![[VINTAGE] Roamer](https://preview.redd.it/04frtr0jhbbh1.jpeg?auto=webp&s=9477d2f419976e3dffab93f22bc1e679f2dd2450)
[VINTAGE] Roamer
Got this in sale- Manual winding, acrylic dome, smooth sweeping curved seconds hand.
![[VINTAGE] Roamer](https://preview.redd.it/04frtr0jhbbh1.jpeg?auto=webp&s=9477d2f419976e3dffab93f22bc1e679f2dd2450)
Got this in sale- Manual winding, acrylic dome, smooth sweeping curved seconds hand.
Ten stories, ten completely different scales of contact.
A radio signal that turns out to be a forty-year-old song of mourning for us and won’t stop transmitting until it knows we’ve heard it.
A depression forming in a man’s ceiling. 3mm, then 8mm, then 19mm, directly above the flat of a woman whose husband died six weeks ago. The building isn’t subsiding. Something else is pressing down.
An alien research file on “Subject 7,441,882, Informal Designation: The Breakfast Man” a guy in Baltimore who’s been eating the same breakfast, from their vantage point, for 11,000 years. They have a paper forthcoming on why his coffee is always the same temperature.
Asettlement’s official meeting minutes on a planet light-years from here, opening with an entry that predates their arrival, that nobody admits writing, that the director insists stays first and won’t say why.
None of these four share a universe. All ten stories share one question: what does it cost to finally be seen by something bigger than you?
Free on KU. Whichever one just got you — that’s the story built for you.
I live in the US, and I read the Mahabharata and rewatch Interstellar not for something new, but to remember it’s bigger than I remembered. This is my debut collection: ten stories, ten different first contacts, one question what does it cost to finally be seen?
The Horizon
After death—does the soul rise, or fall?
I am not risen yet. Not fallen.
I row toward the horizon line
where water meets sky,
where the question is not faith or fate or worth,
but whether I pulled the oars when my arms burned,
whether I bailed when water filled the hull.
The horizon never arrives.
You only move toward it, or drift away.
Jazz is breaking
the thoughts in my mind—
Love, sadness, emptiness.
I don’t know what to show and what to feel.
I look at the glass—
the whiskey finished.
Are my thoughts finished?
No.
They are not.
They keep coming now—more with each beat.
How do I stop it—do I even want to stop it?
“Let it go,” I say.
“Let it go.”
But I feel the void—
a space that is just expanding,
that does not end.
Neon bleeds across dead ice,
a saxophone dragging its feet through the dark.
Amber rings on mahogany —
a map of hours, ounces, quiet.
The needle finds its groove, stays,
a stutter against the ribs,
static filling a hollow room.
Glass cold. Throat dry.
The shadow on the wall keeps growing.
Hands steady in the pockets,
floorboards humming low and blue.
No anchors left in the smoke.
Just a window, reflecting a face
watching a room erase itself.
Cheers 🥃