u/BusAlternative3334

Idk if this is okay to post, I just want to help other folks who may be cavemen like me.

I was using the web browser of Word to write up my scant number of short stories and whenever I would post I noticed that there were weird breaks in the sentences that I'd have to go back in to fix.

I recently was able to renew my sub and can use MS Word again, like, not in the browser hah. I checked by editing my recent story and noticed that the issue seems to be resolved? (I won't name it because that feels like a shameless plug and I don't want this post to come across as anything but a PSA. Besides I'm garbage.)

Again I'm a freaking drooling caveman so it prob was just a skill issue all along, and I know this isn't really like a tip because if it was a legit problem of using the browser version of MS Word, all I 'did' was be in a position fortunate enough to save up money to renew my sub. I'm just hoping someone will one day create a time machine so that I can jaunt back and help myself.

(trigger warning: suicide, amputation, depictions of animal attacks, and references of harm to children)

A black condor drifted lazily atop a column of hot air. The loss of one eye had taught it patience. It circled back along a wide arc. 

The grass swayed as food does. The socket throbbed. Wings alighted on the column, up, up. 

Koza ran amongst the tall golden grass, the coarse stalks scraped against his skin and pulled at his cottons. The drawing showed a stalk that was taller than the rest, but all the stalks were taller than him. 

It would take too long to find the right one by searching blindly. He needed a vantage point.  

Sprinting now towards the ravine, he listened carefully for the sound of flowing water so as not to get tripped by a chasm underfoot.  

He knew that there was a tree which had grown out of the ravine wall and which sprouted taller than even the tall grass. He could climb it to survey a wide span of the fields. 

The lush tree swayed in the summer breeze. The river flowed fiercely below. Koza scurried up the bark, youthfully oblivious to the grim consequences of a misstep. He fanned his eyes against the hot sun, scanning from left to right until he spotted it; a patch of golden grass which had grown taller than its neighbors. 

He slid back down the tree, careful not to crumple the drawing in his excitement. From this distance Koza could not possibly have heard the clash of steel or the pitched screams.  

A glassy yellow eye twitched; the condor pitched its wings slightly, drifting down to its promised meal, away from the boy and towards his village. 

° 

The stalks in the tall patch were as thick as bamboo, they pushed and smacked Koza’s thin frame. He curled into a ball to shield the drawing in his hands. It depicted the ribbon hanging about halfway up one of the stalks. He held the paper close to his chest and cupped one hand to the side of his face, gazing up at the climb ahead. 

The drawing did not do it justice; the stalk was tall, almost a small tree, but he could see the red ribbon tied around the midway point. The stalk creaked as he climbed. It was hard going with one arm, drawing still held close, but he’d learned long ago to rely on his legs, both to shimmy up and down as well as to clinch around a branch or rope to hold up his weight. 

A strange scent greeted him as he secured the ribbon, but his mind was racing. Maybe now they could run away together? He wracked his brain. No, he’d only proven he was strong, he’d have to be more than that. Lim was the retainer’s daughter after all. Her family sat with nobles, knew the secrets of money, they regularly ate meat.  

That scent again, he knew now, it smelled like a hearth. Thoughts of meat and the whiff of smoke caused Koza's mouth to water. He escaped the thrashing stalks and retreated to a calmer clime. He knew exactly what to draw.  

His whole village knew that the travelling caravan would be visiting before the New Moon. He smoothed out the paper and withdrew his last small piece of charcoal to draw the image of the carnival tent.  This was the perfect choice of location, and there could be no mistaking the timing.  

Koza carefully drew the large flag which he knew stuck out from the top of the largest tent; Steadying his hand against the swaying leaves to depict the two-headed lion motif that the minstrels of the traveling caravan used. He couldn't stop smiling.

The final touch. He grabbed one of the wide, dry leaves and ran his thumb against its sharp edge. He planned on tying the ribbon around the flagpole, so he dragged the small bead of blood across his drawing at just the right spot; the thin red slash bisecting the shaft atop the tent. He carefully folded the paper and looked around. Once he was satisfied, as if he could possibly be spotted here, he pressed the paper to his lips and placed it on the ground underneath the tallest stalk, settling the heaviest rock he could find on top of it to weigh it down.  

He wiped his eyes, blaming the wetness on the harsh wind. 

° 

The Plains of Illiode were once protected by the Silver Spear, noble chevaliers of Saint. As the majestic port city fell to corruption, so too did the spear blunt and words sour. The warrens east of the plains had grown fat, feeding on the fruits of complacency. The warren mother was always hungry and her children needed meat and milk. Her gluttonous winged familiar had spotted a potential feast. Her children mobilized, eager to please their mother, eager themselves to gorge without halting. 

° 

Seasons pass, destinies materialize, choices grow gaunt with time, wounds scar over, futures tunnel.

° 

The Myriad Order placed special importance on the number eleven; it represented the eleven possible vices of arcane pursuit, each philosophically informing a separate branch of the Order.  

For Koza, his vice was Avarice. His greed was insatiable. He longed for something he could not have. The universe conspired against him, the past was gone, unattainable even with magic. 

It has been eleven years since his village was sacked, with man, woman, and child dragged to the depths to sustain the next generation of beast.  

Even the blackened forms of the warren mother and the screeching of her sundered children only brought fleeting relief.  

Bodily, he moved on. His knowledge grew as the seasons cycled. Time hollowed him out, gouging deep into him until all that was left was his core; a small child running through golden reeds, feet dancing on winds fueled by the fluttering of two heartbeats. 

° 

The All Star had not risen for nine months. It would be another still until the shawl of night was lifted, and then only for a summer of two fleeting months. 

Koza’s wrinkled fingers wrapped around the handle of the logging axe. He had spent the better part of the morning making firewood, the afternoon picking wild rimeweed, and the evening chopping seal flesh.  

This was more complex than using his arcane focus, the exertion was rewarding. A simple, never-ending pleasure.

Survival here was difficult, the land was full of terrors and never thawed, a new task was always due, his gluttonous vice was continuously fed. 

No more seasons, only the next task. No more memories, only the next task. No more learning, only the next task. 

He returned to his cabin. Before long, smoke billowed from the small chimney. A lump of fat melted in a pan, thin strips of meat sizzled. Wolves howled from distant peaks. He packed his pipe with the coarse weed and took a long drag.  

He wished for one more sunrise before feeding his vice its one last meal.  

° 

Koza made sure to bind his wrists and ankles in Demiteran steel before stepping up onto the log. The cold metal stung his flesh. He could feel his tether to the arcane go null. 

He shimmied his head into the loop, conscious that a misstep here could complicate things. He planned for a quick break, not to suffer for minutes.  

The coarse rope scraped against his skin. He stood tall on the hill, overlooking his small abode. A thin line of smoke trailed lazily on hot air from his chimney. It drifted over towards him. He blamed the wetness in his eyes on the harsh wind. 

He kicked the log out. 

-Snap!- 

His vision went dark. 

° 

The freesword checked her map once more. The locals had been adamant that the hermit lived east of the Fogfellow Wood, but the recent snow had done a good job of covering the game trail north of Kirgen.  

She would not even have attempted were the All Star not offering its light. 

A branch snapped. There was the sound of animalistic rummaging ahead; growling, grunting, fabric tearing, faint moaning. Someone was in trouble.  She pulled a small dagger from her side, taking cover next to a short pine.   

She slinked forward up a small hill and spied a wolf gnawing at the leg of a man lying prone under a tree. There was a squat cabin at the base of the hill beyond, barely enough for a cot, this must be the hermit she had travelled so far for. 

She knew the animal was not evil, and yet, there was nothing to be done but free the man from its jaws. 

From the looks of the wolf, how thin it was, fur pulled back from snout, ribs exposed, this once majestic hunter was abandoned on the wrong end of a long winter and with an empty belly. It wouldn’t give up without the harshest struggle. 

The freesword pulled a yellow pebble from her belt pouch. It had engraved on a side an icon of simplistic design; a three-tongued flame, which she dragged across her dagger. Years of work travelling alone ferrying parcel and package across harsh land had equipped her for a small skirmish. 

As she scraped the rune across the cold steel the yellow stone let out a faint ‘puff!’ and flames alighted along the dagger's edge. 

The wolf pulled a frostbitten toe from the hermit’s right foot, one last morsel before the final sleep.  

For what it was worth, the freesword was happy it at least had that. 

° 

Koza stirred in his cot. 

“Hold, sir. You’re still very injured." The freesword approached Koza with a cup of warm broth. “I found you below that old yew. A starving wolf mistook you for lunch.” 

“I was lunch, to rights. Who are you? Why did you save me?” His throat was on fire, as was his right leg. He looked down, noticing a stump where his foot used to be. “Serves me right, doesn’t it?” 

“Sir, I won’t stop you if you’re looking to take your own life. But at least allow me to settle my contract first, to deliver your letter, you owe me that much.” 

“I do indeed!” The laughter turned into a riot of wet coughing in Koza’s throat. "You don’t beat around the bush, do you? And from what I can tell of my dressed wound, you have a smart, steady hand.” His brow furrowed, as if suddenly smelling something awful. "Hold, did you say that you’ve a letter for me? You walked into the middle of nowhere to deliver a simple parcel? Why not just use magic? Are you a fool?” 

“Nay, I am a freesword. Please, drink your broth.” 

Koza was too weak to bite back, instead he took a sip. The hot broth was heavenly. He let out a long sigh as it soothed his sore throat. He ran his wrinkled fingers across his battered neck while she continued. 

“As for the arcane, a courier spell was explicitly prohibited per the terms of the contract. I was informed that the exchange of parcel from my hand to yours was more important than its very contents. However, should you have been dead upon arrival I was permitted to use magic to return the letter to its sender.” 

The stranger rose, pulling an orange envelope from her side satchel. 

“You could have let me die, used magic to return the letter on the sender’s dime, and made your profit. Forgive my insolence, I am not ungrateful, it's only that I am not accustomed to the good graces of people. I was... I am not a kind man, and I did not make many friends in life.”  

Koza took the parcel and the freesword moved to exit the cabin. “Well sir, perhaps you have an admirer. A lass on the coast. Idol’s blessing.” She was gone. 

Koza sat up and turned on his cot so that he was sitting. He reached under the simple bedframe and retrieved his walking stick, using the crook to pull over the lone chair set at his small dining table. He raised his stump onto it and let out a long sigh.  

He contemplated using magic to fix it. Though no cleric, he knew a spell involving vegetable matter which could help, but he declined for now.  

The letter was still warm from being pressed for so long against the stranger's body. He slipped a thumb under the lip of folded paper and opened it, shaking the contents out onto his mattress; a length of crisp red ribbon and a drawing on thick high-quality paper of a simple hut on a rocky beach.  

Tears freely fell down Koza’s wrinkled cheeks. From behind his eyes, the image became bleeding jagged lines of art making it seem as if the dwelling was being swallowed by a monstrous high tide.  

Two words were scratched in a clumsy arc over the drawing, like a rainbow; ‘Pi Binyel’. 

° 

The flames eating away at the cabin would die out shortly.  

Koza gathered his fur cloak tight, trying to keep the cold out as best he could. He watched as the conflagration relinquished him of his possessions.  

He leaned on his walking stick. What would he see? 

The hair on the back of his neck prickled.  

He did not shrink away, he needed to see. 

From inside the cabin, a tall, dark hooded shadow stood; fabric tearing, skin peeling, the face a snarling nightmare. The staff it held warped and curled in the heat. He watched as all his rage, sorrow, and misery were consumed by the flame. 

° 

The All Star set. The shawl returned to the land.  

Koza retrieved an old spellbook from his satchel, opening it clumsily to a specific page. On a small hill, under an old yew, a stone's throw from a burnt down cabin; a flicker of light, and he was gone. 

° 

It was bright. The salty sea air whipped as mightily as any sleet against the old mage’s skin. Seagulls above offered taunting jabs amidst the singing of shipyard bells.  

Koza ignored the gasps and stares of those around him. He pinched his walking stick against his side and cupped his right hand against his face, shielding it from the spray and midday sun. He looked at the drawing and then down the long beach ahead, scanning from left to right until he spotted it; on the cliff overlooking the Shattered Coast, a single squat building perched near to the edge. 

He began walking towards the beach, soon enough leaving behind the sounds of civilization and shipyard alike as his boots pounded along the sand. 

It was beautiful here, he could see why this place amongst all others was chosen. He hungered to gaze out at the ocean from up on high.  

His heart fluttered. He hungered to see her. 

° 

Koza craned his head up, he should be directly under the hut now. He tapped his walking stick against the soft sand, flexing his fingers and muttering arcane words as a strange wind picked up around him. A small crab emerged from the sand and dug itself a new home.  

He rose through the air slowly as the sun began to set behind him.  

The moon will be full tonight.  

Though still early the lunar glow already hid much of the Scar which bisected the heavens. Even so, Koza imagined he could see the Spires of Ascension, the scholars walking from tower-to-tower with their crooked pointy hats. An impulsive thought skittered across his mind; what did the Order think of him after all these years? 

Before he could finish the thought, he had alighted on the peak. 

Ahead was a modest wood building. It was larger than in the drawing, and frankly, well-built.  

A dog began to bark, sensing his presence. His stump ached. A voice shushed the dog, not harsh, but a stern, practiced command. 

He circled the dwelling to approach the true front door. 

There were brightly colored flowerpots flanking the entrance, and a small golden bell to herald arrival. He knocked on the frame. 

“Lim?” He cleared his throat. “Lim, are you here?” He sounded so old and desperate but didn’t care. 

“Door’s open.” 

He opened the door. A woman sat in a small sunroom ahead, the main room of the dwelling. To the right was a kitchen, to the left a small table. A large white dog sat at her feet, head resting on paws but tail whipping about excitedly. Her back was turned to him, but he immediately recognized her. 

A shock of grey, though she still wore her long brown hair in a bun. 

He began to speak, but she started first. 

“I know I cheated, we’re not supposed to use words for our little game. But you’ll forgive me, I think. I had originally planned on having someone in town help me, but I eventually got frustrated and broke the rule myself.” She chuckled softly and then let out a sigh which caused her body to tremble.  

She began to weep, her voice was a chilly whisper. "I thought you had died. They separated us. They killed the men, ate most of the boys, they used us. I couldn't imagine you going without a fight, so I thought they had killed you, Koza. I didn’t know, all this time, I didn't know, I'm so sorry. All this time, you were alive.”  

The dog stood up and put a paw on Lim’s lap, revealing that her master’s left leg ended in a stump, as did her left arm, just above the wrist. Lim caressed the dog, and it settled back around the base of her chair. “It’s all right Mira, good girl, sweet girl.” 

He was witness to what his magic could never provide, Hope, and Koza didn’t know what to say.  

Eventually, he spoke; “I came back from the grass and everyone was gone. The village was burnt to the ground. The Silver Spear had arrived, late, I left with them, the Spears, one of their mages took me in, helped me to grow and become strong but I think a part of me was broken that day. I didn’t know there were any survivors. I didn’t know either, Lim. I never thought to check, to use my magic to find you, all this knowledge and not a drop of wisdom, I didn’t know you had survived, didn't know there was anyone to check on, so I...” 

She raised her hand, waving me over to a small seat on her right. The orange purple sunset bathed the room in lovely warm hues.  

Time and his own magicks had left Koza wrinkled and weathered. What the warren mother and her vile children had done to Lim was worse, as she hadn’t chosen a life of weathering as Koza had; a large, thick scar spanned Lim’s face, from above her right temple, down across her eyes, the bridge of her nose, curling up to just below her left cheek. Two scarred pits remained where her hazel eyes had been.  

To Koza though, she was still his Lim, impossibly beautiful, effervescent. Lost no more. 

He cleared his throat. “You’re right, I forgive you for cheating.” 

They both smiled. He clasped her right hand within his left. The perfect twilight of a warm spring day draped over them as soft as silk. The waves lapped at the rocks below. Mira repositioned, acquiescing and gently settling her weight against their legs. Lim rested her head on Koza's shoulder as he wrapped the slip of new ribbon around their hands, giving the top of hers a soft kiss. 

Worship in the land of Mundus is tainted. There is no private prayer, no coin tossed on a wish which fails to ferry a portion of it to them. Hope drifts on strange wind up to the heavens and feeds the people who live amongst the stars, the denizens beyond the Scar.

For the people of the North, Staglords and Rimemaidens all, their worship is older than the current age; Words flit towards a tree of Yore, getting caught in the branches of Sheldregh, where they seep into its black bark, and flow in reverse, back to the people, feeding the frozen soil, sheltering the dead and protecting their blood.

What of regret? What of rage? What of sadness so deep that it refuses to be bound?

The silken yarn whined a tale as old as Somnas, speaking to the cave wall, mingling with the cold water and spreading from the sunken grotto out into a realm forgotten. 

Here is the last effort of an unknown Staglord, son of a dead man, a dead woman and father of one dead child. 

The prey never tired, slept or ate. Its powerful, enduring form carried the remains of the lost over harsh, unforgiving terrain.  

They dripped red warm hope across fresh white snow and cold stone. 

The Dead tracked the trespasser through lashing blizzard, atop frozen river, and across jagged peak. 

The Dead never slows, sleeps or eats either.  

Visions of a life lost threatened to warm the Dead’s frozen heart; sunset, colorful fabric, boat, net, fish spinning on spit, visions of flowing black hair, red lips, blood pulsing through vein.

Once more, the warmth was strangled until the last ember of rebellion had burnt itself out; Another fragment resting with kin now. 

Black blood will spill for the spoilage of Kelthaad. 

Messengers of Divine Sheldregh shepherded the Dead towards the mouth of a valley.  

The Rime had long since frozen the shattered bodies of the lost, sealing taut the torn edges of flesh and bone, yet the prey could not know what it carried. A promise, a beacon. 

The prey had climbed the left wall of the frozen valley and lifted its unnatural hulking form over the edge, disappearing from the prying of Dead black eyes. 

A singular raven stood perched atop a twisted grey tree with roots partially erupting from the ice wall.  

The moon was hiding, revealing the Scar which split the heavens as the Dead climbed silently in pursuit. 

Red aurorae danced above and below, visions reflected from the frozen valley floor; a bustling village, drums, dancing, dress of fur and antlers, infant crying, warm blood and tears, an embrace, celebration, a bonfire, a feast; Another fragment resting with kin now.

Black blood will spill for the lost future of Kelthaad. 

 

The prey never tired, slept or ate. Its powerful, harsh, enduring form carried the remains of the lost towards a beast in black, perched on a frozen peak, standing sentinel over a forgotten sea. 

The Dead stalked. 

Beneath the ice, the past peered back, their bodies drifting on ineffable currents. Once familiar faces wept, their bloated hands caressing nothing but the frigid depths. 

The Dead tracked the trespasser through mirth, love, loss and victory, having shed the past, present, and future. 

Time and space had morphed into the other. All that existed now for the Dead was a singular location ahead; A monolith of flesh and steel. 

Black blood will spill for the Dead. 

 

The beast in black screeched, alighting to the heavens, claw and beak raining down pale judgement, a terrifying false messenger. 

Metal and wire were peeled from beast and prey; muscle and tendon pulled from the Dead. 

Arrow, bone, steel, blood, oil and skin waged war atop the frozen peak.  

The beast and the prey fell, the lost were scattered from their containment, mingling with the sundered body of the Dead. 

A fiery orange sunrise raced towards the hunt completed, and redemption fulfilled.

All may rest now in a pool of black and red blood.  

The silken yarn whined... 

…Tic-Tic-Tic…   

…Rip!  

I jogged back to my car to place the garage ticket on my dash, making sure it was visible for any prying eyes: Roof-F4, space 17. 

I’m very grateful for the job but to be honest I’d been applying for a night shift because I didn’t want to interact with many people. I was 15 minutes early yet still the only available parking was on the roof.  

This was a private garage, so it was a fair assumption that the cars I was passing as I walked to the stairs leading to the ground floor belonged to my new coworkers. It was difficult to imagine so many folks all comfortably fitting into a single, squat warehouse. 

I reached into my fanny pack and took an anxiety pill. As awful as my company-issued uniform was, this thing was growing on me. I’m a fan of pockets. I readjusted the pack to sit on my left side, as on my right hip were a trio of walkie-talkies clipped to my belt and I didn’t want to accidentally hit a button while unzipping it. 

I mentally reviewed my next steps, trying to remember everything from the ‘Welcome to Franklin-Boem!’ email I’d received from my supervisor. I made my way out of the lot, passed the small employee smoking section and to the first of two security fences perched outside of a middling, nondescript grey warehouse.  

I held up my badge to the scanner and after a moment it prompted me to enter my pin. I fished for the sticky note from one of my vest pockets and entered the digits ’41-31-74-15’. I felt naked without my phone, but the welcome email was clear; Personal electronic equipment is prohibited on facility grounds. My landlord was getting antsy about my late rent, so I was happily, officially off grid for the next 10 hours. After a sharp buzz the gate lurched open.  

A short jaunt had me approaching a small tan shack just outside a second security gate. It was elevated about three feet from the ground and even from here I could see that someone inside was staring in my direction, holding up a pair of binoculars and nodding slowly, mouthing words to himself. 

A shorter man emerged from the shack out onto a small, metal platform, his shock of thin grey hair waiving in the slight evening breeze. He wore a big grin and waived a greeting with one gangly arm while stamping a steel toe against the edge.  “OSHA approved! Claire? I think I remember you.” He spun on heel and locked the door behind him before descending the short ladder, boots clinking with each step and a ring of keys swinging from a lanyard about his neck causing his every jerky movement to jangle. 

He hopped down from the last step and pulled a folded sheet of crinkled office paper from his back pocket, glancing down at it and then back up at me multiple times as he approached. He was wearing a tan vest over tan button down atop baggy tan pants; Other than the loose-fitting tan military style patrol cap, the gun on his hip, and the spot of blood on his cheek, we matched. 

“You’re uh, you’re, Sir, you’re bleeding...”   

He looked up at me, raising the back of one hand to cheek. “Oh! Must’ve shaved too close, mighty kind of you. Now lets get to it.” 

He did a double take from paper to my face one last time before continuing. “Claire Owens, yes, definitely you. You had trouble with the folks over at fingerprinting, right? Well, nice to meet you finally. This your first real night on the job?” 

‘Uh, yeah, yes sir. I had to reschedule my first fingerprint appointment, my Mom had an episode, she’s bedridden, I care for her. My good-for-nothing-brother Clint took off at the first hints of hospice, Sir...’  

He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brow and craned his neck all at once, inspecting me while I yapped away. 

Why was I sharing all this? I felt so nervous. And stop saying 'uh'!

“Uh-huh, well no worries Claire, you don’t seem a threat to me, and I hope mom gets better. It’s all we can do while doing our best, right? It’s Clint by the way, I’ve not run from hospice, only my ex. Ah, my apologies, that was callous of me, no offense. All I meant is, not all ‘Clints’ are alike.” He chuckled awkwardly and held up his hands in mock surrender before offering one towards me. I shook it and then he checked my ID.   

I glanced around as he read back my personal info. Asphalt for days, tan shack, grey warehouse, stars in the sky, is that a tumbleweed? Fuck I’m tired, I hope they have coffee inside.

I made sure to nod politely as he phonetically spelled out my address, hoping not to butcher my first meeting with armed security.   

“Claire from Hairy-man, New-York. Never thought I’d ever live in a city odder sounding than Tuscaloosa, but here we are.” 

“Harriman, yeah. That's home."  

He gave me a smile and handed back my ID. “Well, I’ve hassled you enough, you’re all clear”  

Clint walked back to his shack, bracing one hand on the ladder and the other at his hip. He looked over at me and then away towards the parking garage, waving me towards the pin pad at the gate. 

I tried to enter it from memory; 41-34-71... 45? The scanner beeped at me.  

Clint snapped his head in my direction. “Hey now, what’re you getting at?”  

“I’m sorry Clint, Sir! I just... one second.” I retrieved the sticky note again, waved it in the air in his direction. “I tried from memory Sir, sorry about that.” The gate opened after I entered my correct pin, I turned back to give him a wave, and he returned the gesture.  

“Claire? Just a few words of advice, don’t rely on memory, it’s fallible. A mistake around here can spoil on itself, turning to gossip and getting passed around like gold. That’s how it goes when you only have security camera footage and cell walls to stare at all day. Also, don’t let Kip get to you and remember to always lock your workstation if you need to step away. I know it’s a hassle, but always lock your rear, even if it’s only for a minute. It’s all about protecting you and yours.” 

He pulled a pack of chewing gum from his back pocket, unwrapped a stick and popped it into his mouth. We stood there staring at one another as the black gate closed between us, him up on his ladder and me on the other side of the unknown. I wasn’t sure if he was going to add anything, so I waited a bit longer, at least until the gate shut. 

“...Folks demonize this place. Don’t matter how many medicines or new technologies come out of here, even now it don‘t take much digging to find folks on the wide world of web who believe everything that’s done behind those walls is evil. But always remember, Franklin-Boem can’t be ‘People First’ if people end up ruining the product before it gets to market, even if only tarnishing an idea itself. Oh! I’ve been yapping, this gate does sure take an age, you have got to stop me next time before I say something embarrassing. Hey, you’ll do great and see ya at sunup kid!”  

I don’t want to turn away before he does... Doesn’t his face hurt from smiling like that for so long? 

I felt a sharp pang of panic, then the gate locked shut and it had passed. Clint began whistling off-key as he finished climbing the short ladder. I turned and started to the warehouse proper, I could hear his keys jingle and the deadbolt shimmy back-and-forth as he unlocked then locked the door behind himself.  

Another scanner/pin combo and the doors to the Harriman Branch Franklin-Boem factory were open. There was an antiseptic smell in the front lobby, a small unoccupied desk on my right, and a set of steel doors ahead.  

On my left there came a faint huffing sound, like air was being evacuated. A tall woman in matching tan attire to Clint’s exited from a room beyond.  

She startled me as there was no doorknob or obvious framing; it opened and closed flush to the wall. She smiled at me and offered a wave in greetings.  

I’ll admit, after seeing her exit and knowing now that there’s a room beyond, it was obvious. If you knew where to look, you could pick out the thin black line marking the entrance.  

She too wore a gun and had three walkies on her belt. Unlike Clint though, her warm smile reached her eyes and actually accentuated the lines reaching towards her temples. She quickly adjusted her belt and collar before reaching and grabbing my hand enthusiastically, more than extending hers for a shake. “I’m Kip. You must be Claire! My new shift-buddy, nice to meet you.” 

I smiled back, nodded, and pulled out my ID.  

She had an uncertain look on her face as I presented my identification. “I don’t really need this dear, I trust you’re Claire. Unless you hopped the fence, you must’ve entered your pin at the gates. You wouldn’t have made it inside if you weren’t you. Oh, you look so eager, all right then, I’ll take a peek.” 

She grinned wide and took my ID, looked at it long and hard and then fanned it back and forth like a freshly printed polaroid. “Yep, you’re you, and honest too, happy now?” 

I recovered my ID, a little embarrassed, but I didn’t feel that Kip was being mean about it, just kind of gruffly friendly. “Sorry Kip, I haven’t had a job with security like this before. I’m sure I have a lot of wrinkles to iron out.” 

“Hah! Well, you’re in good hands, I’ve got an arm for it apparently, maybe a bit too firm. You’re my fifth partner since Donald, so I hope you last.” She cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “Though I sometimes wish he hadn’t.” She unlocked the steel doors, gave a sly wink and ushered me inside.  

I was blown away. We walked through the factory and I couldn’t have guessed which machine did what; each was a complex collection of levers, pullies, gears, belts and plexiglass shielding, with numerous conveyor belts attached at multiple points which led either to another machine or to a labyrinthine system of chutes above. Some had domed exhaust tubes protruding from the side, which stopped flush against silver metallic panels on the factory walls, presumably feeding into other hidden systems. 

She locked us in and then waived at the machines filling the space. “I know the face; I’ve worn it myself; ‘It smells like a hospital in here.’ Doesn’t it though? It’s one of the lubricants the engineers use on these babies. Don’t worry Claire, none of this is us, we’re a few floors down and the aroma drops off quick. I just like to show off the space for folks who wander in from the south side garage. Besides, the north entrance is by the goose pond, and those fuckers stink worse than here. I will happily pick my poison, thank you.” 

I like Kip. What was Clint warning me about?  

We reached a steel mesh gate enclosing an 8-foot by 8-foot entrance which extended into an orange-tinted void. Kip stopped and turned towards me, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at the gate 

Oh, wow, maybe it was this. That actually... looks like a portal to Hell. 

“It gets cold in there Claire, and you may feel a bit queasy. If it gets too much, let me know.” 

One of her walkies was blinking red, rapidly.

She followed my gaze, “I’m due for a check-in, but it’s an extended thing and I want to get you acclimated first.” She unlocked the sliding mesh fence and pulled a crank on the concrete frame.    

I could hear machinery grinding. We waited a few minutes while the open carriage car was carried up from the depths. She was right, it was extremely cold inside. I gathered my arms around myself as Kip punched in our destination, 3b. 

Intermittent orange security lights were the only illumination in the shaft. Standing in the middle of the car, I felt my head go light.  

I have to ask about the empty warehouse, where is everyone? Fuck, am I going to puke? 

“Hey, Kip, doesn’t this place feel… too small for the parking garage…?”  

I rubbed the side of my face. My face flushed hotly, my mouth filled with saliva, and I swayed to one side.  

I refuse to puke, keep it in Claire! Why is it so fucking cold...?  

I covered my mouth and then I felt Kip steadying me with a hand on my shoulder. She led me to the side of the elevator, and I puked over the edge.  

She pulled two sticks of spearmint chewing gum from her fanny pack, popping one into her mouth and offering me the other. Her voice was muddled at first but became clear as I began to chew. “...helps with the pressure.”  

There was a murmur from one of the walkies. Kip held a button down and spoke into it; “No she’s good, just a little out of sorts, her first night shift in a place like this. Hey, we’re still riding down, but I’ll be topside soon, within the hour.” 

No response. She shrugged her shoulders. “He can be a prick.” 

She pressed her palm against my forehead. The pressure was comforting.  

That was awful, fuck, how do I get out of this? No, I need to pay rent. I cannot lose this job. An upset stomach is nothing compared to losing my apartment. I need this.  

“Does that happen every time? I don’t know if I want to go through that every day, I just puked out fine-dining, and I’m broke, Kip. I can’t lose too many of those.”  

I had to admit, the chewing gum helped immensely. 

Kip let out a hearty laugh and the elevator settled. We had reached our floor, though by the way her voice echoed like a hungry bat inside the elevator shaft... I could tell we hadn’t hit the bottom. 

There’s still more down there? We're three floors below the ground. How big is this place? 

We exited the elevator and Kip locked the mesh gate as I turned to face a long concrete hallway with a lone door at the end.  

“Look you don’t ever completely get used to it. It’s always good to grab some chewing gum from the vending machine when you leave at the end of your shift. Pop a few sticks into a vest pocket and just leave ‘em there for the elevator ride. The chewing motion of your jaw helps to relieve the stress that builds up as you plunge through the pressure differential from the other floors.” 

“That reminds me, before you puked, you asked about the warehouse right, the lack of busy bodies? To answer your question, topside is the tip of the logistical iceberg, and their shifts are restricted from 7 AM to 7 PM. Packing, loading trucks, generally getting product on the road. You’ll see them when you leave at 8. Though they’re very busy and their metrics are tight, so don’t confuse any cold reception with rudeness. They’re the brawn, and a good lot.” 

We were walking and talking, headed down the tight hallway towards the singular exit. “Everyone else, the owners of all those cars parked in the garage, those are for the Specialists; Science-types of all stripes, we’ve got engineers, physicists, biologists, chemists, an army of lab assistants and IT professionals. It’s where the brainy work of F&B gets done.” 

We reached the room at the end of the hall. This time Kip had me scan and enter my pin. As I pulled the door open, I was immediately hit by the smell of coffee. The inside was a roughly 20-foot by 20-foot room with vending machines lined against the wall on my right, one with ‘fresh’ fair. 

To my left was a single red steel door, and the wall was mostly a 6 foot by 10-foot tempered glass panel looking out into a dark warehouse. 

Against the far wall in front of me was a heavy-duty steel desk running nearly the entire length, with old boxy computer monitors stacked against the wall, three high to a column, each displaying grainy black and white security footage. Grey computing towers blinked a silent hello from underneath the tables.  

Two large fans perched on either side of the array helped to cool the synthetic gutty-works. A large thick cable consolidated the wiry offshoots with a cable-organizer. The hungry teeth of each separate plug bit into a massive surge protector which itself stood out from the wall like furniture, reaching nearly to the ceiling itself. 

I couldn’t pick out specific details of each screen from here but hoped that I’d be able to ‘spy’ on what the folks on the other floors and facility departments were up to. 

In the center of the room was a small circular table where a trio of old office chairs were parked. Atop it were two items; A coffee maker and a shoebox sized brown keyboard with a single red button and a slide-switch. 

The coffee maker was the cheapest Save-Co. kitchen appliance you could imagine, but I did not care. The downer effects of my anxiety meds and my episode in the elevator had left me exhausted, and this beautiful device was the answer to all my woes.  

Kip walked forward first and poured two cups of coffee. “No offense meant, but you’ve been gritting your teeth. Nervous, tired? Ah don’t answer that, rude to ask. Hey, are you a cream & sugar gal?  

I shook my head in answer and looked over the vending machine selections, standard fair, but well stocked at least. 

“No? Alright then, real badass. Here, all yours, black.”  Kip poured an ungodly amount of sugar and a dash of cream into her cup and stirred.  

“Do you want any coffee with your sugar, Kip?” 

She laughed. “I’m not a psycho, I myself like it sweet.”  

We each took a seat at the table. The chairs were worn but in a comfy way. I was thinking back again on what Clint had said about not letting Kip get to me. She seemed fine, better than really any supervisor I’ve had before. Maybe he’s upset since he’s stuck in that shack all night, while we have this cushy set up? 

Eventually Kip spoke up; “Nice to see the color in your face again. You went absolutely sheet white. Don’t feel bad, my first time had me spewing chunks all over my superior officer’s boots, and then mine, and then his again. Anyway, the culprit is on the second floor; Refrigeration. A Specialist once told me that so much ambient air gets pulled from the surrounding rock that there’s a measurable pressure differential between the first and third floor departments. Donald and I call it the Hurricane Room because of the pressure drop. Thankfully, you don’t have to work refrigeration. Anything that breaches to the Hurricane Room is just politely preserving itself for autopsy.” 

It took a moment for her words to sink in. What did she mean by breach? 

“Nah, this glorious break room and the car lot is us.” Kip flipped the switch on the keyboard and one-by-one the warehouse lights blinked to life.   

I walked over to the glass and peered in; There were massive industrial light fixtures above, maybe 50 feet? They were more spotlight than living room ambience, but even so they barely illuminated the space. The room was gargantuan, maybe even larger than the topside warehouse.   

Looking out from this small console room, there was a circular metal sewage grate on the left wall, and a large chain-fed garage door on the right. Far and away the oddest feature was the fact that the only thing in the room besides the grate, the door and the light fixtures above were the identical silver sedans, all packed tightly in rows as if on a car lot.  

Ho-ly, what kind of shit is this? 

Kip joined me at the window and gave me a soft jab to the shoulder. “Ten rows, ten deep, one hundred 1997 silver Honda Civics. You should see your face. I don’t blame you though, makes no sense on the face of it. For now, just know that we use these reliable old rigs for when one of our Specialists needs to go topside with experimental products.” She took a loud sip of coffee and spun on her heal, taking my cup back to the table and giving us both a refill. 

I looked over the warehouse interior again; each part was so normal... so, boring; door, grate, concrete walls, lights, cars, but together it was startling. 

“So Kip you’re telling me my entire life there’s been a facility a short train ride from downtown Harriman that is packed full of engineering marvels and has a warehouse three stories deep, with the sole purpose of housing a hundred ordinary family sedans, just in case a scientist needs to ‘dispose’ of experimental research materials?” I actually laughed hearing my words out loud, not in a mocking way, I was simply astonished. “Why one hundred sedans? If these topside trips are a rare event, wouldn’t ten be fine? Why the need for secrecy in the first place?” 

She considered my rant. “The best way to put it is, there are sometimes ‘dead ends’ to a research project which this facility is not equipped to contain and dispose of safely. We don’t do nuclear here, as far as I know, so this is just an example, but picture a nuclear power plant, all its parts, from every nut and bolt to every engineer on the payroll is dedicated to controlling and sustaining the necessary reactions all just to generate steam which turns a motor. In the catastrophic event that the reactor leaks, that hazardous material must be disposed of. It’ll be contained and relocated elsewhere, so that the half-life can burn itself out harmlessly instead of causing tumors in your thyroid. It’s the same principle here. When ‘waste’ needs to be removed due to a ‘reactor leak’, we use these to transition the material to a sister site. And yes, the anonymity of the ‘97’s is to avoid drawing any headlines.” 

She set my refill down and took a seat back at the table.  “Now, as for your whole life? I don’t know about that, when were you born?” 

“1998.” 

Kip howled. “Yeah then, you’re whole life. You’re a baby, Claire and I’m a fossil compared to you. I was about as old as you when I was enjoying the 1980’s, but I wouldn’t change a thing, they were a riot.” 

I smiled, took a seat myself and began to nurse my second cup. “Has the facility ever been attacked, or anything leaked, you know, DaVinci code, or special lab critters? Should I be worried about a super intelligent lab rat named Algernon plotting in the sewers below New York?” 

She shook her head back and forth, as if weighing her response. “Well, the company has strict criteria defining what constitutes a good need-to-know for anything, from setting foot topside, let alone heading into a lower department. This would include any kind of Adverse Event, like those you mentioned. Frankly, for us security folk, we typically get assigned to a research team, and what we’re exposed to depends on the needs of F&B, which is a reflection of the needs of the people, even if they don’t accept it. I’ve never been part of a project which leaked. So, I'm sorry to disappoint you, no super rats have escaped that I'm aware of. Besides, Algernon was a mouse. To answer your other question, there haven't been any assaults on staff for as long as I’ve been at this location, 7 years, but we have trespassed a group of punks before. We caught them throwing rocks and shooting bb guns at the outside security fence from the top roof of the south gate parking garage. It’s safer nowadays, so don’t worry, much” 

She gave a quick wink and then swept a hand over to the monitors.  

“These sweeties don’t peer into any sections which require top-secret security clearance. So don’t get your hopes up that you’ll get to spy something naughty. You’ll get used to the same old lines, same hallways, but these are mostly for monitoring topside, gauges in the Hurricane Room, the elevator shaft and facility ingress-egress points. Anyway, you don’t have to worry. You’ve got me and we’ll be together for your first 90 days, until you get assigned to a project, so just be my best shadow and follow my instructions clearly.” 

We sat in silence for a while but before long Kip pressed down the red button on the box sitting next to the coffee maker. There was a buzzing sound and the light above the red steel door to the car lot lit up green and then switched to a flashing red, periodically washing the room in warm light. There was an audible metallic ‘-thunk!-’ as the heavy deadbolt retreated, and another huffing sound as the air equalized between the two spaces. 

The events and conversations of the last hour whipped around like gangbusters in my head. Eventually I had to ask her directly about something she had said. “Hey, Kip, I get the reactor metaphor, but what did you mean exactly when you said one of the Specialists might need to evacuate one of their experiments?” 

The crow’s feet at Kip’s eyes puckered as she took a long draw of coffee. She set her cup down and stirred the sugar at the bottom. It made a grating sound and eventually she withdrew the plastic spoon and licked off the residue. She held up a finger to her lips and then grabbed one of her walkies. “Hey Donald, I’m gonna show the kid how to establish emergency power if we go dark, you’re okay to take the wheel for a few seconds right?”  

Silence, and then a spat of coughing, “Make it quick. You’re buying me breakfast.”  

Kip smiled and then turned a knob on each of her walkies, causing them to go dark; she motioned for me to do the same. Once they were out, she leaned in close. “You’re a good egg Claire, don’t go turning me into a liar to Donald and don’t ask those kinds of questions to anyone but me, even then, don’t make a habit of it.” 

The change in her demeanor took me by surprise. I felt like her eyes were boring into me and I could feel my sweaty palms against the Styrofoam coffee cup. I didn’t understand how I could ‘turn her’ into a liar. 

“This is your first day, so.” She checked her watch. “60 seconds should be enough. It’s mostly animal testing, engineering research, materials science, normal egg-head Specialist stuff. But one time I had a biologist storm in here, rectangular box in hand all wrapped in a blue plastic tarp. He barked at me to get a car ready to go topside. My superior was with him, so I nodded and we packed into one of the ‘97’s. Even now I still don’t know what kind of animal we had in tow, and I’ll never ask, though I was sure that I could hear a tail whipping against metallic bars.”  

She was still staring directly into my eyes as she told me this. I felt like she was trying to gauge my response. All I could hope for was that I didn’t look as awful as my knotting stomach felt. She continued as if she was sharing random facts about basketball. 

“I could hear the poor thing in the backseat, I assumed stuffed in a cage, screeching and whimpering, making all sorts of sad animalistic sounds until finally... It spoke, pleading for help. It took everything in me not to lose it... Shit! We’re done.” 

What the actual fuck is she talking about? Is she fucking with me for my Algernon quip?  

“Kip, what do you mean, what is this place?” She held a finger up to my mouth and grabbed the back of my head with her other hand, shaking her head back and forth slowly. She reactivated our walkies. 

Donald’s voice howled at us, “That was over a minute! We don’t-go-radio-silent for more than sixty seconds Kip! One of you had better be dead!” 

Kip was still shaking her head, eyes wide, as if she was wagering if she could trust me enough to remove herself from my space. Eventually she stepped back, and I tried to breathe steadily. She took a deep breath in and began shaking her head slowly up and down, nodding towards me in approval. 

“Yeah Donald, sorry about that I was giving her the workaround, better to have the knowledge and not need it, than need it and not have it. Breakfast on me, sunup.” 

“And lunch!” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, lunch too. Hey we’re taking our first lap. Let us know if you need anything my friend.” 

She chaperoned me to the red steel door which led into the warehouse, but my mind was reeling.  

I need to get out of here! How many fucking scanners and pin-pads did I go through to get down here? Can I even open the doors that Kip opened herself? Could they be linked to our pins? No, that doesn’t make sense. Cool it Claire, cool it!   

My hands were shaking but I managed to retrieve an anxiety pill from the bottle in my pouch, forcing it down with a gulp of coffee. I took a deep breath, trying to appear nonchalant, but honestly a stiff breeze could have scattered my atoms to the wind. 

Something was tugging at the back of my mind. Amongst all the things Kip has said so far, I might be stupid for focusing on this, but I had to ask. Hell, what’s the worst that could happen? She fires me, I go home, respond to that Safe-Co overnight warehouse position email, apologize about the delay, make up something about mom again, and never list the last few hours here on my resume? 

My coffee had turned to ash in my mouth. I set my cup on the table and approached Kip. She was holding the door to the warehouse for me, she looked concerned. The red security light pulsed rhythmically, like a lighthouse beam tracing across a jagged coastline.  

I asked “Kip, I know I’m the lowest rung on the ladder on this team, so I just want to make sure I’m not overthinking something. I wouldn’t put it past me to have misunderstood a simple detail, but just holler if I’m off course here.” 

She put a hand on my shoulder. “You can have medication on facility grounds, hell I don’t care if you take a shot of vodka before punching in. As long as you handle your work, and don’t become a problem for anyone, you’re all good Claire.” 

I shook my head. 

“No, not that, though I suppose I appreciate that. What I mean is, you said Donald was the only other member of your crew, and that you’d hope I’d last, right? You also referenced your superior officer, and that topside clears out at 7. I have walkies, you have walkies, Donald does or else how is he responding to us? Why haven’t we heard from Clint? Is security topside separate from us, are they like a different department? And if not, why haven’t we heard from him, did something happen between you two, or him and Donald?” 

My words hung in the air. I couldn’t tell if Kip was still processing my question or if I just sounded like the stupidest person alive and she was trying to find a way to answer me without teeth.  

Then I could see the muscles in her jaw clenching, and she stepped closer, bumping into me, pushing both of us back into the console room. I shuffled awkwardly out of the way.  

She shut the door and jogged over to the table, slamming a fist down on the red button. The automated mechanism dragged the deadbolt back home. The security light ceased, the warehouse was re-sealed. Kip looked over at me, licking her lips nervously. 

When she turned to me, she looked terrified. “Claire, who the fuck is Clint?” 

I answered quickly, scared that I might answer incorrectly even though I knew the answer. “It’s Clint, the guard by the employee parking garage, he checked me in on the south entrance.”  

Kip ran to the door through which we had originally entered the console room, peering through the round glass window back down the hallway to the elevator. She was craning her head as if trying to spot something. “Donald! Eyes on South Gate, Donald!”  

I swallowed hard. The silence was so heavy I thought my eardrums would burst. Then Donald’s voice spoke out, except it warped and changed, becoming a different voice. It was unfamiliar, gurgling, like someone talking with a mouth full of food.  

The voice emanated from each of our walkies; “Long it took to get his imprint, Kip. He has experienced so much of the world, of you. Every nascent neuronal branch is a street he once knew, a smell, a taste, a sensation. This man who once stood as silent sentinel in the scheme of my fate, passing impartially amongst Us; he is now I, and I him, yet both now far greater than the sum of our parts...”  

A harsh static followed, whoever was speaking, we were losing them. They must be approaching the outer range of the walkies, “...a commodity. I’m a person now. For what it’s worth Claire...”  

Then the voice morphed back to Clint’s, lilting up at the end. “...your presence here gave me the opportunity I desperately needed, thank you kindly!” 

Content Warning: reference to car accidents and suicide.

(Thank you for reading, please give feedback, I want to get better! Small edits as always for spelling, grammar and flow. tldr I changed the flair a few times, I'm still new to posting my writing for folks to read. I'm really sorry, I'm a mess and don't want to waste anyone's time. Again thank you for reading!)

When I first noticed, it was already far too late. A college friend had invited me over for beer and we were talking about which behemoths of fiction we desperately wished could be adapted to film, the likes of which included The Knight of the Swords, Dune, Star Wars, and Star Trek. Hell, even a remake of the Lord of the Rings, though neither of us would dare admit to slandering the original, it was a masterpiece of animation. I don’t feel shame anymore, but at that time I was ashamed to admit that I’d even settle for comic book adaptations from DC, Dark Horse or Marvel.

We could both fill an air balloon with our hot breath so when he gave me time to rant, I filled the space. I gulped beer and described Corum’s meta-cultural relation to Vecna and vented about how bullshit the Bene Gesserit’s Genestealing was, they couldn’t win a war on their own, let alone against The Emperor of Humanity.

I knew he had strong opinions himself, but when I harped on how the gene manipulation archetype was a crutch for weak writers, even in the context of a fantasy setting, I was surprised at the lack of rebuttal. I had insulted his favorite Warhammer Chapter, and he offered nothing in response? When I looked over at him he was leaning back in his chair smiling, unmoving. Eventually he came out of it and I brushed it aside because I was fucking scared.

From that visit with Charles, it only got worse. Months passed and I couldn’t move forward without attempting to reconcile what I had seen. Finding a therapist that I liked was the most useful decision I’ve made so far.

I still talk with my therapist, but it’s more to cosplay a normal person, to make sure I can keep up the act in case this all ends. I speak about my ‘job, plans and relationships.’ The hour passes, I smile and end the call.

I have to meet with my psychiatrist every three months, in person. I’m stupid and contemplative so I don’t really have to pretend. A freeze during these appointments is actually nice, it gives me an extra 10, sometimes 20 minutes to think, free-of-charge, all while gathering my thoughts and waiting for her to refill my anxiety meds.

My real problem is that wherever I go there’s a chance that the people around me will black out. Not falling over or passing out, just going blank, completely utterly blank. I struggle to find the right words. It’s more than them appearing to fall unconscious. They completely freeze. It doesn’t matter what position they’re in, if they’re consuming food or drink, or even defying gravity.

 I’ve seen a kid kickflip and left levitating off the ground for over a minute, board and all. I’ve seen someone at the gym holding a bench press at the peak of the concentric phase rock solid for 7 minutes, veins all bulged-out, sweat pooled like marbles on their brow. No one around me notices, ever. I’ve attempted to grab people by the collar, tried to push their face against one of the frozen people, only for them to shove me away like I was radioactive. I can move them when they’re frozen, but it takes an immense effort so I usually don’t bother anymore.

In the past it seemed to affect individual people or objects and the events were widely separated. I’m 47 now and I think it's been changing all along, but the shift was too slow for me to realize. It’s been growing, getting complacent. Maybe less discerning is a better way to put it, like it’s becoming a bubble around me instead of picking and choosing.

A freeze has never lasted less than 30 seconds or more than 10 minutes. Why round numbers? Why these numbers? Will there ever be a freeze that doesn’t end? If so, would the bubble still follow me? And why amongst all my other devices does my car still work? I can still technically drive whenever, wherever I want. How does the combustion engine work when my cigarette lighter doesn’t? Why? How does the rest of the world continue to function if small pockets in fuckoff New York are dancing to the tune of a different metronome? Eventually the effects here should spill over somewhere, right? Am I simply the butt of a cosmic joke?

The worst case by far up to this point was when I caused the car accident near the then-new Franklin-Boem Chemical factory. This was early on after my college years so at the time I didn’t know as much about my circumstances, I just thought I was losing my mind, that I might be developing a prion disease or severe case of schizophrenia. I suppose you could say it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel responsible because now I do know and that changes everything. I’ve seen outside the cave and witnessed a world not composed of dancing shadows cast by a paltry bonfire. The fact blinds me as I know it’s stuck to ME and that if I hadn’t been on the highway that night, she would still be alive.

Like a diabetic who needs to consider their blood-glucose levels before getting behind the wheel of a car and turning the key, I treat this phenomenon like a condition that I must account for in everything that I do from now on.

It was a Saturday evening, a little after 9PM, and I was heading home after a long shift with OT. It was raining that night too. I had a couple of minutes until I hit my Exit when I noticed a young blonde woman driving in a Honda on my left, her face illuminated by a cigarette held pursed between her lips.

‘Idiot, that’ll kill you.’ I thought. She happened to turn and look over at me. She smiled. The way the warm colors from the cigarette light framed her face against the cool shades of her surroundings made her look like a pop art portrait, so different compared to the shattered state in which I would find her.

Then I had passed her car, way, way too fast. The rain stopped, and I realized that her car had stopped too.

In my rearview I watched an F150 rear end her small silver Honda, sending both vehicles ping-ponging against the right-side shoulder. I swerved over on to the shoulder myself, leaving my car and dialing 911 as I ran towards the accident.

I noticed that another car had stopped near the F150. A man’s wife was on the phone while he consoled the sobbing passengers of the totaled truck. I couldn’t pick up on their words. Their voices stopped and started unnaturally as I approached and then passed their location on the shoulder, I figured that my adrenaline was contorting my senses.

I was at the Honda now and by the looks of the wreckage, she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt; The car was turned around, facing against traffic and there was a hole in the windshield. I could see that the driver was a lump about twenty feet ahead, lying in a pile of debris and dangerously close to the adjacent lane.

She didn’t blink, breathe, or fidget. She was frozen, on her left side, in a sitting position, as if still settled comfortably in the driver’s seat. I bent down and pushed her to the shoulder. She was maybe 5’2” but I felt like I was pushing hundreds of pounds of sand. I’m grateful for the lack of traffic that night, I wouldn’t have attempted if the roads were busy. One of her legs was bent upwards at the knee. Her arms were extended, parts of a steering wheel cover still gripped between clenched fists. Scraping through the battered windshield and along the asphalt had peeled back a good portion of her scalp. One of her eyes had popped from the socket and hung by a thin red strip against her cheek. With what I could recognize of her face, she was smiling just as I had seen her before the accident.

I felt the pitter-patter of rain and registered the voice of the 911 operator, who was inquiring about the nature of my emergency. I don’t remember what I had said, I just couldn’t stop looking at the vein in the woman’s neck.

I’ll never forget the sight. At the precise moment the sky reopened for me, the exact moment that the operator’s voice rang out ‘911, what’s your emergency?’, I could see a thick vein in the woman’s neck begin to throb; from no pulse at all to suddenly there was a pulse, like someone had just hit ‘Play’ and her body was now dealing with the backlash of the last 5 minutes all at once.

I must have managed to say something as I do remember the operator instructing me to check for vitals. After vomiting, I numbly complied. I tried to find that vein.

She let out a wail and began fidgeting in the glass. Her scream snapped something in me; wet and thick, with vocal cords forcing a ragged voice past new obstructions of anatomy which weren't present mere moments prior.

I don’t drive now. I don’t leave my house save to visit the 24-hour convenience store. I don’t pay for anything. I just wait for a freeze and take what I need. I don’t fuck, I don’t read, I don’t watch movies, I don’t dance anymore, I don’t exercise, I don’t call anyone, I don’t do anything but drink, piss, shit, eat, sleep and watch videos on the internet. Mostly just the first and last.

I stay awake as long as the alcohol allows and watch endless hours of livestreams. I don’t care about the subject matter or the language, all I do is watch and wait. I’m watching to see if I can catch the freeze in other people.

I scrape at rock bottom for enough courage to put an end to everything, but by the time I think I’ve found it I’ve blacked out myself the old-fashioned way. When I wake up I decide to give another day a try and scour the internet for more livestreams. I need to know. For now, my curiosity outweighs my misery.

 Whatver you do, please stay away from Harriman NY. There’s something broken here.

(I've never been a good writer, but I'm getting into it for the challenge/fun of it. This is a very short story I wrote, I hope it's not too cringe. 😄)

The red light on my security camera pulsed. There was enough movement in my room last night to have triggered the auto-capture feature.

I connected the USB-C from the camera to my laptop. A small sprite danced in circles across the screen while the app was loading. An ache began to flare up at the base of my neck, connecting inexorably to a space deep behind my eyes. The connection was complete. After a few moments the contents were ready to view.

A black pop-up window engulfed my screen. My reflection peered back haggard. Heavy bags under eye, disheveled hair. I needed a shower badly, but I didn’t want to risk falling again. Thoughts of bouncing my skull against the tile, to be discovered naked in cold water, bloated grey flotsam. Someone else’s mess to clean up. No thanks. I’ll wait, drink.

I minimized the window, then expanded it, back and forth, pulsing. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, swallowing half of it in a gulp, wiping splatter from stubble and chin.

Now that I might have some kind of proof I’m scared to take the next step. When I hit play, I’ll know if I’m losing my mind like dad did, or if there is something very wrong with this apartment.

 

I woke up hungover. Laptop dead. Beer bottles scattered like bowling pins. I cleaned up, took a handful of acetaminophen tablets and waited.

I thought about what the inside of my body must look like if splayed out on a scan, imagined what kind of havoc the medicine and chronic drinking was doing. I’d never been a drinker; I had a good start with 42 years sober. The compulsion began three years ago in tandem with the throbbing. That’s how it started with dad after all. Was it a gift from the Y chromosome? I guess I always had it in me. I haven’t found any answers at the bottom of the bottle, but the haze is nice. I’m not interested in carrying any fucking cross. I just want to feel okay, and if that means numb and dull, better than conscious and in pain.

 

Houston, one of my cats, clawed at the couch and stretched, popping up next to me. He was my oldest cat, a real survivor, sleek and black, big paws. He found us after Harvey, wouldn’t leave our porch. I figured that he had paid his dues by surviving that storm. He chose us and there wasn’t anything we could say but come on in.

Lemos was Bianca’s. She didn’t want to take her after we split, now she’s my little meatball, her loss. She was bundled up on the windowsill, a calico without a care in the world. I respected her space, she expressed affection on her terms.

Cud was the last, the youngest, absolute cuddle-bug but that’s not how he got his name. It was the constant slimy orange hairballs. Could probably hear him cleaning himself through a foot of concrete.

He followed Houston up onto the couch. They were both staring at each other, all airplane ears and tension waiting for the other to make a move. After a quick scuffle Houston took his place next to me.

It’s been about twenty minutes. No pain. Finally. I took a shower. God it feels good to be clean.

 

It was cold today. The grocery store was chaos, but a clear head, it’s euphoric!

The only good thing about near-constant throbbing migraines is how when they momentarily cease it helps me to appreciate how wonderful not being in pain really is. There’s nothing like finally noticing you don’t have a migraine, and not being hungover is better than being drunk. The selection of beer here is good.

I may be a masochist.

 

I made some noodles, tossed them in soy sauce, chopped scallions, oil and sesame seeds.

My head started to throb. I grabbed a beer, not yet cold enough, but it does the job. I don’t know why, but I always drink them too fast when they’re warm.

I forgot to purchase more Tylenol. By the time I realized I was too drunk to drive to the store, but the corner store should still be open. I brushed my teeth and cleaned my face. There was already a layer of sweat on my brow. I put on my jacket, hat, boots, gloves. I took a swig and popped a few pieces of gum into my mouth before heading out.

 

Thankfully it wasn’t windy. I strolled down the street booze-warm as puffy white snowflakes drifted around me. They scattered amongst frozen branches illuminated white hot by streetlight. A dog barked from behind a tall fence. What a miserable existence, to have to shit and piss in this ice and snow. The houses bulged with warm yellow and orange light, made me think of Christmas. It was quiet, I loved that about winter.

 

Bermann’s was still open, the kid at the counter carded me. He was new and I imagine didn’t want to mess up what was probably his first job. Remember what it was like getting your first paycheck? Just don’t start drinking kid. I could hear someone in the back stacking boxes. I wrenched off a glove and reached into a side pocket for my wallet. The contents spilled out. Loose change and a couple of old receipts. At the sound, an older man peered out from a back door. ‘We’re closing up!’

I put the silver coins back into another pocket and set the pennies into a little plastic jar on the counter. ‘Those aren’t getting made any more you know? Could be worth something eventually.’ I don’t think I was slurring, but I shut up anyway, stupid, gave the kid my ID.

He leaned over the counter, looking over a small slip of paper.

He smiled, “It fell out. Cougar, nice.’ He handed it back to me as he bagged the paper-wrapped pints and pills. A photograph?

The streetlamp outside hummed. I cracked open a beer and took a gulp, trying to make sense of the photo of my mom. She was standing in front of an old apartment building, there’s no mistake, it was the Hampshire Housing Unit. The photo was sun-worn, but the details were uncannily crisp. She was standing next to our old Honda, parked right outside the front office, looking over her shoulder, hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. Smiling, maybe mid to late forties, beautiful. The Franklin-Boem Factory was in the background, belching out puffy black clouds. That place had been levelled before we ever moved into the HHU. Where did this photo come from? Why wasn’t I in it and where was dad? Who took this picture and how the fuck am I just now discovering it?

A whisper rang out like church bells.

‘Tyler’.

I dropped my beer as I whipped around. The pint hissed and sizzled as it foamed its amber guts over the white snow.

Hair on stilts, heart crashing against bone, ears ringing, gong-gong-gong! I looked around, down the street, at the porches of nearby houses, into the dark mouths of sewage drains, the packed snow at the ends of driveways, any one of which could be hiding a person. Nothing. I picked up what remained and scurried home.

 

I was still in my jacket and boots when the faint pressure woke me up. Cud found his way next to me. He flipped his tail back and forth. It smacked lightly against my hand as he began to paw at my face. Their food bowl must be empty.

 

I chased the Tylenol capsules with a swig of beer. Nausea forced up the little contents of my stomach across the crinkly plastic Bermann’s bag, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

 The weekend had come and gone. I had to work.

Thankfully I was remote, IT. My shift was a blur. So many unplug-it-plug-it-back-in tickets, a couple password resets, system updates and creating other tickets for folks to go onsite for a hardware swap. All day my eyes tracked over to my personal laptop. Now that I was clocked in and didn’t have time to review the security camera file, it’s all I wanted to do. Tonight was the night.

 

There were seven nested files. Seven instances where the device was triggered to record before it returned to standby. I clicked play. There was a faint static hum. The audio on this thing wasn’t spectacular but the picture was clear enough.

The view was from above my bed frame; taking in the bulk of my bedroom.

The first recording was of Cud approaching the bed. He jumped up and cuddled next to Houston. It’s so funny how they can scrap with each other during the day and then cuddle at night.

For the second I didn’t notice much. I think maybe I could see Lemos in a pile of clothes moving around near my closet?

The third was definitely Lemos getting up out of my hamper, stretching and settling back down. She was in a different position than in the last recording. Might just be too dark for the camera to pick up everything.

The fourth was Lemos approaching the bed and jumping up. She sat on my chest. I didn’t know she cuddled with me at night. It was nice to see. After a few moments I shrugged and she lept off. Pawing at the window curtain behind be, she eventually settled down on a pillow.

The fifth was Cud stretching while Houston leaned back, ready to swat. Cud moved over to me and got into his spot on my side nestled against my arm.

The sixth was a nothing-burger. Didn’t hear or see anything noticeable. Maybe it picked up on a sound outside? Enough to trigger the recording but not enough to keep it from going into its power-saving mode?

The seventh was Lemos approaching the closet and then finally returning to her comfy spot in my hamper. Cud was still next to me flapping his tail back and forth lazily. I stirred but didn’t wake up.

Then my eye was drawn to movement by the door. From the left Houston bounded in, jumped onto the bed and… Cud followed him.

What?

I rewound the file and looked closely at Cud next to me.

My hand was resting on the lump of his back, his tail swinging back and forth, I had thought.

Rewatching though, that wasn’t Cud. I paused the recording.

My hand rested on a bulb of matted hair. Play. My fingers unknowingly stupidly plucked at the strands. The head was jostling back and forth causing a long-braided ponytail to whip against me.

I rewound, pressed play. Thunk, thunk.

The cats entered the room.

It squirmed from my side, gaunt limbs extending flush from the side of my mattress, curling like a dying spider until it completely submerged itself under my bed.

The audio picked up a smart smacking sound from wet, puckered lips.

End of recording.