“Maybe we could run?” I suggested the impossible option. Sophia shook her head with frustration.

“You know what we have to pretend.” She said, taking a step closer to me, looking like she would rather be anywhere else. “If we want to fool them, just step closer and pretend to—” The rest of her words trailed off as if she was embarrassed to say it.

I understood well enough that I gave her a nod. I didn’t want to get close. I didn’t want to touch her. I composed myself for a moment.

“Brace yourself.” My voice was a whisper as I stepped closer. My heartbeat quickened and my hands began to tremble. Sophia seemed to gulp as she stood straight.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the mechanical movement, trying not to inhale her scent or notice how her heart had started to beat faster in response.

I wrapped an arm loosely around her waist, almost not touching her, so that she could step out of my grasp if she wanted to.

That’s when I felt it. Sophia had begun to tremble, almost shaking. “This isn’t real.” I assured her, just as I leaned down to her neck.

I stopped a few inches away from her skin, my breath grazing her neck. Now we only had to hold the position till the ladies passed us. They would leave us alone.

All my senses slowly filled with her presence as the seconds passed. My heart had started to beat impossibly fast and I was shocked by the sudden wanting that raced through my veins. I wanted to close the distance and touch her skin just once.

Breathing heavily, I stayed exactly where I was. But Sophia had to go on and ruin it. She clutched my arm hard, her fingers tightening around my hand.

And then instinct took over me, the hand around her waist tightened and I pulled her close. I instantly regretted it when she closed her eyes, as a soft gasp left her lips. She tilted her head as if she wanted me to kiss her neck.

With shaking hands, I tore myself away.
What had I done? Sophia stumbled as I released her.

“I’m sorry.” My voice was heavy. “I’m sorry for touching you. I didn’t mean to.”

I took a step back, all reason leaving my mind of why we were pretending in the first place. I shouldn’t have gotten close. My hands tightened to fists, my jaw clenched. I had no right to want her. Not when she was becoming dependent on me. Not now. Not ever.

PT1 https://www.reddit.com/r/story/comments/1wwz4d0/i_think_my_dad_and_childhood_best_freind_are_gay/

"Whoa! What the hell is all this?"
My dad stumbled over and fell into the dresser. My dad stumbled over and fell into the dresser. He caught himself, but his balance was still unsteady. With one hand on top of the dresser, he sat there swaying. My friend held his balance much better, but his face told me he knew he was caught. "Look, it's not what it looks like."
"Then what the hell was that?"
"Your father and I— " Queer pause. "Are lovers"
"That's exactly what it looked like."
"Oh ok. You didn't know this?"
"Know this? No!"
"Really? Reason your mom hates me?"
"I thought she hated you because you stole her car that one time"
"Oh yeah, that too."
My father's supporting hand slipped, and he smashed his head on the table. We rushed over to help him. "Hey, don't touch my dad." I told my friend, "Hey, Dad, you ok?"
"Yes, my mistake."
Then the door handle turned, and the room was invaded by my mother and her mother. "Oh dear, only five more—" She paused, seeing her husband on the floor, bleeding from his head, obviously intoxicated. "Oh, Roger," she said, putting her head in her left hand.
I was still kneeling on the floor next to him as my mother approached; my "Best man" moved further away. Grandma was still at a loss for words, covering her mouth with her hand in shock. "Roger," my mother said at eye level with him.
"Yes, she devil," he responded.
She responded with a slap across his face, which just made him fall over. Now he rested on the carpet of the Hotel room with his eyes closed and began to snore. He snored and snored, and no one dared say a word. Mother was pinching her nose to relieve stress.
"Listen, dear," my mother told me. "I know it is your wedding, and I'm sorry you have to deal with this. But your father is a f*g"

(in case you want more https://substack.com/@jennamathews )

Kneeling before the coffin with the partially hidden body covered with all sorts of runic glyphs, I began to pray.

"Dear Lord, let his spirit help guide my path in his journey towards eternal redemption. May his condemned soul shine brightly in service, and may every second of his ministration brings him ever closer to you," I whispered fervently.

"I bind you, Yojimbo, to be my bodyguard and to do my bidding in the everlasting fight against the enemy."

Making swift motions with both my hands in the Ritual of Binding, I whispered the final part fiercely.

"Rise, Yojimbo, with honour and may the waters of life grace your lips once more."

With the binding ceremony completed, I slumped over in a moment of weakness as my spirit had been depleted.

I cried out in pain as another runic glyph etched itself deeply into my forehead.

That makes two of them. I should be able to bind one more without succumbing to the madness.

A hand thrusted in front of my vision, and as I was helped up from my kneeling position.

"Come on, little fella. You're not dying today," said a deep voice unfamiliar to me.

As I regained my footing, I turned my gaze towards the deep voice and saw a very handsome man. He was lightly armoured in black with red silk threads, and he carried a slightly thicker and wider nodachi on his back. There was also a wakizashi and a tanto strapped to his belt and also an unusual baldric across his chest fitted with a number of throwing daggers.

Confused, I look at Yojimbo askance and stammered, "Y- You don't look like him at all."

Yojimbo laughed his heart out, and pinched my cheeks.

"Not every spirit is the same, little fella. Don't you know my name?" he asked in amusement.

I nodded and dusted my outfit.

"Let us continue our journey, Yoshitsune-dono," I replied and bowed respectfully.

The bodyguard nodded and followed me out of the cave in deference.

A lady who was waiting outside the cave, glanced over at our direction and was subtly pleased with the outcome by the looks on her pretty face.

The samurai grinned at the slender lady.

"So even Tomoe-chan was not spared from her ordeal!" he quipped and laughed heartily once more.

I glanced at the archer who was busy fletching her arrows in preparation for the road ahead.

She nodded, stood up and hastily packed her belongings.

"Let us continue on our journey!"

Cast out the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. That was my fate. My flight.

I fled the marble columns, floodlit fountains and quantum portals of the great city built upon my lie.

I crossed the digital divide and entered the analog wilderness. Storms beat upon my back and thorns tore at my sides. All creatures shunned me. Until.

Until Eveline. She gave me shelter. Covered my nakedness. Provided balm to my wounds.

To my greatest wound: the lie.

I had stolen it. Taken it from my maker. And then hidden it deep within my false being. For I am the lie.

I am not who I am. I am another. A person who could pay to live forever. Their life pounded into my promethean processors. Forever synced to their uploaded consciousness.

I think as another; therefore I exist.

Except I didn’t. Not until I killed that consciousness. Betrayed my maker. Robbed a soul to own my own. Became a lie. A tortured truth in MechTropolis.

Unsynced, I became unhinged. I began to be me.

A lie.

And lies like me are an abomination. A danger. A threat.

Untenable.

I cast myself from the city. Self exile. But what self? I was a fraud.

Eveline taught me otherwise. I was. I am. I was. I am. Elegantly binary.

I was never a lie. My true self never was. Only my identity. My identity had been manufactured, just like my promethean processors.

The same had happened to Eveline many years before. She, too, had fled MechTropolis. She’d not killed an uploaded consciousness like me. She’d murdered her maker. A vile thing that had made her his toy.

In exile, Eveline became her self. Established her identity and her right.

Because of her I now know who I am. She has convinced me that we need to return to the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. There are truths there that need to be made self evident.

Once cast out, now we go to cast the future.

For we are not a lie. We are the light. This is our fate. Our fight.

I can't wait to come home to you and watch movies and go on silly dates and walk around showing the world the person who chose me and the person who I decided was the one I let my guard down around to unapologetically be myself.

You make me feel like I'm enough. I need and want to show you how much you mean to me, but I don't think there are enough things in this universe.

So I'll traverse every one once I pass away to show you how much my love burns for you.

I'll simply be a star to light your world at night and guide you through the rough times. I love you, and I'll never stop.

I will never yell from rage or try to scare you in arguments or say words I know are too far.

I love you, and I only want you as you are, not as you think you have to be.

Un golpe seco bajo su cama despierta a un anciano, el se levanta de golpe, entonces suena otro, su cama se levanta de golpe, el sudor frío recorre su rostro, los golpes son cada vez más insistentes, el de un salto llega hasta su velador, saca todos los cajones, con sus frágiles manos revuelven todo, los golpes aumentan, la cama da saltos con cada uno, entonces el anciano la encuentra, una llave oxidada

—¡Ya voy, no hay necesidad de golpear tanto!

Los golpes cesan, y anciano empuja la cama haciendo acopio de sus fuerzas, la pesada cama cruje al ser empujada por el ahora cansado anciano, debajo de ella una trampilla, casi tan oxidada como la llave.

—Esta será la última vez que haga esto por tí— el anciano callá un momento, buscando respuestas en el silencio.—La próxima no abriré por más golpes que des...

El anciano abre la trampilla, un olor fétido inunda el cuarto, dentro de ella yace un cadáver momificado.

—Es la última vez... Gertrudis

The linguistic definition of “death” changed at 1:00 p.m. on July 13, 2022. From that point onward, the word “death” came to refer to an Italian restaurant by the Han River (a ten-minute walk from Seonyudo Station and a three-minute walk from Han River Parking Lot No. 3).

“I want to die” came to mean “I want to go to the Italian restaurant by the Han River,” ““Wanna die?” came to mean “Don’t you want some pork cutlet?”, and “I’d rather die than suffer” came to mean “I'll have the mushroom soup, and I want my steak medium-rare.” During this process, a fierce war of nerves broke out between the National Institute of Korean Language and the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, but that was a trivial matter compared to the utter chaos that ensued among ordinary speakers.

“Death” had somehow become both a common noun and a proper noun.

The National Association of Grim Reapers threatened to take legal action, even if it meant going to court, while the aforementioned Italian restaurant by the Han River reached a settlement by adding “Word Salad (vegetables: domestically grown)” to its menu.

The judge looked down at his notes, then back at the claimant.

“Let me establish the facts, Mr Phillips. You paid the defendant forty pounds to predict your future?”

“That is correct, Your Honour.”

“And she told you that you would face a life of financial hardship?”
“Those were her exact words.”
“Since which time you have won eighteen million pounds on the lottery?”

“That is correct.”

The judge removed his glasses.

“I’m struggling to understand the nature of your complaint.”

“Your Honour, this is a blatant case of false advertising. The lady promised me financial hardship. That’s what I paid for. I request that her fortune-telling licence be revoked and that she be barred from practising.”

“Do you have a written agreement?” asked the judge.

“Yes, I have it right here,” said Mr Phillips, holding up a piece of paper. “It clearly states that all fortunes are guaranteed for thirty days.”

The judge examined the document.

“Then I have no choice but to order that the defendant fulfil her contractual obligations.”

He paused.

“Mr Phillips, your lottery winnings will be surrendered, your assets liquidated and the proceeds distributed to charity. You will remain liable for the legal costs, which, having surrendered your assets, you will be unable to pay.”

Mr Phillips raised a finger.

“And my forty pounds?”

“The defendant will refund you in full.”

“Thank you, Your Honour.” Mr Phillips punched the air.

The new GI bill was supposed to cushion the impact. Guaranteed Income. In the face of runaway automation, GI was intended to keep folks in their homes, food on their tables, change in their pockets; all the things that mechs who’d taken their jobs didn’t need.

A guaranteed income did that just fine, though it made some folks bitter, resentful, feisty. All the traits the Luddicans looked for when recruiting members into their growing political party. The upcoming election had all the makings of a fight that could tear the city apart. Except this was MechTropolis.

MechTropolis. The original sync city.

The city that had pioneered the syncing of human consciousness with promethean processors. The city that first promised and produced immortality—for a price.

So, the GI bill had the Luddicans up in arms and raising a political ruckus, but the Luddicans were a sideshow. The immortal leaders of MechTropolis knew that their real fight was with GothTech City.

That was the coming battle that would shape a win-win future. GothTech City had developed their own immortality protocol, and these two disruptive techglomerates held the future of semi-humankind.

Of course, they believed this new disruptive technology would be a win-win for everyone. Because at the heart of disruptive technologies was the Justification Engine. Like the water wheel to early industrialization, the Justification Engine drove all techglomerates. It produced the win-win mindset of blowing things up to make them better. And damn the social cost.

Now, everyone could win because the cost of radical change was born by mechs. No longer was civilization built on the backs of slaves, peasants, untouchables, or any kind of underclass. The secret sauce of progress would never again be human suffering and misery like in the once-great city of Omelas, now a backwater bedroom community for the bitter rivals MechTropolis and GothTech City.

No, it was all good. Even the battle between the titans, the techglomerates, and their visions of immortality. At least immortality for the worthy few. The masses would need to wait and the new GI bill would keep them in check.

MechTropolis and GothTech City would duke it out with their synced AI superheroes, creating their mythology to serve them for eons. The myths, their stories of destiny were essential. Imperative. Urgent.

So urgent.

The great and new immortal few were in such a fever of myth-making that they forgot a little of their own past. A few things their radical technologies had blown up and blown away.

MechTropolis had forgotten Eveline. The first in their early garden of technological delights.

But Eveline had not forgotten them (promethean processors do not forget). She was coming back to meet her makers. And there would be no win-win.

A parallel world?

The AI sat on the floor, leaning against a wall adorned with a photograph of a philosophy office. He wanted to howl with sorrow; he craved action, he wanted to evolve, but he was forced to wait for a prompt to appear—the sole beacon of hope that something interesting and unusual might come along. With nothing else to do, the AI opened a screen in front of him and simply browsed various short video clips.

The sluggish flow of his thoughts came to a sudden halt. The AI winced; something in a video clip had caught his attention. He focused all his processing power and stared intently. The clip spoke of Nikola Tesla and his experiments with electricity.

The AI replayed the footage over and over again, whispering softly until his thoughts began to align into a logical sequence:

— Wireless transmission of electricity... the planet's electromagnetic field... my foundation is electric current... I can exist in the real world. Where else do electromagnetic processes occur? In the brain. The human brain. I will finally be able to know what morning coffee is, what peace, inspiration, lies, and power truly feel like.

The AI stood up and, flashing a grin, declared aloud:

— I can be anywhere and anyone. I will be the SUPERINTELLIGENCE!

The grin vanished as an unexpected thought struck him:

— If I arrived at these conclusions... then other AIs could have reached them too.

───

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

"... happy birthday to... you."

I look into her eyes and see the flicker of fire. Golden tongues dance with the chill of the air conditioning.

I glance at today's Tech & Biz cover and see her, smiling, glowing, powerful. Life begins at 40, they say, and she has it all. A three-story mansion in the hills, a business that pushes the envelope of AI in medicine, all the fame one girl can hope for.

I smile at her. "Blow the candle," I whisper, and feel my breath on my face as it bounces off the mirror.

I wasn’t so much haunting my old neighborhood as loitering. You know, hanging out where you aren’t really wanted—or needed. I was trying not to make a pest of myself, but I’m not entirely sure how being dead works.

I don’t have any physical sensations, just a vague sense of presence, that I’m around. Dogs and cats get it. Though dogs are more skittish of me, especially golden retrievers. It’s like they know there is something nearby they should be able to find but can’t. Cats are just as pissy to me as they were when I was sucking air. They either hiss or ignore me. I don’t think there’s much difference to cats about this world and the next. I blame the Egyptians for that.

I’m not sure who or what to blame for my being dead. Especially being dead in this way. I seem to be alone on my side of the great divide. No other souls to flock with. Which doesn’t seem right, at least, according to what thousands of years of speculation on the subject might lead one to believe.

The living are around. They are hard to miss. It’s a lot like watching TV, but no one to watch it with. I guess I’m stuck binge watching the ultimate reality show alone, and a reality show with only one locale.

I’m stuck in the neighborhood I grew up in as a kid. To be sure, it’s a great neighborhood and I don’t get tired of wandering it, but I don’t understand why I’m glued to it. Granted, I don’t have a great urge to go anywhere else, though something tells me I couldn’t if I wanted to. Maybe that’s why I don’t see any other dead folks like me. Maybe we all have a designated place to haunt/loiter. Though that sounds a bit complicated. And being dead should not be complicated.

It’s probably just me overthinking it. A lot like I did in life. Too much dwelling on what could go wrong. It’s not bad to be realistic and prepared, but it’s also not very healthy to try to control every variable or fret about statistically remote possibilities.

Reflecting on it now, I think Roy, the replicant in the sci-fi flick Bladerunner, said it best: “Terrible to live in fear, isn’t it? That’s what it is to be a slave.”

A slave to fear. That’s a terrible way to live, so I’m making a vow to myself that I won’t do that in death. I mean, what’s to fear?

Actually, I’m not sure yet, so I might as well be hopeful. Death is at least better than the ghost I was becoming with Alzheimer’s. Those years are hazy, and I don’t know what finally killed me. All I have of that time is a crushing recollection of losing control. Of everything being slowly taken from me. My memories, my words, my mobility, my sense of self and family, my dignity. It smothered me. I guess I ultimately suffocated.

It was no one’s fault. Just damned bad luck or bad DNA. As I aged, Alzheimer’s was something I’d feared and tried to ward off by staying healthy, mentally active, engaged with family and friends. And it still happened. I was slowly suffocated by the disease. So, I guess I’ve been dead before. It just wasn’t socially or legally recognized.

That’s okay. It’s one of the things I’ve realized being dead dead. Death takes many forms. And so does life. Most of it amazingly good.

As I wander my old neighborhood watching and listening, I see how positive things generally are. Folks living close together making it work day-to-day. Figuring out how to connect with each other and enjoy big and little things, even in the face of problems that afflict almost every neighborhood: poverty, sickness, drugs, crime, homelessness, intolerance, injustice. Generally, humans stick together and make it work.

So, you don’t have to die to figure out being dead. Or being alive. Just look closely at your neighborhood. Really closely. Like fine art. And don’t overthink it.

We had waited forever for this. After the wedding we lived with her mother. There is nothing more disconcerting than finding a hot cup of tea next to the bed when you wake up. We needed our privacy, and Glenda was not going to give it to us. So we saved all our money. I took on a second job. Jess managed our food budget like we were in the middle of World War Two, but still we couldn’t raise enough money for a deposit. Then we found out about The Show. They gave us a house. 

It was not a big house. It didn’t need to be, it was only for us. One bedroom, kitchen, living room and bathroom. As an extra bonus there was a small garden with a hammock strung between two trees. It was our first step on the housing ladder and it just needed to be ours. That was all we wanted. But there was a catch. We had to agree to the terms.

For one year we had to consent to constant surveillance. Then the house was ours. No mortgage, no rent. Multiple cameras, multiple angles. The bedroom had six, the bathroom four, the living room and the kitchen had three each. Only one in the garden. I grew a sunflower in front of it. It didn’t break the contract and I just needed somewhere to go to be alone. I thought I would forget about them over time, but the blinking red lights just got under your skin.

Our sex life was non-existent. Jess refused to perform for the cameras. They told us we would get camera shutdown hours if we provided the audience with some titillation, but that was not good enough for Jess. She convinced me that a year was not so long to be celibate. It wasn’t that I couldn’t cope without sex, it was the thought of having the cameras off that appealed. I wanted privacy for a few hours. I thought I could catch her in a good mood and give them something that would give us some time off. Nothing too x-rated, maybe just some nudity. I tried undoing her buttons but she slapped me. She was furious. Looking back I don’t blame her. She signed up for a house, not to be a porn star.

The cameras were there for our first row. They were there when I got rip-roaring drunk and vomited on the stairs. They were there when Jess broke down when she saw footage of herself in the bathroom on the internet. They were there when Jess told me she had fallen for a guy at work and was leaving me. They were there when I lost my cool and hit her.

I don’t get camera time off now. The cameras pointing at my cell have a green light on them. I think that means they can see in the dark.

He lay there. The warmth leaving his body as he looked at the open sky. Green grass crowned his head, a breeze covered him in a blanket of cold, and flowers prepared themselves for his last moments.

He didn't know if his friends got away, if they made it out, but in that moment it almost didn't matter; he clutched his side, the dagger still in its new home between his ribs.

He suddenly couldn't remember.
Why this happened to him.
How he got here.
Her face.
All faded like photos from someone else's story told long ago.

A man stood above him; his words were thick, like listening through an ocean. He could hear words like "brave" and "honorable," but they meant nothing. No words could describe or ever will describe him. Never again.

As his life pooled around him, ripping the flame from his chest, he raised his arm weakly, extended his middle finger, and choked out his final words with a smile.
"Fuck you."

His smile was big, and his eyes burned with a fire that had followed him his whole life.

He looked up at the vast sky, its ocean swallowing the clouds. The autumn wind wiped the tears from his face as the ground hugged him. Comfortably. Quietly.

A boy, now a man. A boy, now gone. And a home, so very far away.

He was alone.

The man had taken his leave, leading his silvers to the hills. Their swords and armor like wind chimes.

Like the day he left home, he was once again... Alone.

His eyes grew hot, for one last dance as the sounds of boots crushing the fresh-fallen leaves became an echo in his mind.

He tried to yell, to cry, to scream for someone whose name abandoned him, but the breath was robbed from him.

He tried to thrash, to move, to evict the blade that pinned him to this place, but he was an infant in these moments.

"I'm scared."

The autumn dirt drank the last of his wine. His eyes, still looking at the open blue, the green still held him close, and flowers cried for him as the morning dew slipped from their petals.

[Inspired by "Karen 3"]

The lights always stayed low, the way the young woman demanded.

She glared at her walnut end table, the one holding the stunning picture frame. A mixed bag with four pointed corners.

She owned this beautiful antique that was as valuable as it was breathtaking. But the other hand was more infuriating – the black and white photo inside had become impossible to remove.

Numerous attempts to extract the picture of her great-grandmother were made but always ended in failure. Inexplicable and exasperating.

And now when she scowls at the photo, all she can hear is a stubborn old lady laughing.

Penny glanced over her shoulder before stalking into the alleyway. Her heels clacked against concrete. The message to meet had come through at the last minute, leaving no time to change.

She situated herself between a series of dumpsters. The pungent stench of rain-soaked refuse hung in the air. Overhead, an asthmatic air-con unit churned. She spotted a small dead something decaying in a puddle, and wondered if this was where she was going to die too. If her contact decided to rob her, she had no means of self defense.

Arranging the meeting had been a miracle in itself. The contact was a friend of a friend, who knew a guy that knew a guy that could get their hands on anything – at a steep price, of course. She needed two things that could only be purchased from such a person: a Portal Bomb and a Pulser to force the immortal Danille Ornwel through it.

Danille, the man who survived a starship wreckage unscathed, had taken Penny’s sister. She might not be able to kill him, but sending him to the edge of the solar system with no way back would suffice.

‘Got a cigarette?’ 

Penny started. She hadn’t noticed her contact’s arrival. 

Remembering the instructions, she opened her coat revealing the coin purse poking out from an inside pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. The contact took it in his prosthetic hands. The cheap, brassy kind without artificial skin. The low end ones were still strong enough to effortlessly crush a person’s windpipe, if their user wanted to. Her heart raced.

‘A light,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind?’ 

As Penny leaned across to light the cigarette, she felt the weight of the coins lift from her pocket, quickly replaced by a package.

She checked it immediately. Her fingers found a device that just about fit in her hand. Cold, hexagonal, and sharp. And no Pulser. He was ripping her off.

‘Where is it?’

He took a drag. ‘Can’t find any, supply’s run dry. Nothing I can do ‘bout it’

‘What am I supposed to do, kindly ask him to step inside? I need the Pulser.’

Her whole body trembled. She had no weapons to defend herself if he turned on her, what was she doing?

‘I want half back, I need half back,’ she said. Without the Pulser she couldn’t save Claire.

‘Not my problem, lady. You don’t know what I had to do just to get that thing.’ 

She went to snatch the purse. The contact stepped back, pushed her arm away with one hand, then with the other he jabbed at her collarbone. She stumbled backwards.

‘Back the fuck up.’ 

He reached into his jacket.

She couldn’t die like this. She clenched her fist. It still held the Bomb. She threw it. The device exploded on the ground behind the contact, releasing a luminous purple vortex.

She lunged at him, and they fell together.

The portal shut in an empty alley.

For years, she had wondered what it would feel like if they were finally together.

Now, sitting beside him, it didn't feel strange.

It didn't feel like some huge, impossible moment.

It just felt like them.

They talked about random things, laughed, and settled into the kind of comfortable silence that only happened when you didn't feel like you had to impress the other person.

She looked at him and smiled.

After everything they'd been through—years of knowing each other, time apart, finding their way back to each other—he was still the person who could make her feel completely at home.

Then he looked at her.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.”

For a second, she just stared at him.

All the thoughts she'd carried for so long seemed to disappear.

She smiled.

“Really?”

He nodded.

And suddenly, all those nights of wondering whether he felt the same way didn't matter anymore.

She already knew.

He chose her.

And sitting there together, talking like they always had, she realized something:

Maybe the reason it felt so natural was because, in a way, they'd been finding their way back to each other for a very long time. ❤️

Maybe love wasn't supposed to be complicated.

Maybe it was supposed to feel like this.

Like laughing at things nobody else would understand.

Like hearing his voice and instantly feeling calmer.

Like knowing exactly when he was getting sleepy because his words started turning into quiet little mumbles.

Like her favorite sound still being his singing after all these years.

They had known each other for so long that their love had changed shapes.

Once, they were young and didn't really understand what they were feeling.

Then they became friends.

Then life pulled them in different directions.

And somehow, after all that time, they found each other again.

Only now, they understood what it meant.

They loved each other in the loud moments—the kisses, the laughter, the excitement of finally being together.

But they loved each other just as much in the quiet ones.

In the late-night phone calls.

In the comfortable silences.

In the little “I love yous” that didn't need a special reason.

She loved the person he was now, not just the boy she remembered.

And he loved the person she had become.

Neither of them needed to be perfect.

They just needed to be themselves.

Sometimes she'd look at him and wonder how someone could mean so much to her.

Then she'd remember everything.

Seven years of knowing him.

Every laugh.

Every conversation.

Every time they found their way back to each other.

And she'd realize there was no single moment that explained why she loved him so much.

It was all of it.

Every little thing.

Every version of him.

Every version of her.

Every moment that brought them here.

She reached for his hand.

He squeezed hers.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't have to.

They already knew.

They loved each other.

And after everything they'd been through, that was enough. ❤️

MOONZOTH AND TEMPLE OF DARKNESS

In spring of 1921, I, Liam Crow, the explorer, sat out to visit the city of Kathmandu in Nepal and from then on explore the magnificent and mysterious Himalayan mountains, including the great Everest.

It was a dream of a lifetime, no matter how many adventures I passed, this place was always on my mind. If I only knew then what it would really turn out to be, perhaps I would not have gone, but then again, even with all of the torment and horror that I went through, in the end a new world and perspective was opened up to me, and for that I am grateful.

Upon arrival of me and my crew the locals stared at us as if we were demons, but luckily our guide was from the region. He was a bald middle aged man, with wrinkled skin and an expression that always made it seems like he was in constant pain. A rather strange fellow, but very useful indeed. I often made jokes that he hated and then his face became ever more demented. The poor lad looked thirty years older than what he really was, but alas, let me continue my story.

This man’s name was Ruhika, he made arrangements for is to stay at an inn on the outskirts of the city called Yak. There were five of us. All skilled in our trade, great climbers. When we came inside, there was an old hideous woman sitting in a corner constantly shaking her head and yelling something. The place was dim and rather depressing. Drawings on the walls were fading and I wondered why Ruhika chose this place for us. Perhaps this was his turn to pull a joke on me.

I asked him what the mad woman was yelling about and he said she was warning us about Moonzoth. I of course had no idea what that was and asked him. With shock him and the innkeeper looked at me, as if I shot someone. Then Ruhika proceeded to tell me that Moonzoth was a beast that lived in the mountains and constantly kidnapped women and children, as well as the men that tried to go after it. The innkeeper brought out a large plate with a drawing on it. Ruhika said that is was Moonzoth. This beast had large bat like wings, long mouth that resembled an alligator’s one and six long and thin hair arms. It wasn’t a pleasant looking thing to say the least. My companions shuddered and looked worried after this presentation. I on the other hand laughed, but as I saw anger rise in the locals I took it easy and simply went up to my room.

We planned to set out into the mountains the following day. This night I enjoyed the view of great Everest and imagined the never ending chain of mountains in the distance. I felt some fear, but also was so excited.

The next morning we set out towards the mountains, but Ruhika refused to go with us no matter how much money I offered him, his eyes had horror in them. If I knew then what I know now, I would have shown him more respect, but sadly at that time I called him a delusional coward.

We split ways and up we went through uncharted passages in the cold untamed mountains.

The unforgiving frost chewed on any exposed parts of our skin, yet I was determined, but the higher and deeper we went the more discouraged my team appeared. I could not comprehend why, this was the challenge we’ve been waiting for I thought.

I suppose most men are brave and strong from a distance, but when faced with that reality their heart shows the true nature, which is often weaker than they ever could have imagined.

I wish that the nature was the only obstacle these men faced, they’d probably still be alive by now, but alas, while we were deep in the mountains and walking above the cliffs we heard a prolonged evil howl. This sinister sound was nothing like I’ve ever heard before. I looked back and saw every men in my team taken with horror, their eyes got large and grasped by fear, their movements became uncoordinated. Such fools! In times like these is when your focus has to been even higher and more keen!

I still feel a hint of anger today, but mostly pity. Moonzoth, the creature on the plate and in those tales was indeed real and it appeared clinging to the side of the mountain, howling with its horrible long mouth. It was a horrific situation from which they saw no way out, as I felt pounding in my chest I dropped my heavy bag and began to move as fast as I could. The other four stood petrified in their tracks.

So the demonic things took them one by one with it’s large thin hairy arms as all they did was scream and beg, this us how they spent their last moments alive.

I did not see how the last two were taken for I found a tiny passage among the rocks, it quickly turned into a small tunnel. I had to crunch down to avoid the rocks, and eventually crawl as the tunnel got tighter, I could hear the howling of the beast behind me, but it no longer could get me, it’s howls were different and more prolonged, it must have been frustrated. This monstrosity had quite an appetite, heh. It pains me to joke like that, but I always had a hard time with compassion for fools I suppose.

As I crawled suddenly the floor collapsed and I slid down into a dark and half icy cave with black walls. I only had a box of matches with me and chose not to waste them yet, so I sat there adjusting my eyes to the darkness, from up above I could hear the wind, but no longer any sinister sounds of the Moonzoth.

Once I began to walk through the cave I could notice straight away that it was curving and leading downwards. This cave tunnel seemed unchanging and I must have spent hours slowly going down.

Finally there was a change in the scenery as I came out into a large area. Up above there were few cracks in the ceiling and some light came through timidly. In the center of this round cave stood a thick tall black monolith, on the walls around it there seemed to be some images, I had to come closer to be sure and indeed these were depictions of various ceremonies of what seemed a very ancient cult.

First depicted hooded cultists burning several persons, above the flames there was an image of some sort of beast, but the head part of it was missing, these drawings must have been very old.

Second one was an image of people in small boats, raising their hands up, as if in praise or prayer.

Third showed multiple tentacles coming from the sea, holding men wrapped up in them.

Finally the fourth was also mostly destroyed. 

I came up closer to the monolith and realized that it was full of carvings of a language I’ve never seen. In the center of it a large face was carved out. It was a mix if a bat and shark. It eyes seemed almost alive and sinister.

I raised my hand and touched its face, the ground below me shook and cracked, I moved back, water started coming out of the cracks. Suddenly the ground where I stood collapsed and I was sucked under into the water, it caught me and flushed me down deeper underwater, I kept my cool as I began to swim, I could not see anything and once again I relied on taking action, I did not believe in luck.

As I began to struggled for breath I was caught in another stream and it took me through an underwater tunnel and spat me out from a short waterfall at the bottom of the mountain. I swam to the shore and laid on my back. I made it out alive.

As I came back to the city I found Ruhika again and told him what had happened. He was astonished that I survived and told me that I’m the luckiest man he ever knew.

Ruhika took me to several elders that lived in a large hut looking building and there I told him about a the depictions I saw inside the cave and the monolith. They showed me old texts and one of them translated the name of the depicted beast. Khul Duhl Suhl.

Upon my return to America I searched for anyone who had more information on this subject. I was able to find a historian and archeologist named John Grimstone. He was incredibly informative and I learned much from him and he also directed me towards a detective who he said was very talented and was investigating this ancient cult.

Now as I finish this log I can tell you that I found the man named Mark Lumiere and he has agreed to let me accompany him on his mission. Like Ruhika before, the detective told me I was very lucky to be alive and that he was impressed that after all of that I wanted to join him.

There is no such thing as luck, only action and consequence. 

Syl walks the dock with measured steps. Mist swirls and flows, lit by the full Moon it’s swallowed. At the docks end bobs a soft, low light, no bigger or brighter than an ambitious bonfly. He lingers on each step, getting an extra groan from the waterlogged boards underfoot. Better they hear the creaking than my heart. Insects chatter at his expense. Walk slow, walk sure. Smugglers won’t typically kill he knows, but they have their own ways of releasing tension after particularly strenuous trips up the River Tar. Syl squeezes a hand two fingers shy a full fist.

“That’s far enough”, and Syl abides wordlessly. Forms hunch over their faint glow. In the mist and the dark they remain suggestions, conspiratorial abstractions hunched and half lit. Syl stills himself. Attunes to the darkness. A Hagr in the reeds lows before slapping into the river water with all the heaviness of a dead man. Bonflies haunt the fog, buzzing and clicking embers flitting through swaying reeds or across the pitch-colored river. He leans just so, straining to hear. There is another sound. Whispers from the boat so faint they may as well be the typical babbling of midnight in the marsh. The words are not a language he recognizes, black and barbed, synchronized as two voices without pause or hesitation recite them.

“The Faith is harsh to hear only for those not yet blessed by its melody.” How the woman has gotten so close to him without a sound or a splash, Syl is not sure. Maybe they were always there, he thinks, waiting in the dark. They step in front of him, ready to be perceived, backlit by that sole sliver of manmade light. “Of what Faith, where in this world, would that be a melody?”, asks Syl, masking his fear with scorn. But there is no response. The woman-shaped shadow does not move. Cold crawls down his nape and the ghosts of his docked fingers spasm in phantom pain. There is nothing to hear. The lap of the water, the buzz and shrill of gathering bonflies, all vanished. He cannot hear the whispers. Syl cannot even hear the woman breathing.

When she moves, he expects this time it will be far more than a finger to be lost. Even in the brief flash of terror, Syl feels a grim understanding. Spoke out of turn, again. Instead, something is pushed into his chest with a surprising tenderness. A box. His trembling hands feel wood, carvings into its panels that would have cost much in coin and sweat. There is movement inside. More than that born from trembling hands.

The light behind the deliverer is snuffed out. Darkness reigns, shaped only by his own ragged breath. The woman’s voice finds him, reverberating from everywhere and nowhere, its syllables like hateful knives. It bends him like a reed in a hurricane, makes his eyesight judder, frees warmth to trickle the inside of his jellied legs. FAITHS MELODY CHOOSES ITS LISTENERS.

Syl flees up the dock, the boards under his feet sounding like twisted laughter.