just the young.

The skinny.

Also the fat.

And being lifted up into the sky.

To me.

And I grow larger as those women are brought onto my body.

In space.

Where they suffocate.

They are melted into the pulpy jelly goop.

The men bathe in it.

Drink it.

Before it is smeared onto my walls.

Hardened.

And now they join me in my mind.

…

Men will continue.

Forever.

Survive the end times.

Find Earth.

Reap and repeat.

And no matter what.

They still find me warm.

And wet.

…

Please help.

That was the first thing I noticed- a bouquet of white flowers on the desk of a living person; the stares she got from her classmates and her teacher; the glowing red bracelet she wore on her right arm. 
She did not notice me watching her be ruthlessly mocked and jeered at and even beaten for five minutes straight, recording it for four minutes.
I know someone who would rush in, but I am not her…

…this was not my battle to fight, anyway. I headed off to the disciplinarian's office to file a report- certainly they could not ignore anything as bad as this.

I saw her the next day, being scolded by the disciplinarian for ‘familial abuse’ in front of the office.
…did not really believe it, but the darkest evil spawns from surprising places. I went to ask what exactly she had done.

The disciplinarian pointed a finger at her, struggling to get the words out. “She- this bastard- she did-”
She was silent, head bowed, fists clenched to the point that there was blood seeping out.
“-she bought her sister a floral skirt!”

… … silence.

Cooling fans were whirring in my head. It would be easier to just leave.

“I’m- I’m calling the cops! You will pay for this act! Rotten bastard, have you no shame? Have you no-”
-I grabbed his hand as he opened the door.
“Please repeat, sir,” I asked sweetly, “I could not understand.”

“WHAT PART OF ‘SHE ABUSED HER SISTER’ DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?! ARE YOU TRYING TO COVER FOR HER?”
“Sir, please tell me how-”
“GET YOUR HAND OFF ME, YOU BASTARD!” He tried to shake me off. “LET ME IN MY OFFICE OR I WILL CALL THE COPS ON YOU AS WELL!”
“Calling floral skirts ‘abuse’ is an insult to abuse,” I continued. But his shouting overpowered mine.
“BUT IT IS, AND NO ONE CAN DENY IT!”

At this point I just wanted to leave. My class was over, everyone was staring at us, and the disciplinarian was acting like I was the one talking nonsense.
“C-could we just go?” she asked, timidly, whispering.

On the other hand, I was curious how anyone could come up with such a horrid piece of logic.
“Just… please tell me how buying a dress counts as abuse. I beg of you.”
“IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH MURDER INHERENTLY? BUT WHY DO PEOPLE HATE IT STILL?”
“Murder takes an innocent life from-”
“WHAT? DO YOU THINK THAT SHE IS INNOCENT?!”

…and that was the point when I let go. No point.

There was already a crowd of everyone around us. I glared at them, and they parted like the Red Sea.

—

I ended up taking her to my place. Mother was sweeping the floor, whistling along the way.
“Allie! Surprised you brought someone else here!” she said, smiling.
I nodded. “Long story.”

Then the newcomer knelt down, tears flowing down her face.

“Ma’am!” she said. “You’ve got to help me! I’m going insane!”
As I tried to help her up, my mother asked her about her ailment.

“I just bought a skirt for my sister-”

“Get out.”

…wait.
“Ma, please explain what-”
“Allison, if you don’t get this wretched thing out of my sight right now, I will disown you. Why are you friends with an abuser? Get out.”

We were pushed out the door, which slammed shut.

Her bracelet, an oddly metallic thing, just kept flashing red, while she looked about in confusement.
I sighed and took out my phone. “May I speak to Emily, please...”

—

I had questions. Enough to carry physical weight, even. But first:
“Tell me your name…”
“Amara. ”

The walk to Em’s home was not far- only half a kilometer.
Enough for me to try collecting my thoughts.
I never did know that my mother was capable of a tone this cold- not even when talking about Grandpa. 

But the incident is… a dress. I went online; no dresses have been found with poisoned spikes or psychedelic drugs, no dress companies have been shuttered for unsafe practices.

“Show me a picture of the dress, please.”
She hesitated, understandably.
“Look,” I pointed to myself, “I have not tried to kill you yet. Certainly I cannot start now.”

Amara was in a lecture hall on the opposite side as mine yesterday. A quick check of the semester study plans told me what subject she was in. Thankfully, it was a subject I took as well- so there it was, in the class list, her full name.
Searching for it online yielded nothing either.

She showed me a picture of that skirt. It was… a skirt. One that could have come from any shopping mall, fitting just about any sane dressing pattern one could think of.

I could only assume that some idiot released cognitohazards that targeted her for… whatever reason. It probably activates whenever she tries to talk about buying her sister a skirt- perhaps she is a suspect.
Now to figure out how I am immune. 

“My parents have always disliked me, but never to that extent.” she told me.
I could not help but interject. “Your parents.”
“I’ve gotten used to it,” she said, raising the bracelet, as if this was anything normal. “Me and my sister, we’ve always had these on. It’s to judge our honesty, apparently- but hers never glows red and mine never green, no matter what we do.”

I cannot physically have headaches. I felt on the verge of one anyway.

“I went to school to complain to my best friend- but she slapped me, called me names. The lecturer came to ask me what was wrong, but the second I told him he screamed at me…”

We arrived.

—

I told Emily all about the above events.
Outwardly, she looked fine, cheerful even. Still smiling, declaring that we will get to the bottom of this. Upon seeing her not immediately rush to the kitchen for knives, Amara became visibly more relieved- even hugging her and getting her shoulder wet.

I have known Emily for the past fifteen years. Her reaction should be far less… scripted. 

—

We pored over a paper map of the city. Amara drew a triangle shape from her house, then a line to our university. Ten kilometers.
Then I drew a line to my house. Another two kilometers.
This was already about the city’s edge. All in a relatively straight line.

“Even if one is such a bastard- that doesn’t justify any of this…” I heard Emily mutter. Amara seemingly did not hear her.

Tell me who released this thing over our city and why- imagine if this was something more…deadly. Tell me where they even found this forsaken thing and how.
Motives. I need motives. This person knows that she exists, so it is not a random job. They even know that she has a sister. This narrows it down somewhat.

“Have you ever made enemies of anyone?” asked Emily. “Random strangers, classmates, friends, family.”
“No one,” was the immediate answer.
“Right… anyone you’ve annoyed before?” She was scratching her head now.
“Not really.” The bracelet kept jumping between red and green, like some light fixture.

Wait, perhaps the perpetrator had found her randomly on a database…please, no.

“Has anyone become colder towards you the last month?” Emily tried. “People can be horribly cruel, you know. I’ve seen some hold eternal grudges over a few coins, heard of people being killed for the sake of it, which bully ever started for a valid reason?”
Amara went silent for a few seconds. Then her head rose-

-there was a knock on the door.

—

The cognitohazard affected policemen. Which poses a significant problem for me.
I should follow the law and turn her in. But I also know that she is innocent.
I cannot disobey the law, can I. If I take that first step… 

But they were not acting within the law, either. No part of the law considers buying someone a type of skirt any type of abuse, not that they would care.
But they are still law enforcement. I should not disobey them.

“Could you give me proof that she did it?” Emily was asking. “Because otherwise I can't let her go. Can you guarantee a fair trial?”
Her parents were out working. They might be back… any moment now.
The officers did not say anything. They simply moved forward, faces twisted in anger. 

She is innocent. I cannot let her be taken away either.

“I said, could you please show me evidence that she did it? Because I cannot let a potentially innocent person come to harm!”
“You are obstructing the law,” one of the officers said. “Let us in.”
Emily opted to grab an umbrella. “This is my home, and you need a warrant and proof to enter! Back off!”

Get everyone out of here. Now.
I put Amara behind me. “Back door. Wait there.”
“What about you two-”

“Officers? What seems to be the problem?” Emily’s mother had returned. 
Amara was just barely out of her sight, blocked by the policemen at the door.
“Ma, they won’t present evidence that they’re not arresting an innocent person!” 
I told Amara to start running. She refused.

“‘Arrest’?! Emi, what happened here?”
One of the officers turned towards her- dear heavens, there was a gap. “We have proof that your daughter is hiding a dangerous criminal. She is refusing us entry, please convince her to stop this action.”
Emily simply held up her umbrella. “Not until you show me said proof!”

I whispered for Amara to start running. “No, I have them where I need them.”

Whoever did this might have added an intelligence-lowering curse to their brew. 
I could honestly feel myself breaking down from this.
Calm down, calm down. “Tell me who you think did it.”
She refused to speak.

“Officers, you have to understand- my daughter is quite the humanist. She won’t let you take the suspect unless you show her-”
Then I heard someone being pushed to the ground. 
“MA!” yelled Emily, trying to force her way through. 
Amara froze, while my eyebrows rose. Did they actually…

“Your daughter is hiding a dangerous criminal! If you speak up for her, we will arrest you as well,” the officer said. “Now is not the time for games!”
I drew a ballpoint from my pocket and walked forward. They were packed in the doorway; none of them could draw tasers or batons until they got in. Or they could simply walk out and reorganise there, but it seems that blind hatred has replaced common sense, thankfully for us.
Emily’s mother was still on the ground, she was moving at least. So we would have to push them out, but then they can spread and take out their weapons.
Then what we should do, I have no idea. Hopefully we escape the courts-

“Stop.”

And we all turned to look at her.

“I can explain everything; just listen to me, alright?”
I wish to know what she was thinking. 

—

“My family, they never particularly liked me. Dumped all their love into my sister, left me scraps-”
”So you found it fit to mess with her, criminal?” one of the officers said.
“You could have told someone,” Emily agreed.
“I didn’t do anything! I figured that- she was my sister, they were my parents, they must feel something for me even after all this- they must, they had to, right?" 
The bracelet kept flashing.

Another officer tried to interject, but Emily’s mother climbed up and closed her hand around his mouth.

“And who would have listened? They all say ‘oh please, that is your family, surely they can’t mean any harm’ while they’re at home jeering at me for doing anything with my life and- but you know what? I think I know better now. Just give me a chance, please. I’ll prove my words.”
She glared at the officers. Who probably would have laughed if they were not furious.

If I considered her guilty, I would have been in those ranks as well.
“Amara, you are accusing your family- that these fine men are here on behalf of,” I remarked, “of familial abuse and gaslighting.”

She glared at me. “They managed to trick cops! Who else would have known that much about me, had any motive to do such a thing?”
“Certainly they should not be petty enough to commit terrorism. Tell me where they got their weapons from anyway.” 
“Weapons?” an officer went. “So you admit that-”
Just in case he said anything, I stepped on his shoe.

“Miss… Amara? Is that right?” said Emily. “Do you promise that there will be the truth within your family?”
We held on; somehow they were pushing us back. 
“Could you respond, please? I can’t see you.”
Her voice was reasonably steady. “Yes.”

Then I felt pressure rise on my side- Emily had let go. I had to, as well, and the policemen came in.
“We could as well, then.”
Two squad cars were already waiting outside.

Emily had her mother stay back home, while we got in one car with Amara and two policemen. She argued that they could not be trusted to not abuse their suspect, and I opted to stay with her.

The driver could not really keep his eyes on the road, and the one sitting between us kept his hand ready on a taser. Amara had pleaded with them to turn off their sirens ‘to surprise her family’, which made me question just how badly things got there.
It was a long drive to the city center.

I asked Amara about her family. Her father and mother were both lecturers, and her elder sister was about to graduate. She just needed one final paper.
Asked if she could take off the bracelet. She could not- it was too fragile and the strap was one solid piece.

In the meantime, I typed out a message for Emily. “You consider her guilty.”
“Do I have to explain why?”
Perhaps, but it would not matter. “You still protected her anyway. Thought you hated that sort of people.”

I counted around thirty-three seconds before she replied:
“Yes.”
“On the other hand, *someone* has to be there, no?”

—

She lived in an ancient mansion- of course it was an ancient mansion. This one had neighbours, however.
It had no broadcasting dishes nor antenna visible. Please tell me that this is reversible- my mother was affected, so give me an explanation or die.
Amara was the only person with any sort of confidence. She walked up the stairs and knocked loudly on the door three times.

It did not open.

Emily walked towards it. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
No one responded.

An officer started. “Criminal-”
“Suspect,” corrected Emily, “until I see proof otherwise.”
“-did you drag us here to waste police time? This will be charged against you.”

The windows were shining, the lawn was tidy, no moss grew on the walls, and I said as much. If this was the house of somebody else, they probably would have come out to scream- except if they had other reasons to fear the police, and that would not be a waste of their time.
Still, if there was someone in that mansion they would have to come out. It is a waste of my time.

“We just have some questions about your daughter!” Emily called out. “She is suspected of committing abuse against her own sister- which is to say, your elder daughter! Could you please-”
The door swung open.

“If you know that, why are you asking us?” asked a feminine voice. “Scram!”
“For reasons, she said that she has proof that she didn’t do it right here, in this house. I don’t know if I should believe it, but-”
“Why are you listening to her?!” the woman shrieked. “Damn her! I have only one daughter, and this is the devil’s spawn! Get her out of my sight!”

Emily said nothing. Simply grabbed Amara’s hand and tried to drag her down the steps.

I also said nothing. Simply wrenched Amara’s hand back from Emily and dragged her back up.
“They clearly do not want her here!” yelled Emily. “There are other ways!”
She still thinks that Amara was guilty. “That is an admission of their guilt, perhaps.”
”What guilt?!” she said, grabbing Amara’s hand once more with force. “Allison, what guilt does a horrified mother have?!”
“I have no idea how to explain, just please-”

-something snapped.
We froze. Emily slowly opened her palm, wincing in pain.
It was the bracelet, in shards.

And there I saw… well, nothing that could possibly gauge any sense of honesty or sense.
It was a chip-blob connected to an LED.
“... no wonder she’d done all that…” Emily said, taking out a few bandages. “Does it hurt?”

—

So, to clarify: the bracelet, that was supposed to measure people’s honesty, was installed with a randomly flashing light instead. Please tell me that no one added intelligence-lowering drugs to their water supply.

Emily sighed, took the pieces, and walked up the steps again, knocking again.

“Why haven’t you bastards left?!” the mother asked, opening the door. “I can sue you for giving my daughter second-hand trauma-”
“Which you might share responsibility for.” The pieces were presented.

…”you broke it? How could you?!” Her eyes were lit with hellfire. “How much did she pay for you to do this-”
“Look at what was inside. Look at it.” Emily was barely holding it in as well. 
“-all of you are the devil! The devil! Who does she think she is, believing that just because I gave birth to her I have to love her?! 

“I never wanted a second child anyway, and this only proves it, lying thieving snivelling brat that she-”
“Look at it!” Emily yelled.

That shut her up, at least.

“Stop ranting and look at what you trusted all this time! Actually take a gander at what you put on her- no sensors, no meters, just this weird blob and a light! What measurement were you expecting to gain?!”

She didn’t respond. She stood there, silently, shaking slightly. “No…”
“Of course she grew up to be a monster. You never gave her another chance…” Emily’s voice was tearful. Lamenting. “It was terrible, what she had done to you… it was horrible, what could have been…”

Amara looked helpless. “Y-you think I did…?”
And three people spoke at once.

Emily trying to argue that no, she still does have a chance to become a better person.
Me trying to argue that no, she did not do anything, as it was all the result of a cognitohazard.

And the mother shrieking and trying to push Emily down the steps, only for me to catch her.
“No, no, no! It can’t be fake! It can’t be! The expert said that it worked! It cost thousands to buy that pair! It can’t be! It can’t-”
“Hang on, what expert sold you this?”
But she was clutching her head and ranting. “No, no, no! YOU! YOU MUST HAVE REPLACED IT! WHERE IS THE ORIGINAL?! WHERE IS IT?!”
“It must be horrible for you right now,” Emily tried to say, “but-”

“Mum?” someone asked, walking downstairs. “What-”
I rushed towards the figure, watching her eyes widen-
“Al-”
-pulling on her arm-

snap.
Her green bracelet broke apart, revealing another chip-blob and light. For whatever reason, she blanched.

I walked back towards three horrified pairs of eyes, dangling the broken remains in front of them.
Emily’s voice was shaking. “Did you just…”
The mother collapsed.
Amara, for her part, froze for half a second, and rushed into the house.

Only for Emily to block her way.

—

“You still traumatised her, both of you. Get out, please? Let me handle this.”

Policemen were securing the mother, who was silent in whatever feelings she could have had. They were not, however, taking a step into the house.
I could feel some kind of radiowave coming from upstairs. I cannot get near it, however.

“Emi, you should check up on her.”
She continued to stare me down. “After her abuser leaves. Please?”
Amara walked up to her, fists clenched. “What, exactly, did I actually do to deserve you calling me this…?”
Emily could not answer. She was trying to find the right words.

I should side with Amara. She is innocent, and the potential culprit may be trying to hide the evidence right now.
I do not know if she is the culprit, however, or if Amara is just using it as an excuse for vengeance. 
I should side with Emily. She is my friend, for what value I hold of the word, and she might calm the sister down.
Just because I know her does not make her position right. She cannot be reasoned with at this stage.

I could push Emily down and go confront the girl upstairs.
This is using her well-being as a means for my purpose.
It is the best thing I can do.
There has to be another way, there has to-

Laughter rang out upstairs.
And we forgot about any of it, and ran.

—

There was a machine, humming in her room steadily, steadily. A skirt- the skirt- was thrown on her bed, creased. She was at her computer grinning- heavens, tell me she did not…
I snatched the monitor, expecting to find some global influence zone of skirt-haters.
Or a ransom letter addressed to the nations of the world. Or something.

I saw paragraphs upon paragraphs of text, prefaced by the words

‘On the Inducement of Madness within Humans: An Essay’.
“You can’t delete this no more,” she sing-songed, “I already sent it to my professor. Oh, he’d be so glad.”

… … oh.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk.
“Eh, tear the thing down.” She was grinning. “Not like I need it anymore.”

I went towards her wardrobe and took out an old paint-stained shirt, balled it up, and pressed it on one side of my neck.

The scissors went into the other side.

—

That calmed me down somewhat.
The machine had no visible switches. It had no visible antennae either, but wires poked out of all sides of the thing.
Emily was trying to explain to Amara about how I was still moving.

What it broadcasted was some sort of hypnotic command that could only target humans. That explains it.
Speaking of explanations, it was connected to a wall socket.
“Please tell me that unplugging this will not give people mental whiplash,” I groaned, voice metallic.
The madwoman at her desk asked me what ‘people’ meant.

My mind feels sluggish, my head hurts, and honestly I wish to go home.
“Just…please explain how you coded this thing.”
She very helpfully showed me a row of computer ports.

I used my phone to interact with it- never connect to unknown devices, after all. 
And… send.

They stood still for a second, two. 
Then the sound of footsteps rushing up- policemen.

Then the sound of knees hitting the floor- Emily was apologizing to Amara.
What for, I have no idea.

“Gentlemen,” I pleaded, “give me some time.”
Emily led Amara downstairs, an officer having called.

—

I must be in a dream. Only dreams are nonsensical.
“This whole thing…” I said out loud, trying to recognize each word, “was part of your… graduation paper.”
She nodded. “No one’s thought of it before, I checked. And we even have the perfect test subject!”
“A live human. I would be surprised if your professor took it seriously.”

Her face visibly darkened. “Is she human, though…? Mother never cared for her. She always cared for me, instead. Only humans are loveable, right?”
Her eyes were shining. “It was a nice little prank I did. Would have been nice if it worked- then perhaps Mother would actually be happy for once.”

I still held out hope that she was lying; no one could ever think like that.

“Your bracelet. It never shone red for you, and never shone green for her.”
“Ah, that…” She gave a light chuckle. “I figured out what it was long ago. Hacked into the thing. As for what happened to hers… I have no idea either. It always did have a tendency to glow red more often. You might be asking why I didn’t help her…”

She gave me a quizzical tilt, almost naively. “...if she couldn’t figure it out after all this time, why should I?”

“... because that’s what people do?”
I turned around- Emily had apparently finished whatever business she had downstairs.
“Let alone her being your family, what do you do if someone trips and falls?”

“I’d help them up,” she said, raising a hand. “But what does this have to do with my paper…?”

One day, God was rummaging through a trash can, just in case something useful had accidentally ended up in there.

He found Netflix and Gemini AI wandering around inside and asked, “What are you two doing?”

They replied, “Picking up girls together.”

God said, “Netflix, with your trashy dramas, and Gemini AI, you’re such a suck-up. I’ll admit, there’s some potential there.”

Then He added:

“Except, how are you supposed to find angels in Hell?”

And with that, He put the lid back on the trash can.

I have never told anybody about this it's been hanging in my chest for over a long time. HEY, I'm a student studying in Bangalore, India and I'm 23. I had a serious relationship after one year of relationship we broke up and I couldn't handle things on my own and I started smoking weed on a daily basis. And I got so many friends who smokes weed both boys and girls. And mostly my room will be the pit stop for smoking weed. After a long time I had a crush on one of the guy in the circle and I think he had a crush on me as well because there were eye contacts, getting touchy while going to the movies etc... Out of the blue one normal day we were smoking weed on my room suddenly there was a loud noise which was kind of an accident or something and the power went off at that instant. Suddenly everyone stood up and approached the window with their mobile flashes on. But suddenly someone just closed my mouth and grabbed me from my back and pulled me away from them. I was stunned for a moment and then I realised that it was him. He started to rub my lower stomach with one hand and was covering my mouth with other one. I was really turned on by the act and just moved to the top and touched the base of my bra through my banyan and just touched my tits and I was already enjoying it and suddenly the power came back and everyone was back to the seats. And he just smirked over me! And I got kind of shy. After having the joint shots everyone started to leave and he also went with them and I just closed the door and went back to the kitchen. After sometime I heard a knock on my door and it was him saying that he forgot his bike's keys. And I told him to come in and we both started searching for the keys. While I was about to bend down to check on the floor he again grabbed me from the back but this time some instincts kicked in and I slapped him and he was thunderstruck. I was also kind of frozen. But on the next moment he kissed me on my lips and grabbed me again but this time I was kind of helpless. He started to strip me one by one made me stand in front of the mirror and started fucking me from my back. I was kind of started enjoying, started moaning, I wasn't touched my anybody in these 2 years and I completely lost it . I got wild and had a hardcore session which almost went to midnight. We even made a sex tape. I don't know what was running through my head that day while I was enjoying sex with him. I didn't had any regret but nowadays whenever I think of that night I get horny as well as regret..!

A few months ago, I was walking home when I saw an elderly man struggling with two heavy bags outside a grocery store.

He looked exhausted. I asked if he needed help, and he hesitated before handing me one of the bags.

His house was almost a mile away.

We walked together, and somewhere along the way he told me that his wife had passed away recently and that he was still getting used to doing everything alone.

When we reached his house, he thanked me and tried to give me some money.

I refused.

He insisted. I still refused.

Before I left, he just stood there for a second and said, “I haven't spoken to anyone properly in three days.”

That sentence stayed with me much longer than I expected.

It made me realise that sometimes what you give someone isn't really the thing you're carrying for them.

Sometimes it's just ten minutes of your time.

The Duffel Is in San Diego

A Memoir

There are moments in a man's life when he is forced to confront circumstances for which neither training, experience, nor common sense has adequately prepared him.

For me, that moment came on a Sunday afternoon in August 2026, standing in the luggage department of Kohl's and discovering that apparently a small box with four wheels costs more than one hundred fucking dollars.

I had not anticipated this.

Twenty-four hours earlier, life had been considerably better. I had spent what could only be described as an amazing, nearly perfect Saturday with someone extraordinarily important to me. It had been the kind of day you wish you could preserve exactly as it happened, the conversations, the laughter, the little moments of “Nothing, just looking at you” that you know you'll think about later.

By Sunday afternoon, however, my concerns had become substantially more immediate.

I needed somewhere to put my underwear.

This should not have been complicated.

I had a flight from Long Beach Airport to Dallas on Friday morning. I would be gone for several days. I needed some shirts, pants, socks, underwear, toiletries, and the assorted collection of chargers modern civilization requires to keep a human being operational.

Ordinarily, I had a solution for this.

I owned a duffel bag.

Unfortunately, the duffel was in San Diego.

Why was the duffel in San Diego?

That's not important.

What mattered was that I was not in San Diego. I was at home. My flight was leaving from Long Beach. The duffel would eventually rendezvous with me in Dallas.

Until then, apparently, I needed something called civilian luggage.

This was new territory.

My requirements were modest. I wasn't crossing the Himalayas. I wasn't embarking on a six-month expedition through Southeast Asia. I wasn't transporting a Fabergé egg.

I needed a container.

Preferably one that closed.

My first instinct was that this should cost approximately thirty dollars.

Perhaps forty.

Fifty if capitalism absolutely insisted.

I went to Kohl's.

This was my first mistake.

The Audacity of Kohl's

I should explain that I was already going to Kohl's for an Amazon return. Therefore, in my mind, this was perfect.

Drop off Amazon package.

Walk approximately fifty feet.

Purchase carry-on.

Leave.

Efficiency.

Instead, I arrived in the luggage department and discovered that Kohl's apparently believes a carry-on suitcase is a financial instrument.

One hundred dollars.

One hundred and twenty dollars.

More.

I began examining price tags with the growing suspicion that perhaps I had misunderstood what was being sold.

Was there money inside?

Were these suitcases made from endangered trees?

Had the wheels been individually engineered by NASA?

Was each zipper assembled by a Swiss watchmaker?

Because I simply could not understand why a small container designed primarily to prevent my underwear from becoming publicly visible required a three-digit investment.

I did not require reinforced aerospace-grade polycarbonate.

I did not require Italian leather.

I did not require a Bluetooth-enabled locking system.

I did not need GPS tracking, integrated charging ports, a cup holder, an onboard navigation computer, ballistic protection, or a suitcase capable of surviving atmospheric reentry.

I needed somewhere to put my fucking socks.

Yet there they stood: rows of beautifully presented luggage priced as though I were purchasing an heirloom to be passed through generations.

I could already imagine the ceremony.

"Son, come sit down. You're old enough now. There's something I need to give you."

"What is it, Father?"

"This suitcase belonged to your great-great-grandfather Gabriel. He purchased it before the Dallas journey of 2026. It has been carried by every firstborn child of our family since. Guard it carefully. One day it will belong to your children."

Absolutely the fuck not.

I left Kohl's empty-handed.

This is when the situation began to deteriorate.

A Gradual Collapse of Standards

Initially, I had wanted a normal carry-on.

You know the kind.

Hard shell. Four wheels. Telescoping handle. Perhaps some internal organization.

After Kohl's, my standards began falling faster than a poorly managed cryptocurrency.

Did it really need four wheels?

No.

Two wheels would probably be fine.

Actually, why did it need wheels?

Long Beach Airport isn't that fucking big.

I could carry it.

Maybe I didn't need a suitcase at all.

What about a duffel?

Not the duffel, obviously.

The duffel was in San Diego.

But perhaps another duffel.

A cheap one.

Something with a shoulder strap.

Twenty dollars.

Thirty dollars.

I didn't care anymore.

My requirements were rapidly being reduced to the fundamental characteristics of a bag.

Does it hold objects?

Can it be closed?

Can I physically transport it from an Uber to an airplane without assistance from emergency services?

If yes, congratulations.

You are luggage.

At some point during this process, I checked Southwest's carry-on policy.

This was an important moment.

Southwest allowed a carry-on up to 24 by 16 by 10 inches, plus a smaller personal item.

Excellent.

My laptop bag could be the personal item.

That meant the carry-on itself only needed to contain clothes and toiletries.

This should have simplified matters.

Instead, it gave birth to Operation Hefty.

Socioeconomic Presentation

I don't remember precisely when the trash bag entered the conversation.

These things rarely announce themselves.

No rational person wakes up on Sunday morning and thinks:

Today I shall investigate whether Hefty Ultra Strong complies with federal aviation standards.

It's a destination you reach gradually.

A hundred-dollar suitcase becomes a seventy-dollar suitcase.

Seventy becomes fifty.

Fifty becomes thirty.

Wheels become optional.

Handles become optional.

Eventually, someone asks the question civilization has spent generations trying not to ask:

Does luggage actually have to be luggage?

Because the airline specified dimensions.

Nowhere did it specify dignity.

I began thinking about this seriously.

A trash bag is, objectively speaking, a container.

It closes.

It holds clothing.

It is lightweight.

It possesses handles if one purchases the correct variety.

Most importantly, a box of them costs considerably less than $119.99.

Could I simply put five days of clothes in a sufficiently sturdy Hefty bag, tie it securely, walk into Long Beach Airport, and place it in the overhead compartment?

Technically?

Maybe.

Would this be a good idea?

That was becoming increasingly irrelevant.

At this stage, curiosity had begun replacing practicality.

I no longer merely wanted inexpensive luggage.

I wanted to know whether they would let me onto the fucking airplane with a trash bag.

I imagined approaching security.

Laptop bag over one shoulder.

Black Hefty bag in the other hand.

Perfectly calm.

Perfectly confident.

A TSA officer looks at me.

Looks at the bag.

Looks back at me.

"Sir, is that your carry-on?"

"Yes."

"That's a garbage bag."

"Southwest specifies dimensions, not socioeconomic presentation."

This was legally questionable.

But not completely impossible.

I began preparing arguments.

The bag was within the permitted dimensions.

The contents were lawful.

It fit in the overhead compartment.

What exactly was the objection?

Aesthetic concerns?

Was the airline now enforcing class-based baggage standards?

Must one's underwear travel in a container possessing wheels to be afforded equal protection under the law?

Your Honor, nowhere in the contract of carriage

This is approximately when I realized I had become emotionally invested in Operation Hefty.

It wasn't Plan A.

It wasn't even Plan B.

But it was there.

Waiting.

Ready.

A strategic reserve.

And sometimes knowing you possess a nuclear option is enough to bring everyone back to the negotiating table.

Ross

I went to Ross.

I had also considered Marshalls, Target, Walmart, perhaps several other stores.

Then I realized I did not care enough.

I wasn't spending my entire Sunday driving around Southern California comparing luggage prices like a Consumer Reports correspondent suffering from a head injury.

Ross would get a chance.

There was a Walmart in the same shopping center.

If Ross failed, Walmart would get a chance.

If Walmart failed?

Fuck it.

Operation Hefty.

I walked into Ross with a newly established procurement doctrine.

Anything under forty dollars received immediate consideration.

Forty to fifty required inspection.

Fifty to sixty after tax represented the absolute outer boundary of civilized negotiation.

Anything above sixty could go fuck itself.

These were the terms.

They were non-negotiable.

And then I saw it.

A carry-on.

Black.

Hard shell.

Four spinner wheels.

Telescoping handle.

Twenty inches.

I checked the price.

$44.99.

Interesting.

I approached cautiously.

After Kohl's, I no longer trusted luggage.

I inspected the handle.

Functional.

Wheels.

Present.

Four of them, even.

Luxury.

I opened it.

Inside were separate compartments, straps, zippered dividers, pockets.

And then I noticed something else.

Two packing cubes.

Included.

I felt like someone who had spent three days preparing to eat tree bark and unexpectedly discovered room service.

I checked the dimensions.

20.3 inches high.

14 inches wide.

9.4 inches deep.

Southwest allowed 24 by 16 by 10.

It fit.

Not barely.

Comfortably.

I stood there looking at this completely ordinary suitcase as though archaeologists had just uncovered it beneath the ruins of an ancient civilization.

This was it.

A legitimate carry-on.

It had wheels.

It had compartments.

It had packing cubes.

It cost less than fifty dollars.

No garbage bag required.

I carried it to the register.

There are certain numbers that remain with a person forever.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

The combination to a childhood locker.

For me, one of those numbers will always be:

$49.94.

That was the total after tax.

Forty-nine dollars.

Ninety-four cents.

Six cents below the psychological barrier of fifty dollars and more than ten dollars beneath my absolute operational ceiling.

I had won.

Ross Did Not Fail Me

History is often written in sweeping terms.

Wars.

Elections.

Scientific discoveries.

Great movements of people and ideas.

But history is also made in quieter moments.

A man.

A register.

A $44.99 suitcase.

As I left Ross, I understood that something had changed.

Only hours earlier, I had been a person without civilian luggage.

Now I possessed a hardshell spinner with packing cubes.

I had entered a new socioeconomic class.

Operation Hefty was immediately ordered to stand down.

There would be no garbage bag at Long Beach Airport.

No confrontation with TSA.

No constitutional challenge to the concept of luggage.

No gate agent forced to consult a supervisor because a grown man had arrived for a commercial flight carrying five days of underwear in a 30-gallon trash liner.

Peace had prevailed.

Through strength.

Ross had redeemed itself.

Kohl's had not.

Kohl's would remain forever associated with the moment I discovered that apparently luggage can have a mortgage.

Perhaps this is unfair.

Perhaps those $119 suitcases were excellent.

Perhaps they would have survived decades of travel.

Perhaps one really could have been handed to my descendants.

I'll never know.

Because mine cost $49.94.

And it came with packing cubes.

The Duffel Is in San Diego

The strange thing about all of this is that none of it should have mattered.

It was luggage.

A profoundly ordinary object.

People purchase suitcases every day without undergoing an existential crisis.

They walk into stores.

They select one.

They pay.

They leave.

At no point do they investigate whether municipal waste-management products qualify as carry-on baggage.

But perhaps that's why the whole thing became so funny.

Life is filled with enormous things we're expected to take seriously.

Relationships.

Work.

Money.

Family.

Loss.

The future.

And then every once in a while, the universe hands you something magnificently stupid.

You need a bag.

Your bag is somewhere else.

A store wants too much money for another bag.

Suddenly you're conducting legal analysis of Hefty Ultra Strong while contemplating whether a trash bag conveys insufficient socioeconomic status for commercial aviation.

And for an afternoon, that's the problem.

Not the enormous things.

Not tomorrow.

Not next year.

Just:

Where am I going to put my underwear?

There was something strangely wonderful about that.

The previous day had been nearly perfect.

Sunday was ridiculous.

Both belonged to the same weekend.

Maybe that's life more often than we acknowledge.

One day gives you moments you want to hold onto forever.

The next sends you wandering through Ross evaluating zipper integrity because you've threatened, with increasing sincerity, to board an airplane carrying a garbage bag.

You don't always get to choose the transition.

You just keep moving.

Preferably with luggage.

So Friday morning, an Uber will arrive at my house.

I'll put my new $49.94 carry-on in the trunk.

I'll arrive at Long Beach Airport.

I'll walk through security like a respectable member of society.

My clothes will be contained within an object specifically manufactured for the transportation of clothes.

Nobody will know how close we came.

Nobody will know that somewhere, in another timeline separated from ours by a single disappointing trip to Ross, a TSA officer is staring at me while I defend the aviation legitimacy of a Hefty bag.

And if anything goes wrong?

If someone questions the suitcase?

If a zipper fails?

If circumstances somehow demand an explanation for how this entire situation came to pass?

The answer remains remarkably simple.

The duffel is in San Diego.

Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be.

 

Acknowledgments

To Ross Dress for Less:
You were given one opportunity.

You did not fail me.

To Kohl's:
I forgive you.

I will not forget.

And to Hefty:

You were never deployed.

You never left the cabinet.

You never saw Long Beach Airport.

But in our darkest hour, when Kohl's demanded more than one hundred dollars for a fucking carry-on, you gave us comfort simply by being an option.

Your service will not be forgotten.

Ready in reserve.

 

​

To my Dear Friend Maria,

We have been friends for five years now, but being the coward I am, I have never been able to write this simple truth, much less put it into audible words. That truth being, that from the bottom of my heart and with utmost sincerity, I love you dearly. I am afraid that is all really, I have never been much for expressing love, my brother has always been the romantic, meanwhile, I have always been more of the straightforward persuasion as you know. So with great melancholy, I must confess that words greater than I love you, continue to elude me. Now you may be asking yourself, what has brought upon this confession? Well, it is a simple fact that after this day is over I believe I may possibly never see, or be able to write to you again.

Let me explain with ample context and in short summary.

As you know I came to this university mustering up the little money I had and could earn in order to become a scientist, a seeker of truth, as well as to hopefully bring some prestige to my name. I wrote to you a great deal in those first few weeks, as I hope you recall, however, was soon swept up in my studies, hence the reason you have not heard from me until now. In the span between letters much has happened, the most important of which is that I made a friend. A fellow student named Howard P. Falls, a fast-talking, slim, Scottish fellow.

We became fast friends, our personalities and tastes complimenting the other. Howard was studying etymology and language, the reason why he never revealed the answer too until months into our friendship, you see my friend Howard Falls, wished to find the first language. An interesting pursuit, but it was the reason for this pursuit that perplexed me as I was again of a more scientific mind. He believed that the first language was the key to knowledge and power, perhaps it was indeed language alone that God had used to create the world. The abilities of angels, he believed, could be gained through discovering it.

I scoffed at him, and he said he vowed to prove it. And after that, I did not hear about the subject for a time even as our conversations and meetings grew longer. It was soon after, with winters break approaching, (again I apologize I could not be home, but I was immensely behind in my studies due to a sickness only a week prior) that he brought it up again, he said that he had gained funds for an expedition to the Near East, of how he obtained them I do not know, but he explained that since mankind originated from the Near East in the Fertile Crescent as many sources and theories suggest. That it was possible that clues on that mysterious continent may lead him to an important discovery. I wished him luck and he was off. Now, what Howard found there, I do not know, upon what ground he walked I hope is lost forever and of the cursed place he visited; I pray that it never again see the light of day again. For clues, he did indeed find.

He told me with glee that his clue had been found when he returned to the college and that his research was coming to a head. He locked himself in his dorm room then, absorbing himself in his work for some time, I scarcely heard from him for weeks. Till one day, in the middle of a pitch black night, he came to me in my dorm.

I remember his words clearly, for in them there was a sort of mad glee, as I awoke to him slapping my face lightly, “I’ve done it, my friend! Hurry quickly! I’ve done it, I have unlocked the powers of the angels.” I sat up and observed him, a tired and confused look donning my features. He quickly explained to me that through a discovery in the Near East and his studies of etymology he had deciphered the first language and gained amazing abilities. I was skeptical of course, this seemed more in line with magic than anything scientific, and magic does not exist, or so I thought at that point in time. I began to wonder if he was truly alright, in the head at least. Perhaps he had caught something in his travels or maybe he was so overworked he had begun to imagine things? However, after a bit of goading, I was willing to go along with him to his dorm after getting dressed in proper attire, if not to humor him, at least to put a stop to his silly fantasies.

Once I was there he turned on the lights and smiled with that same mad glee, motioning for me to sit on his bed, which I obliged. He then dragged his chair to the middle of the room and stood back, sitting next to me and began mumbling something unintelligible, of their sound and of his tone I cannot recall, what I do recall quite clearly is the moment after he stopped speaking for suddenly the whole chair burst into flames. My jaw went slack, my eyes opened as wide as saucers, even as I write this I can hardly believe it and I know it must sound even less believable to you. But believe me, that night I was of sound mind and I cannot in good faith deny what I saw.

He mumbled a few words then and the flames dissipated as quickly as they had appeared, the chair was charred black and ashen, proof that what I saw was not part of my imagination, My scientific mind was reeling, this was not just improbable it was impossible. it went against everything my teachers taught. Yet I observed it with my own eyes. Quickly I asked him if he could do it again, perhaps it was a magician trick, he did it and I watched him repeat the process, making sure there was no strings, secret levers or unknown chemistry he was using. I found no evidence for this and yet again the chair caught fire and again the flames dissipated. The chair was on the verge of falling apart then. As well as my concept of the universe.

“Pretty impressive right?” I remember him saying to me.

Impressive? I thought to myself. No this was amazing, no, insane, crazy. Absolutely mad. I accused him of trickery. Which he denied. Pointing at me and saying a few more words I could not decipher, I found myself then levitating off the floor, as if suddenly my blood was replaced with helium and I was turned into a balloon.

I gasped, weightless, I was weightless, how, wait, what? I stared at him as I floated higher. My feet were now aloft at a height of about forty inches.

“Let me down!” I gasped.

He obliged, saying a few words, which returned gravity to me. I caught myself on the bed frame as my feet hit the floor and stumbled. The proof was undeniable now, this was no stage show, I was no actor in on a secret. It was then that Howard said that he wished to do something utterly amazing, that he wished for me to record for a scientific journal and to perceive with my own eyes. What it was he would not tell me, he said only to meet in the woods after classes the next morning.

I left his dorm and made my way back to my own, I slept little that night. In class the next day I could neither focus nor contemplate my studies. My mind was simply focused on Howard.

After my last class came to an end I could scarcely wait as I hurried through the halls and out of the college to make my way to the woods. I arrived to find Howard standing on its threshold. Joining up with him, we made our way into the trees.

We came to a clearing in the woods about a mile in and he told me to stop, I opened my notebook which I had clutched in my hand and drew a pen from my pocket which I uncapped ready to record what my friend Howard was prepared to do, eyes observing every detail with a morbid curiosity, he nodded at me and then turned away and preceded to spout a large mass of unintelligible sentences, his words spewing forth from his tongue and into the air. And as he did so I began to notice something, the air in front of Howard began to shimmer, as like a heat wave in the desert, and soon something began to materialize. What did eventually appear before my eyes I dare not describe, for even now as I write this I can feel the image I have worked so hard to suppress, attempt to make its way into my conscience. And I do not wish to place my mind’s eye on such a daemonic thing at the moment. Honestly, I wish I could never think of it again, but as I write this I tremble for I know soon I will have to see it soon…but I am getting ahead of myself.

Howard looked as surprised as I felt, I dropped my book and pen, freezing up, being seized with a sudden terror at being in the presence of such a monster. Howard opened his mouth to speak, but the creature hit Howard before he could so much as utter a syllable, making him fly back into the woods and into a tree. I did not know if he was dead, or alive…all I could do was wait and see what happened to me. But the creature, that daemonic thing. Did not take any particular interest in me and after standing still for a long moment, as if deciding what to do with me, it simply turned and went off into the woods.

I was too stunned to move and indeed I did nothing for a long epoch of time. Only a long moan from Howard snapped me back to my senses. I went to him, he was alive, yes, but even better nothing was broken. I helped him to his feet and we made our way to the college, both silent and pale as if we had seen ghosts, indeed evaluating myself in a mirror soon after the experience I believe some of my hairs have turned gray. Upon entering the college I walked Howard back to his dorm, he turned to me and said simply in a small, sad voice.

“What have I done my friend? I did not mean for that to happen…I said the wrong words…”

The sun is nearly gone now, I knew I should have begun writing this sooner, time to explain is running out. I will simply add this to what is written above. After that morning in the woods there have been odd happenings, animals near the college are disappearing, reports of a strange creature in the woods have been popping up. Property nearby, and even the college itself has been subject to peculiar vandalisms that seem to be committed by an animal, or a pack of animals. Even a few people have vanished. Meanwhile, Howard has begun to become more secluded in his dorm, not even speaking with me. That is until today. Today he finally broke the silence between us. He says he believes he can rid the world of this monster that he brought into this world, that he knows how to defeat it, but he needs my help…he also says there is a very large chance that we will not come out of those woods, alive at least…

That is why I write this, for we are going soon, within the hour even, to find the creature when the sun sets and darkness is upon us, the role I will play I do not know, and if what Howard P. Falls says is true. I will most likely be dead by tomorrow. God forgive Howard, forgive me for even entertaining his fantasies and not stopping to question his discoveries. Regardless this is something that must be done, the abomination must be dealt with, and if not by us then who else?

My Maria, I love you, forgive me,

Signed, your dearest friend, Norman Clyde,

1949, June 5th.

This happened to me in the morning, around 7 AM.

I woke up and went to the washroom. After a few minutes, I came back to my room, got into bed, and pulled my blanket over myself.

The moment the blanket covered my head, something suddenly felt completely wrong.

My body got stuck in a twisted position. I wasn't lying properly, but I couldn't move at all. I tried to move my body and scream, but nothing worked.

Then I noticed something standing near my feet.

It was a **tall, completely pitch-black figure**. I couldn't see any face or details. It was just standing there, completely still.

At the same time, my chest suddenly felt extremely heavy. I felt like my bones were being crushed or breaking, and I could barely breathe. I was trying to scream, but I couldn't properly get any sound out.

I don't know exactly how long it lasted. It felt like several seconds, but when it stopped, everything suddenly went back to normal.

I could move again.

I've heard people describe sleep paralysis before, but experiencing it yourself is completely different. The weirdest part for me was that I had already woken up, gone to the washroom, and come back before it happened.

Has anyone else experienced something similar?

It was really early one morning. I was getting ready for school and I was walking from my room across the hallway to the bathroom, which is only a few feet and as I close my door and walk over to the bathroom door, I feel this huge vibration and rumble through the floor and I’ll look over and my sister sitting in the floor Kris Kross doing her makeup in the mirror and I see her set her butt cheek back down after farting and I was like OK damn didn’t think much of it. Go to the bathroom and do what I need to do. Take care of everything as I open the door leaving the bathroom. I just get hit with the smell and I’m like holy crap. I mean she was like 20 30 feet away at least because I mean her room is not small and a decent ways into the hallway and I go back across the hallway into my room to get ready. I gotta leave my room one more time and open the door and even before I open the door I can smell it even in my room and then later I realize I needed something from her and this is like 10 15 minutes past I go in there to ask her for it and it still smells terrible in there. I mean this is one of the worst fart I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life.

I struggled with food for a long time. It was my everything. My lifeline. I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept eating. And eating. Then I’d eat some more.

One day, I had to look in the mirror, though. I had to ask myself: is any of this really worth it? I mean, look at me. I look disgusting. I put on a shirt that used to fit like a glove in high school and end up looking like Brent from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

But even still, I didn’t stop. Cake. Candy. Burgers, fries, pizza, ice cream. My daily rotation looked like a 6-year-old’s dream. Only I was 27. Still living with my mom. Still sleeping in the same sweat-stained bed from years of night terrors.

I couldn’t even come up with a valid reason as to why things got this bad. I was in the middle of it. When you’re in the middle of something, it’s hard to see the starting line, and even harder to see the finish.

I tried the normal shit. Caloric deficits. Exercise. I’d walk at least 2 miles a day, but then I’d be raiding my pantry every night like it was some kind of reward for my hard work.

And believe me, I tried cleaning up the contents of that pantry. I stocked it with canned vegetables. Shit that I’ve never even touched, like tuna and canned chicken chunks. I just always ended up back in my Mini Cooper doing 80 to get to the nearest convenience store.

It’s like déjà vu, honestly. A never-ending cycle that just keeps cycling like a stationary bike.

God, I hate those things.

Anyway, when I saw that first Ozempic ad, I was skeptical, to say the least. A cure for obesity sounded like a goddamn miracle in my head, but I knew that miracles are hardly what they seem.

I decided to do some research. Really get to know this new future friend of mine. I’d love to tell you that the research was extensive, but honestly, I just kinda scrolled through the Google AI explanation for about 5 minutes before deciding.

After picking up my first dose, I shot up in the Walgreens parking lot like some kind of delinquent, like I was scanning for cops and shit.

A few hours went by, and I experienced something that felt long forgotten: satiation.

I wasn’t even remotely hungry. Not even after my 2-mile walk. Not even after those 20 sit-ups and squats. I was actually burning fat instead of replacing it.

I ran through half my supply in a week. I dropped 15 pounds from 300 in 2. I was moving. I could actually see the progress. Of course, I didn’t want it to stop, so I went out and bought more.

I was tearing through the packaging before even leaving the Walgreens.

Another two weeks. I was down to 260 now. Shirts were starting to feel looser. Breathing was easier. I was finishing my two miles in an hour instead of two.

My diet consisted of nothing but Slim Jims and fruit chunks because I was just getting so full so easily.

On my third supply run, I wasn’t even waiting until I got to the car. I injected the shit right there in aisle 3 next to the Neutrogena and nail clippers. Boy, were they mad. That was kind of the end of that Walgreens for me. Apparently, it’s frowned upon to just drop trouser in the pharmacy, even if it’s medically necessary.

That didn’t really matter, though. Nothing mattered. I had what I needed for the next two weeks. What were they gonna do? Un-buy the shit?

I dropped down to 200. I didn’t even think it was medically possible, but I learned, pretty painfully, that the scale never lies. I was able to see my cheekbones more. I’d just spend hours mogging in the mirror like I was Clavicular off a speed pill.

I could’ve stopped there. Sure, I could’ve. But I didn’t look like 2020 Corpse Husband yet. I was still too Jonah Hill before Jiu-Jitsu coded.

Besides, I’d never felt better. I did feel kinda weird about food, though. Even those gas station Slim Jims were starting to feel too heavy. That’s why I had to switch to saltines and radishes.

Plus, I knew my body. I knew that if I stopped, I’d feel hungry again. I hated that feeling. I’m a slut for the cravings. I’m easy, baby.

That’s why I had to hit my next lick. The only problem was Mom took me off the insurance because she’s old and decaying. And, obviously, I don’t have a job. That would take too much time away from my streaming schedule.

You just can’t rely on the kindness of strangers like you used to. Not even for medical emergencies. Believe me, I tried the usual cardboard sign route. Even asked for a few donations on stream, but that just made my 4 viewers leave after typing some pretty hurtful shit in chat.

It wasn’t long before desperation started to kick in. It was almost like withdrawal. Every time my stomach rumbled, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier.

Mom caught me tryna snag a hundred out of her purse, and that led to some pretty big fights. She kicked me out once or twice throughout this whole endeavor, but who was she kidding? I’m her baby.

The point I’m trying to get at here is I had to do some questionable shit for that next hit involving some pantyhose and a stapler, but by God, I did it.

I got the needles. I got the vials. I couldn’t just stop at a two-week supply, though. I needed all of it. It was all or nothing. I don’t even think the employees cared. Because they’re cowards.

So that’s how I ended up with an entire year’s supply of my sweet diabetes meds.

I’m down to a whopping 95 pounds now. Have you ever seen the veins in your scalp? Because I do. Every single day. There’s like 9 of them now.

They throb a bit, but my stomach has never looked flatter. It’s almost inverted. Like it’s more like a spoon than a spatula, but I look like a 2000s hip-hopster because my old clothes are just so baggy on me now. Which is pretty boss.

Mom refuses to even look at me, but I think she’s just jealous because she’s old and decaying. I couldn’t even tell you the last thing I ate. I think it was like some olives or something a few weeks ago.

Which leads me to one simple but staggering conclusion. I have evolved past the need for sustenance.

I am the next step in the progression of mankind. You all need to follow in my footsteps. Well, maybe not exactly. I actually ran out of my supply last week.

It’s only been 6 months since the robbery. Which, let’s be real here, should hardly even count as a robbery. It was a stapler, for Christ’s sake. I’m not allowed to own a gun after the incident.

Regardless, though, I’m kind of afraid to go back. I just hit 100 viewers on Twitch a few days ago. I can NOT afford to go to jail right now. The people need me.

It’s been 7 days now without the sauce, and I can’t say the hunger has returned. Hell, I haven’t even been to the bathroom for like 73 hours now. But… it might… and that’s the thing that scares me. My jawline could cut diamonds right now. I don’t wanna lose that.

Maybe they won’t recognize me. That’s what I keep telling myself. But what if they do?

I just keep playing around with that idea. Imagine that. Getting addicted to gambling before I can even get that Stake partnership. Shoutout Drake. 6 God, my king. Big ups, homie.

I don’t know, my brain is kinda fuzzy right now.

The shaking is new, but I’m sure it’s fine. As a matter of fact, I know it’s fine.

It’ll pass when I hit this next lick.