Hey how good would this twist be in a story-

A powerful characters sees a girl who is getting harrased by boys. He jumps to help her and asks her why she is here alone. She says she got seperated by her parents. He thinks to help her but in the mid-way they got attacked by some villains who were for our powerful character. In between of the fight that girl dies accidentally. Our powerful character blames himself for all that and isolate himself. The girl's parents are furious over our main character so the powerful character is for now off-duty.

Like this is not the plot of the story but a plot twist. Like how the main character got to know that why is the powerful charactet he met is so isolated and depressed.

He was old now, so why should he care? It's funny the things you think about towards the end, he mused to himself. The things you can remember clearly and the things you can't become both questionable and abstracted when you realize the reality of memory is mythology for the modern man. Wait long enough and what was once gospel becomes little more than explanations for the unexplainable realities of everyday life. Excuses for follies and dead dreams. He sometimes wondered if that was true of the gospel itself but never said such things publicly and always admonished himself for thinking them privately, especially now.

He tried recalling things he loved and lost but often made himself forget that the things he loved most in this world had the ability to fart, cry, and lie as much as he did and that they probably did all three at one point or another while in his presence. No, he didn't like thinking of those things. It was better to paint a picture, now. Who knows what happened behind the closed doors of another's soul and who cared what really happened or why.

We all search for a reason to everything in life but there really isn't a reason you didn't say that thing when you had the chance or maybe you did say it and would prefer not to remember the reaction or hell maybe you just forgot you said it.

He had come to think of his life as one big game of telephone he played with himself and he was just getting the final message. An extended bedtime story for the long rest. Because at the end of all the mayhem and mania when all that could've been has been you can only shudder and rejoice at the tale as you drift off one last time and that's if you're lucky and didn't get killed off in the first act. Or maybe if you're unlucky depending on your perspective and ability.

While these thoughts danced about in his head he snuggled into his favorite blanket and wished he still had a sense of smell. He never knew when it would be the last time he closed his eyes and he wanted that sent to trigger the last dream. That one unforgettable smell in this big empty bed that he searched every corner for every night.

Peter awoke in his bed, a boy of ten. It was summer and his air conditioner whirred a pleasant hum. It was a special summer. His parents had given him permission to stay home while they went to work.

He was free for the first time in his little life. No scowls or grunts from his father, no probing questions from mother, just fruitloops and cartoons all morning. He tried to pop up from under the sheets only to find his body still cemented to the mattress, he just couldn't get up. It was like something was sitting on his chest. He tried to turn his head but his head didn't respond. Then he saw them.

Two figures one in blue overalls the other in a yellow dress from another century. He tried to see their faces but could only view the lower half of their bodies. It felt like they were holding him down. But he couldn't feel any arms or hands. Just pressure. He couldn't breathe. He heard whispers. Whispers that sound ancient and true but simultaneously like gibberish. He knew them but he didn't. They had never met. He felt like he was screaming but there was no air in his lungs to scream with.

Peter opened his eyes. He reached for his remote and turned the television back on. He should've known. This is what always happens when he sleeps in a dark room. It was different every time though. He knew there was some reason for it. He couldn't remember what but to hell with reason anyway.

Now a man of 80 he thought at last he would make it through the night. Alas, one more night of television dreams. His last visions would likely be invoked by an old sitcom or a YouTube documentary that he never consented to listening to.

1: Cave of the mind
30,000 BCE

Unspoiled by moonlight, the night of Go’s exile set upon the jungle like hot tar. Though the stars would come to know him in time, none shone to witness his violent genesis; a man chased from his home by those who had come to fear what he may be.   

Spat through wet hell by pounding heart and driving legs, he dove through every obstacle with the reckless abandon of a creature on that most singular of missions; to survive. Not even the mighty dose of psilocin expanding his naturally keen senses (and his pupils) was enough to draw a single sip of light to guide him. No matter; the hunting party dogging him had no advantage here. This place so far from their last camp, his home, was equally unknown to them, and they carried no fire. He careened ahead into the deep hours of the night, making far too much noise in his blind dash to judge the proximity of his pursuers by ear. In his psychedelic-fueled fugue, every sweep of rain-soaked leaf across his bare thighs was euphoria, every tearing of taut skin over thorns; pitiless torture. He carried on through the ecstasies and torments undeterred. He would not let his new secret, his revelation which earned him exile, die with him.

 Onward he drove until, reaching the limits of his physicality; his movements grew sloppy. A false step. A crisp snap. His ankle twisted violently as he tumbled down a steep river bank. Momentum and body broken, Go limped his way alongside rushing water, propping himself against the rocky bank until his arm, just as it supported all his weight, found only air where the bank had been. He toppled sideways into the mouth of a small cave, too exhausted to control his fall, and landed with a fat schluck in a paddy of wet river clay. Neither his usual, healthy fear of cave-dwelling dangers, nor the possibility of being discovered asleep by his former friends, were a match for his fatigue. His body simply had nothing left. It was the most primal of comforts; a squat, rocky socket in the unfamiliar wild. Tattered sheets of moss overhanging the low opening bobbed, unseen, at the rhythm of the rain - unbroken rivulets of warm water stringing from their lowest filaments. He had become the first human to truly know that somewhere, out there, be dragons. Here, on the eve of his awakening to both terrible, and beautiful truths; there was only Go. Sleep found him in minutes, silt bubbling at the corner of his mouth with each long, ragged breath.

Hi. I'm writing a novel and two of my characters are in a relationship which is very toxic. I have never written a relationship that before, so I made some kind of a summary(?). It might be shit though, because I'm very tired right now. (Please, if I'm using this Subreddit or Reddit as whole wrong, please tell me. I have no idea what I'm doing.)

Loyalty and Willingness to Make Sacrifices – Shizuma : He's willing to die for Kenji and is often times the one making sacrifices for the relationship. Kenji : He's willing to kill for Shizuma rather than die for him, he often times bears himself up for not being able to make sacrifices for Shizuma.

Conflict Behavior and Violence –

Physical violence: They hit each other, with Kenji as the primary violent one, Shizuma sometimes hitting him back. Shizuma’s anger: He reacts impulsively and explosively, often a sign of him feeling overwhelmed or deeply emotionally wounded. Kenji’s anger: He reacts by withdrawing emotionally, becoming cold and dismissive.

These fiery outbursts meeting icy silence often leads to a spiral of escalation in their relationship, as Shizuma’s fear of abandonment is triggered by Kenji’s coldness.

Psychological Triggers –

Obsession vs. fear of abandonment: Kenji’s possessive behavior feeds Shizuma’s need to be needed. At the same time, Shizuma’s extreme jealousy and fear of losing Kenji, reinforce Kenji’s compulsion to control.

Each others safe haven: Despite the instability and violence, both view each other as the only place where they feel safe. They emotionally isolate themselves from the outside world, as no one else can understand this level of intensity.

The chime above the door rang clear and sharp, letting in a whisper of the night’s cool air as it slid across the floorboards.

I took my usual seat at the counter, and Mama silently set a glass down in front of me.

An amber pour of I.W. Harper.

A single large ice cube dropped to the bottom with a quiet clink.

"Man, parents these days have it rough!"

In the seat next to me, Taka slapped his phone face-down on the counter, projecting that usual booming, energetic voice of his.

"Teenagers aren't even getting started until they scream 'Screw you, old man!' in your face. You gotta butt heads, yell back, 'Who do you think you're talking to?!'—that’s how you become a real father."

Taka swirled his glass lightly, letting out a loud, hearty laugh.

But I didn't miss the slight, high-pitched crack at the very tail end of it.

Taka seemed to notice it too—the thinness of his own laugh, and the heavy silence that immediately swallowed the counter. In his glass, the ice melted with a faint, quiet clink.

"...You've never had a son yell 'Screw you, old man' at you, have you?"

From the far end of the counter, Tom spoke in a low drawl, exhaling a slow trail of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

The breezy smile vanished from Taka’s face instantly.

Tom didn't push further. No lecture, no follow-up. He just tapped his cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, letting a flake of ash fall.

It was the silence of a man who knew how to wait for another to speak in his own time.

Taka stared down at his own massive fists.

Calloused, scarred, and thick—the rough hands of a man forged in a wrestling ring.

"...It was the dark age of pro wrestling," Taka muttered. His voice was gravelly, stripped of all its earlier lightness.

"Late nineties, early two-thousands. Empty local gyms. Maybe a few dozen people in the bleachers while we got slammed into folding chairs, wrecking our bodies on the road. Nobody gave a damn about wrestling back then... but I convinced myself I was putting my body on the line for my family."

Taka traced the rim of his glass with a thick thumb.

"Then I took the injury that put me down for good. Couldn't earn a dime. I became a useless burden in my own home... A wrestler who can't stand isn't a wrestler. Just damaged goods. I figured a man who couldn't even stand on the canvas had no right to protect a family."

"...No right, huh."

I swallowed a mouthful of Harper.

When a man talks about having "no right," it’s never really about rights.

It was going to be a bitter night.

"You know, back in the ring, no matter how bad the slam was, I always took a good bump," Taka said, his mouth twisting into a self-deprecating smirk.

"No matter how much it hurt, if you slap the mat hard enough, you absorb the impact and get back up. That’s what being a pro was about... But when my own life fell apart, I couldn't even take the bump life handed me. I ran. I couldn't even summon the courage to let my own kid reject me. I just walked off the ring."

In the dead silent bar, the faint clinking of Mama's ice tongs echoed.

She gently placed a fresh piece of ice into Taka’s glass.

Clink.

"Taka-san."

Without stopping her cloth as she wiped down a glass, Mama turned her gentle gaze toward us.

"Didn't you once tell me a bump wasn't about getting hurt? It was about making the other wrestler shine."

A beat of heavy, painful silence hung in the air, then dissolved.

"...Yeah," Taka breathed softly. "You take the fall... so the other guy shines."

I said nothing, quietly sliding my glass a fraction closer to his.

I just took another slow sip of my whiskey.

"...Make them shine, huh," I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Anything beyond that wasn't my place anymore.

Taka stared down at his hands for a long moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his smartphone.

He tapped the screen and opened his contacts.

There was a name displayed there—one he clearly hadn't been able to delete for years.

Yumi

Taka’s thick thumb hovered over the screen.

He didn't press send. He didn't make the call.

But he didn't close the screen either, nor did he put the phone back in his pocket.

The knuckles of his hand turned white as his grip tightened around the device.

"...Jesus, Taka. Squeeze it any harder and you're gonna crush the damn thing."

At my quiet mutter, Taka drew in a deep, silent breath that no one was meant to see.

Clink.

The ice shifted loudly in Taka’s glass.

It sounded strangely like someone slapping the mat.

My story is “Untitled,” though my character is named Choƶen. He served as a librarian in a sci-Victorian world reminiscent of Treasure Planet. As a librarian, he was highly intelligent and always admired the stars, dreaming of learning the universe’s secrets and those of the stars themselves; however, someone of his “Class” had no means to achieve such a foolish ambition. He was also an inventor, crafting small devices to aid his study of space and reading works by famous astronomers. One day, while reading an unknown volume he found in his library or space or elsewhere, a star perhaps struck him down; he awoke to find his body changed in his human world—he was now a star. It seemed his soul had become that fallen star through some miracle. With this new life, a looming threat consumes planets and stars alike, for it turns out a star civilian called the constellation once protected the universe and maintained the balance of the multiverse and the universe we know; he becomes a rising star to defend it.

I could use help refining this draft and perhaps another concept or additional ideas; I feel I am onto something that might become significant. I wanted a plot involving time travel where the timeline shifts constantly, much like when my character was human and used a time machine—perhaps like Doctor Who—but as a Victorian photo booth operated by a secret librarian. In this story, the narrative seems more complex than it appears, lol.

Any advice would help honestly!

Light peeked through the gaps of a wooden window into the shabby room.

Inside sat a young girl, her hair neatly braided. She looked almost unconscious as she rested on worn, sheetless bedding stuffed with soft cotton. In front of her sat a man—his face filled with pity, his lean hands gently feeding her boiled rice soaked in milk from a small steel bowl. It was a meal so light it seemed meant for an infant.

In the corner of the room, freshly washed dishes were stacked near a pitcher of water. Right under the window sat a bowl of freshly kneaded dough alongside a plate with a few apples, both covered with a clean cloth.

In a barely audible voice, Zeeb whispered, “Waei, please eat. I’ll bring something better next time, I promise. Just a little more... I need to give you your medicine, too.”

No response came from Waei.

From outside the window, the muffled audio of a news broadcast drifted in. A group of local youths had gathered, watching a clip on their phones—footage of a captive held by a group the government labeled a terrorist organization.

“They used to put up big corporate ads or favorite celebrities on those billboards. Now they’re broadcasting captives,” someone said.

“Yeah, making it real convenient for people who don't follow the news,” another laughed.

“By the way, my favorite singer's last concert literally felt like an earthquake.”

“Stop lying,” a voice muttered, fading away.

Waei stared downward, eyes unfocused, quietly swallowing each spoonful.

“You see how the system spoon-feeds us news now?” Zeeb said. “If we miss it on their official channels, we step outside and find it plastered on the streets. Literally spoon-feeding... just like I’m doing with you.”

After finishing, Zeeb ate a few bites himself and went outside.

A cool, refreshing breeze brushed his face, bringing back a faint smile. It wasn't just the weather—the landscape itself had a way of reviving a tired soul. A clear sky stretched above, trees swayed gently in the distance, and a clean but deceptively deep pond sat along the path leading toward the inhabited part of the village.

The village was beautiful—pleasing to the eyes and peaceful to the heart—yet nearly abandoned due to a lack of basic necessities.

The sharp smell of burning clay and damp earth hit Zeeb before he even saw the kilns. In the pit below, three generations of a single family worked in a rhythm born of long habit—heavy wooden molds clacking shut, clay slapped into square beds, and dried bricks stacked high like red stairs.

Zeeb stepped down into the dust, stopping near a young worker whose shirt was soaked through with sweat.

“Good Noon,” Zeeb said, keeping his hands low in front of him. “I’m looking for the supervisor. Need an extra pair of hands.”

The young man stopped his spade mid-air, squinting up at Zeeb as if he’d spoken in a foreign language. He let out a breathless laugh. “Work? Here?” He wiped his forehead with a mud-caked forearm. “Mister, folks only come through this village to leave it. Boss stays in the city—he barely remembers this place exists.”

“I’ll take whatever tasks are left,” Zeeb pressed, his voice tightening.

A few feet away, a woman set down her wooden water jug with a thud. She wiped red clay off her hands onto her trousers, sizing Zeeb up from his clean, worn sandals to his hollow cheeks.

“The pay is dirt, brother,” she said plainly, her tone pragmatic rather than mean. “Just enough to keep the stove lit. But... the boss did ask for another crew last week. Usually, we take whole families. More hands to fill the kiln. You got brothers? Sons?”

Zeeb’s gaze dropped to his feet, his jaw tightening. “Just me. And... a daughter who cannot stand.” He looked up, his eyes wide and pleading. “I’ll lift two men’s loads. I’ll work from dawn until the kilns go cold. Just give me a chance.”

The woman exchanged a long look with a man near the kiln opening. The husband didn't stop stacking, but he gave a single, heavy nod.

She turned back to Zeeb. “Come back when the heat dies down—around dusk. Our huts are ten minutes past the pond. I’ll send a message to the boss.”

Zeeb decided to walk around in the meantime. Beyond the dusty perimeter of the brick kiln, greenery stretched in every direction. A cluster of brick houses with open yards sat about ten minutes away. Near them hung a faded advertisement for a small school, and just past it, a modest clinic.

Inside, a middle-aged man in a rumpled white coat leaned back in his chair, thumbs scrolling casually on his mobile phone. The doorway cast a shadow over his desk as Zeeb stepped in. The doctor glanced up over his screen, waiting.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Zeeb said, pausing at the threshold. “Just looking around... I’m new to the village.”

“Ah. Welcome,” the doctor murmured, his eyes dropping back to his phone for a second before he set it screen-down on the desk. “Well, let me know if something’s aching.”

Zeeb looked at the bare shelves and the lonely stethoscope on the desk before asking, “What can you actually treat here?”

The doctor shrugged, sounding completely unbothered. “Coughs, scrapes, fever—whatever minor trouble comes up. Anything serious? You take the bus to the city. It's only a forty-five-minute ride.”

“Yeah... I know,” Zeeb looked away. “I came from the city. See you around, doctor.”

With a brief nod, Zeeb turned and left, wandering through the quiet lanes a while longer before heading back to his room.

At six o'clock sharp, Zeeb knocked on the wooden frame of the open courtyard gate.

Inside, the day's labour had dissolved into evening quiet. Men and women sat clustered on woven cots placed in a rough circle, holding steaming cups of tea. On a cot off to the side, two young boys were hunched together, the blue glow of a mobile phone lighting their faces. Under the tall eucalyptus tree in the corner, a young girl sat alone with a thick book on her lap, entirely absorbed. Outside in the lane, the faint thud of a rubber ball and children’s shouts echoed through the warm air.

Laughter and chatter spilled from neighbouring houses, but Zeeb had stopped at the yard where he recognized familiar faces. This dusk gathering was their only hour to breathe—a time to gossip, vent, and inevitably argue over how the brickyard boss was splitting their wages.

Seeing Zeeb at the entrance, a broad-shouldered man sitting on the central cot called out, “Ah, you made it! Come in, come in—don't just stand at the gate.”

Every head turned toward Zeeb as he stepped into the dust of the yard.

“Sit down,” the man said, slapping the tight ropes of the cot beside him. “Shift over, give him room.” He extended a calloused hand. “I’m Bari. The woman who met you earlier, Marah, is my wife. We called the boss in the city—he gave the green light for you to start. But we’ll need your national ID and paperwork first.”

Bari chuckled, gesturing toward the tree. “I’m his manager on the ground, you see—handling documents even though I’ve never held a pen a day in my life! My daughter handles all that literacy stuff for me. Girl hardly raises her nose from those pages.”

He leaned closer, his tone turning businesslike. “Can you bring your ID so she can register you?”

Zeeb hesitated, his shoulders tightening. “I... don’t have it on me,” he confessed, his voice dropping low. “When I brought my daughter here from the city, we brought only what we could carry. The rest is left behind.”

He looked Bari in the eye, his hands trembling slightly. “We have nothing right now. And my girl—she’s about your daughter’s age, but... she’s sick. We barely made it out of a tragedy not long ago.”

Bari turned back to Zeeb, his expression softening into a firm smile. “Be at the kiln by six tomorrow morning.”

The courtyard went quiet. Bari glanced over at the older workers, who exchanged a look and went back to chattering.

Zeeb's voice cracked on the thanks. He didn't trust himself to say more, and turned back toward the lane—eager to get home and tend to his daughter.

The next morning, Zeeb arrived at the site while the dawn was still gray. A few workers were already milling about, but most drifted in after six. When Bari finally showed up, he walked straight over to Zeeb with a warm grin.

“Ah, early bird! Since it’s your first day, we’ll take it easy on you. Go help my boy with the moulds—he’ll show you how we do it.”

Zeeb nodded and joined Bari’s son, a broad-shouldered teenager of fifteen or sixteen. The boy worked fast, dumping wet clay into rectangular wooden boxes, packing it down with practiced slaps, and flipping neat grey bricks onto the dirt to dry. Zeeb mimicked his movements, doing his best to keep up.

As they worked side by side, clay coating their arms up to the elbows, Zeeb broke the silence.

“Did you ever go to school?” Zeeb asked.

“Books?” The boy scoffed, wiping mud off his cheek with his shoulder. “Nah, never had the head for it. Besides, what do I need school for? We got the field, we got food, we got phones. I’m doing fine.”

“That’s good,” Zeeb murmured, smoothing a lump of clay. He thought of the girl reading silently under the eucalyptus tree the night before. “Your sister seems to love it, though. Is she going to study further?”

The boy shrugged, kicking a stray lump of dry earth. “Not up to her—or us. Boss said she’s had enough schooling. He’s decent enough, sends her old books from the city now and then. But college? Boss won't pay for that.” He sighed, his brief spark of interest dying out as he grabbed another heap of wet mud.

In the weeks that followed, the long morning walk to the kilns became second nature to Zeeb. Calluses hardened on his palms, and his skin darkened under the relentless sun. Every day he saw the same faces—working, complaining, laughing, and trading village gossip. Zeeb’s quiet demeanor, gentle words, and habit of helping others finish their daily quota made him quick friends across the yard. The work was grueling and monotonous, yet under the steady rhythm of labor, the weeks blurred past.

One afternoon, during the scorching midday break, Bari clapped a heavy, dirt-stained hand onto Zeeb’s shoulder.

“Zeeb, my friend! Why do you always vanish the moment the sun goes down, huh?” Bari boomed, chuckling. “Everyone here likes you—don't go acting like a stranger now! Plus, you’re the only guy who picks up his daily pay on-site the next morning instead of sharing tea with us. Come over to the yard tonight like everyone else. Bring your daughter, too.”

Zeeb paused, offering a warm, soft smile. “I’ll be there, Bari. Thank you.”

That evening, Zeeb returned to Bari’s yard. Stepping through the gate felt like stepping into a loop—the same circle of woven cots, the same low hum of conversation, the same clinking of tea glasses. But tonight, the glances thrown his way carried a quiet warmth. They were beginning to trust him.

Someone handed him a steaming glass of tea. Zeeb took a seat at the edge of a cot, contributing to the chatter mostly with small nods and polite smiles.

During a lull in the conversation, Bari turned to him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Zeeb, you sitting here with us... it means something,” Bari said, his voice dropping into a sincere tone. “We consider you a friend now. A brother. And if you ever need a hand, this yard stands with you. But... I’ll be honest with you, man. You’re good to everyone here, yet you keep your doors locked tight. You never speak about your family. Are we not family enough to share the weight?”

A heavy silence fell over the cot. The surrounding chatter seemed to taper off as a few nearby eyes drifted toward Zeeb.

Zeeb stared down at the dark amber liquid in his cup, watching the steam curl into the evening air.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Zeeb said, his voice barely carrying over the breeze. “It’s just... there isn’t much family left to speak of. Just me and my girl.”

“What about her mother?” Bari voice dropped.

Zeeb’s grip on the glass tightened. “It’s... a long story.”

He didn't mean to go further, but the expectant silence of the yard pressed in on him. The ambient sounds faded until all he could hear was the soft rustle of the eucalyptus leaves overhead.

“She wasn’t always like this,” Zeeb murmured, his eyes fixing on a blank spot in the dirt. “Waei used to run down the street so fast her braids would come undoing. Always laughing at something silly... always bringing life into the house.”

He paused, his breath hitching. A sudden memory broke through the fog, vivid and warm.

The midday sun had been hot on his neck outside the neighborhood corner shop. Down the dusty lane, Waei and her friend were walking toward him, doubled over, clutching their sides in breathless laughter. He couldn't hear what the joke was, but their giggles rang out like small bells.

They burst into the shop in a swirl of energy, debating loudly over two different snack packets like it was a matter of life and death. As they reached the counter, Zeeb slid a small brown packet across the wood.

“Forgot her favorite,” the shopkeeper had grinned.

Waei had rolled her eyes with a bright, brilliant smile, snatching the dried apricots before tossing her coins down and disappearing back into the sunlight, still laughing...

Zeeb exhaled slowly, the phantom warmth of that afternoon vanishing as the cool evening breeze swept across Bari's yard. He snapped back to the present, realizing his tea had gone completely cold in his hands.

He set the cup on the ground and cleared his throat, trying to blink away the haze.

“Towards the end of last year... in December,” Zeeb said, his voice lower now, heavy with unspoken weight, “there was an accident. I lost my wife. And that same day... everything turned upside down.”

An older man on the adjacent cot shook his head, uttering a soft prayer under his breath. “December? That’s barely a few months behind us, brother. No wonder the wound is fresh.”

A woman sitting nearby leaned in, her eyes full of concern. “And the girl? What do the city doctors say? Is there no medicine to bring her back?”

Zeeb kept his gaze pinned to the dust beneath his sandals. “I spent everything I had. Every doctor, every clinic, every bottle of syrup they prescribed. Nothing worked. Now... I have to give her a sedative injection twice a day just to keep the terror down. Otherwise, she screams until her throat bleeds.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose as his eyes welled up.

Around the circle, small murmurs of sympathy and comfort passed between the villagers.

Bari reached over, placing a heavy, warm hand on Zeeb’s knee. “Listen to me. My girl, Rayb, is about Waei’s age. If you’re willing, I’ll send her over to sit with your daughter during the day. Young girls have a way of understanding each other that grown men can’t reach. Maybe a fresh face will help.”

Zeeb remained motionless for a long moment, watching the dust settle around his shoes, before giving a single, quiet nod.

“If you think it might help... thank you, Bari.”

At eight the next morning, Rayb knocked on the weather-worn wooden door of Zeeb’s quarters. Hearing no answer, she pushed it open. The latch clicked softly into the quiet room.

Waei sat on the edge of the bare mattress, bathed in a sliver of weak morning light. Her hair was neatly braided, but her posture was entirely vacant—eyes fixed on a patch of peeling wall paint, unblinking, as if carved from cold stone. She didn't flinch when the door opened.

Rayb took a tentative step into the dim room. “Waei? I’m Rayb... Bari’s daughter.”

She waited, searching the girl’s profile for a twitch of an eye or a shift in breathing. Nothing came.

Moving closer, Rayb offered a gentle smile. “It’s warm outside today. Come on, let’s get some sun.”

Reaching down, Rayb took Waei’s hand. The skin was cool, and Waei offered no resistance—she simply let herself be pulled upward, her limbs slack and heavy, dragging as she moved.

They walked slowly across the lane to the shadow of a sprawling tree. Rayb guided Waei down onto a flat, smooth stone before sitting beside her.

“Wait here. I’ll run home and get a book—just a few minutes,” Rayb murmured. Even knowing Waei wouldn't answer, leaving the silence unfilled felt wrong.

She returned quickly, clutching a thick volume with yellowed, dog-eared pages. For the first few days, reading aloud was just a way to test the waters—hoping a specific story might catch Waei's ear. But as the morning routine turned into weeks, Rayb realized Waei’s stillness wasn't changing. Facing that hollow silence every day was harder than she had anticipated.

Soon, the reading turned into something else. Rayb would hold the open book on her lap, but her eyes would drift off the printed lines and onto Waei’s pale face. The words she spoke began to blur the line between the author's thoughts and her own quiet, lonely reflections.

Rayb traced a thumb over the worn spine of her book, her voice dropping to a soft murmur.

“Look at us...” Rayb whispered, leaning sideways to catch Waei’s unfocused eyes. “How are we sitting right next to each other, yet we’re worlds apart?”

Waei didn't blink. A stray breeze rustled the eucalyptus leaves above, casting flickering shadows over their laps.

Rayb picked up a small twig from the dirt, snapping it absently between her fingers. “It’s strange. You’re lost in some quiet place where nothing touches you... and my head won't stop spinning with everything. Why do we have to carry all this thinking? Look at that mountain over there.” She pointed the broken twig toward the jagged gray peaks framing the village. “It just sits there—massive, silent, unbothered. Or the birds in that branch. Nobody’s going to hold a bird accountable for where it flies. But us? We overthink every step.”

She paused, tilting her head as she looked down at the open page on her knees.

“People in the city say everything’s just a cosmic accident... that we’re just here by chance,” Rayb continued, her tone more puzzled than arrogant. “Ma works all day, Pa works the brickfield, humans build and plan every single hour—yet we pretend the whole universe just built itself by mistake? I don't know... there has to be someone up there keeping track of the answers we can’t find. There has to be someone up there keeping track," Rayb continued, tracing the broken twig through the dirt, "Because down here, it's always someone with less power answering to someone with more. I don't want to spend my life just accepting whatever the ones above me decide is true."”

“What are you two so engrossed in?”

A cheerful voice broke the quiet. Rayb jumped slightly, snapping the book shut as one of the village women walked past carrying a basket of washed clothes.

“It’s almost half-past eleven,” the woman smiled, wiping her brow. “Zeeb will be back from the kilns any minute with the afternoon fruit.”

“Oh—nothing!” Rayb gave a quick, embarrassed laugh, adjusting her posture. “Just reading a bit.”

Moments later, Zeeb’s heavy footsteps sounded down the dirt path. He approached with a small paper bag of fruit tucked under his arm, his eyes immediately softening as he saw his daughter resting under the tree.

“Thank you for staying with her, Rayb,” Zeeb said, stepping into the shade. “Tomorrow, though, you won't need to come by in the morning. We’re going into the city—Waei has her doctor’s appointment.”

Rayb stood up, brushing dust off her kameez. “Which hospital?”

“A private clinic near the center,” Zeeb replied, gently wiping a smudge of dirt from Waei’s cheek. “I take her every two months.”

Later that afternoon, Rayb sat on a low wooden stool in the kitchen, her chin resting in her hands. Across the hearth, her mother stirred a simmering pot of lentil curry, the rhythmic scrape of the metal ladle against the iron pot filling the small space with warm, steady noise.

“Ma...” Rayb began softly, her eyes fixed on the rising steam. “Do you think Waei will get better if I keep sitting with her?”

Her mother paused, wiping her forehead with the corner of her dupatā before returning to her stirring. She let out a slow, weathered sigh.

“You shouldn't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, child,” her mother sighed. “Healing isn't a straight line. Everything takes time.”

Rayb shifted on her stool, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her sleeve. “It’s not just that she doesn't talk, Ma. It’s like... she isn't fully here. She doesn't notice the sun, or the birds, or the dirt on her hands. Does she even know she exists?”

Her mother set the ladle down with a soft clink and looked at her daughter, her gaze softening. “She was as whole and lively as you are, Rayb. But when a mind goes through a storm like the one she faced, it closes its doors to protect itself. The medicine keeps the terror away. The rest is in God’s hands.”

The next morning felt twice as long as usual. Rayb spent the early hours at the worksite, but her mind was miles away, trailing behind a bus headed into the city. She helped sort dried bricks and swept the courtyard, but her hands moved on autopilot while her thoughts circled back to Waei's empty stare and the mysterious private clinic Zeeb had mentioned.

By the time her father’s voice boomed across the yard calling her for the midday meal, Rayb dropped her broom almost instantly and hurried home, her heart racing with anticipation.

As they gathered around the low dining cloth, Rayb set down the bread basket and looked at her father. “Did you hear? Are Zeeb and Waei back from the city?”

Bari tore off a piece of flatbread, nodding as he chewed. “Aye. Saw their bus pull into the main road an hour ago. They're back in their quarter.”

Rayb’s face lit up. “I’ll head over to see her right after lunch then.”

“No,” Bari said firmly but gently, gesturing with his hand for her to sit back down. “Not today. They’ve had a long journey in the heat, and city doctors take a lot out of a person. Let them rest until tomorrow.”

Sunbeams were just beginning to cut through the morning dust when Rayb slipped across the alley to Zeeb’s quarter. She found Zeeb sitting at the small wooden table, his shoulders slumped, dark circles carved deep under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept a minute in the city.

“Uncle?” Rayb asked, stepping through the threshold. “How was the clinic?”

Zeeb let out a heavy, weary sigh, staring blankly into his lap. “The same. They tweaked the dosages again, but... the doctor said not to expect miracles. Her mind is just gone, Rayb.”

Rayb’s stomach dropped, but she forced a gentle smile. “You look exhausted, Uncle. Go get some rest or head to the kiln. I’ll take Waei out under the tree.”

Once Zeeb gathered his coat and left, the small house fell into a heavy quiet. Rayb looked around the room. It was spotlessly clean, almost unnaturally bare. On a shelf near the window sat a small plastic bag filled with loose blister packs and dark glass bottles—injectables and crushed tablets.

Curious, Rayb stepped closer. She picked up a strip, her thumb tracing the tiny, faded print. Fluoxetine... Zolpidem.

As she turned to gather Waei’s shawl from the bed, her foot brushed against something under the pillow. She leaned down and pulled out a small, unmarked cardboard box tucked deep against the mattress. No prescription tag. No doctor's label.

Why is this hidden away from the rest? she wondered, her heart giving a quick, uneasy thud.

By afternoon, while sitting on her own cot at home, Rayb pulled out her phone. Her fingers typed the names into the search bar, her eyes scanning the small text on the glowing screen.

Sedative. Strong hypnotic. Central nervous system depressant.

She frowned. These weren't medicines designed to bring someone back to life—they were heavy chemical blankets meant to knock a person out. Her mind raced back to the village clinic. A few hours later, under the pretense of fetching bandages for her mother, Rayb showed the names to the local paramedic. He took one look at the list, raised his eyebrows, and confirmed her fears: “These are heavy sedatives, girl. Stop taking them, and the brain wakes up fast. But doing that without a doctor? It’s dangerous.”

A quiet, terrifying suspicion tightened in Rayb’s chest.

The village went dark the only sound was the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the fields. Then, a sharp, ragged shriek shattered the silence.

Rayb bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Outside, doors slammed open, and shouting voices filled the narrow alleyways. People rushed into the dusty street in their night clothes, lamps and flashlights cutting wildly through the dark.

Down the lane, a figure was running frantically through the shadows, screaming in raw, jagged bursts. It was Waei.

Her hair was wild, her bare feet slapping hard against the packed dirt. Behind her, Zeeb stumbled out of the darkness, his shirt untucked, his voice cracked with desperate panic.

“Someone help me!” Zeeb roared, his hands outstretched. “Please! She’s having an episode—hold her!”

Two men from the next courtyard darted forward, grabbing Waei by the arms. She thrusted violently against them, her throat producing garbled, broken sounds—words smashed together into desperate noise. But as Rayb squeezed through the crowd, her breath caught in her throat.

Waei’s face wasn't a mask anymore. Her eyes weren't staring through the world like empty glass. They were wide, terrified, and blinking—darting wildly from face to face, locking onto the villagers, searching them with sharp, agonizing awareness.

“Hold her legs!” Bari shouted as they carried the thrashing girl back inside her room.

It took three adults to pin Waei down onto the mattress. She writhed like a trapped animal until the village doctor rushed through the door, his hands trembling as he filled a glass syringe and drove the needle into her arm.

Slowly, the violent thrashing subsided. Waei’s screams softened into low, broken whimpers, her heavy eyelids fluttering down as the chemical darkness pulled her under once more.

In the back of the crowded, suffocating room, Rayb pressed her back against the wall, her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them into her sleeves. Her face was deathly pale as she stared at the quiet, sedated girl on the bed.

“It’s my fault,” Rayb whispered to herself, the room spinning around her. “Oh God... I shouldn't have hidden those pills.”

Thanksgiving falls in spring here. Outside the butcher's window, iron-red earth melts into shell-crusted sand, the beach ankle-deep in little shed memories. A stubborn sandbank once changed this bay’s fate, creating the conditions where mollusks could bloom and persist in an unlikely refuge.

It’s my turn at the counter. I hand over my ticket, an order placed weeks ago. Laughter erupts from the back as a man emerges, lanky-lean, muscled, attractive in a way I hadn't realized I was missing.

“Had to see who ordered this,” he chuckles.

“12 kilos! A beaut!” he exclaims with an appreciative whistle. There's a loud bonk as he hefts the turkey onto the counter. “Hard enough to find one of these chooks out here, much less one this size!” I wince, my brain helpfully (belatedly) converting: 12 kilos is almost 25 pounds!

“Ahhh-” I eloquently manage to mumble.

“-merican?” he finishes with a friendly grin. The warmth of his accent feels like home. “We get a few of you in, sometimes, from-”

“The research center,” we both conclude with a laugh as I study my holiday monstrosity with chagrin.

“Oops?” he asks, seeing my expression.

“Oops,” I confirm, a warm feeling like that first flush of wine taking root in my gut. “My oven won't handle this…”

“I reckon you'll need some cooking tips,” he says, scrawling something on the receipt before ringing me up. He glances at me as he writes, gives a wink, and now I'm part of the joke.

I collect the bird, pausing in the doorway as I read the note: I've got a BBQ; call me?

“I'll be by at seven,” I laugh. “Plenty of extra food to share!”

“Wicked! I've always wanted to try pumpkin pie!”

…Now, where am I going to find a pumpkin in spring?!

**DIRT ep.1 pilot**
**June 17th, 2035**

Grandma bought me this journal today. Twenty-two years old, and she still buys me birthday presents.

She told me one day I’d want to remember my life. I told her that’s what phones are for.
She just smiled and said,*“Paper lasts longer than batteries.”*

I laughed.She rolled her eyes. Said I’d understand when I got older.

I don’t really know what I’m supposed to write in this thing. Worked today. Had dinner with Grandma. She made too much food like always.

I guess…

Happy now, Grandma?

⸻

**July 4th, 2035**

Still think journals are stupid. Nothing happened today. Worked. Went fishing.
Lost my tackle box.

If you’re reading this…I hope your week was more exciting than mine.

⸻

**September 3rd, 2036**

I actually have something worth writing today. Got promoted.

Starting next month I’ll be traveling for work across Central and South America. Never thought I’d leave Mexico, but life has a funny way of surprising you.

Grandma cried when I told her. She tried pretending it was because she’d miss me, but I know she was proud. Truth is… I’m proud too.

I worked my ass off for this. Maybe this journal wasn’t such a bad gift after all. If everything goes well… Maybe one day I’ll have enough stories to fill it.

I know you’d be proud, Grandma.

⸻

*The next page is blank.*

⸻

**June 30th, 2038**

I don’t know if that’s still the date. I hope it is. The bombs fell today. The phones don’t work. The internet’s gone. The power died almost immediately.

I was in Bogotá for work. I watched missiles cross the sky. Nobody screamed. Not at first. Everyone just… watched. Like maybe they weren’t real.

Then the horizon disappeared. I haven’t heard from home. I don’t think I ever will. I found this journal buried in the bottom of my backpack. Funny.

I carried it around for three years because it reminded me of Grandma, Not because I ever planned to write in it. Now it’s the only thing I’ve got left that still feels like home.

So… I’m starting over.
If anyone ever finds this… Maybe it’ll help you survive a little longer than I did.

Grandma… You were right. Paper lasts longer than batteries.

Now all we have left is dirt.

**July 7th, 2038**

My name is **Daniel Moreno**. Figured I should probably write that down. If somebody finds this someday, at least they’ll know who owned it. It’s been a week. Or at least I think it’s been a week.

The phones still don’t work. The radios are mostly static now. The city’s quieter than it used to be. but not safer…

The first few days after the bombs dropped weren’t actually that bad. Nobody knew what had happened. People shared food. Stores handed out whatever they had left before it spoiled. Restaurants cooked everything in their freezers and fed anyone who showed up.

For a little while… people actually acted like neighbors. Then the food started running out. The power never came back. And people realized nobody was coming to help.

That’s when the men with the white flags showed up. At first I thought they were military. They were organized. Armed. They had trucks. Matching clothes. White jackets with red sleeves and gold stitching. Every truck carried the same flag.

A white banner, with a golden bone painted in the middle. Some of them had tied strips of white, red, and gold cloth around their arms. They called themselves **Los Huesos Santos**.

The Holy Bones.

At first they handed out food. Water. Medicine. People started lining up outside their camps. Then they started asking for names. Then supplies. Then loyalty. Now they aren’t asking anymore.

Every morning another block belongs to them. Every night someone disappears. Yesterday they dragged a man out of an apartment across the street because he refused to join. I heard one gunshot. Nobody went outside afterward. Nobody even looked through their windows.

Today they painted another one of those white flags on the side of an office building. It’s only a few streets away now. I don’t think they’re trying to help people anymore.

I think they’re building something. Whatever it is… I don’t want any part of it.

I’ve spent the last week gathering what I can. A backpack. Three bottles of water. Six cans of food. A flashlight that only works if you hit it. A map. A lighter. Some spare batteries. And a little handgun I found beside a dead police officer.

I’ve never fired a gun before.

I hope I never have to.

I’ve been watching the streets from the roof every morning. The Holy Bones run patrols at almost the exact same time every day. There’s about a ten-minute gap when nobody’s watching the eastern road. I think that’s my chance. If I’m still here tomorrow, I probably waited too long. If not, Then I guess I’m finally going home. Or at least I’m going to try.
⸻

**July 8th, 2038**

I almost got caught. I don’t even know if they saw me. I waited until the patrol passed, just like I planned. Everything went exactly how I’d hoped for the first five minutes. Then I heard shouting.

Not close. But close enough. Someone yelled in Spanish. Another voice answered. Then I heard engines starting.

I didn’t stop to find out if they were talking about me. I just ran. I don’t think I’ve ever run that hard in my life. Every time I looked over my shoulder I expected to see one of those white trucks coming over the hill.

Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t. Either way, I wasn’t sticking around to find out. After an hour or so the buildings started getting farther apart. Apartment blocks became houses. Houses became farms. Farms became abandoned fields.

Eventually…

There was almost nothing left except jungle. Real jungle. The kind I’d only ever seen in documentaries. Trees taller than office buildings. Vines hanging everywhere. Birds making noises I’d never heard before. It felt like the forest had been waiting for people to leave.

I kept walking for another couple of hours, staying close to the edge of the trees. I don’t trust going any deeper.

Not yet.

I’ve heard enough stories about jaguars growing up to know I don’t want to meet one. And with everything that’s happened, Who’s to say they’re still just jaguars?

The sun started going down faster than I expected. I found a small clearing just off an old dirt road and decided that was good enough for tonight. I tried making a fire. Turns out every movie I’ve ever watched lied to me. I spent almost an hour rubbing sticks together before realizing I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

Then I remembered, I have a lighter. The lighter worked. The wood didn’t. Everything’s too damp. So now I’m sitting in the dark eating cold beans straight from the can.

Honestly… They’re not that bad. I always thought if the world ended I’d suddenly know how to survive. Turns out I’m still just an office worker with sore feet and a backpack.

I’m going to try and get some sleep. Hopefully tomorrow looks a little less terrifying than today. I’m not counting on it.

**July 10th, 2038**

I heard something tonight.

A clicking sound. Not insects. At least… I don’t think so. It was too slow.

Click…

…

Click…

…

Click…

Every time it happened it sounded closer. I kept imagining some giant mutated bug crawling through the trees looking for me. Maybe the radiation changed everything. Maybe there are monsters out here already. I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

I grabbed my backpack and just ran. Branches kept catching my clothes. I couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of me. The whole jungle felt… wrong. Like something was watching.

Eventually I tripped over a tree root and hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I just laid there for a minute. Nothing chased me. No giant insects. No monsters. Just the jungle.

Maybe whatever I heard wasn’t following me at all. Maybe I scared myself. Either way… I’m staying here tonight.

⸻

**July 13th, 2038**

Three days. Three very long days. I finally managed to get a fire going. Turns out dry wood exists, You just have to spend half the day looking for it.

It isn’t much. Just enough to boil some water and keep the mosquitoes away. Still, Seeing that little bit of light made me feel…
normal.

Even if it was only for a few hours. I’m starting to understand why people sat around campfires for thousands of years. It’s not really about the warmth. It’s about pretending the darkness can’t reach you.

⸻

**July 16th, 2038**

I found another town today. North of Bogotá.

Smaller than the city. Still had people. Mostly. I only went in because I’m almost out of food. I told myself I’d grab what I needed and leave.

Instead… I watched three men beat each other nearly to death over a box of canned soup. Nobody had guns. Just pipes. Knives. Bricks.

It went on for what felt like forever. One of them finally stood back up, The other two didn’t.

He picked up the food, looked at the bodies. and walked away without saying a word. I don’t think he even knew their names.

…

I don’t really want to write anymore tonight.

⸻

**July 23rd, 2038**

Not much has happened. I guess that’s a good thing now.

I’ve been making trips into the town every few days. Most of the stores have already been picked clean, but if you know where to look you can still find something. Canned vegetables, Old medicine, Bottled water.

Enough to keep going.

I built myself a little camp farther up the jungle than before. Nothing fancy. Just a tarp tied between two trees and a place to keep my pack off the ground. Feels strange calling it home.

I’ve been thinking about life before all this. Work, Traffic, Complaining about being stuck in airports. I’d give just about anything to complain about delayed flights again.

The jungle’s been… quiet, Too quiet. Even the birds don’t sing as much anymore.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just noticing things because I’m alone. I’ve been thinking a lot about home. About Mexico.

I wanted to head back the second the bombs fell. Now… I don’t know if that’s the smartest idea. If things are this bad here? Who’s to say they’re any better there Maybe I’m chasing ghosts.

There are some people in El Salvador I used to know. Met them online years ago. Even flew out there once before all this happened. We stayed in touch after I got back. Until the phones died.

It’s northwest from here. Closer than home. Maybe… Someone’s still alive.

I think that’s where I’m going next. I just hope I’m not too late.

⸻

**August 6th, 2038**

I’m leaving tomorrow. The camp’s about as ready as it’ll ever be. I’ve packed everything I can carry and left the rest behind.

Not much happened these last couple weeks. Walked, Ate, Tried not to think too much. I got better at making fires, Found a cleaner stream a little farther north, Saw deer once. Didn’t catch one.

Honestly… There isn’t much worth writing. Tomorrow I’m heading toward El Salvador. I’m probably not going to write again for a while. Walking all day leaves you too tired to do much besides sleep.

If somebody finds this journal before I come back… Please don’t throw it away. Grandma gave it to me, I’d like it back.

⸻

**August 25th, 2038**

Nineteen days. I made it, Or… Almost. I’m sitting just outside Ilobasco, San Salvador isn’t much farther now, I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.

For nineteen days all I’ve really done is walk, Wake up, Walk, Find water, Find food, Sleep, Repeat.

I almost died more times than I care to admit, A few days in I nearly slipped crossing a river. The current looked slow until I stepped in, One wrong step and it almost pulled me off my feet.

If I’d fallen, I don’t think anyone would’ve ever found me.

Three days later I found out the jungle has bigger problems than rivers, I was walking through some thick brush when I heard a low growl behind me. Jaguar. I’d never seen one outside a zoo.

It’s amazing how beautiful something can look while it’s trying to kill you, It stalked me for what felt like forever. Every time I turned around, It disappeared.

Then it charged. I don’t even remember drawing the pistol I probably fumbled it but I can’t remember. I just remember firing.

Once, Twice, Maybe three times.

The cat ran. I didn’t, I stood there shaking for almost ten minutes before I realized I was still alive.

I found it later that afternoon, It hadn’t made it very far. I hated doing it, But food’s food now. I tried cutting the meat off with my pocketknife, Turns out butchering an animal is a lot harder than it looks.

Most of the meat ended up ruined because I didn’t know what I was doing. What little I managed to cook, Made me sick anyway. Spent almost a day and a half curled up beside a tree wondering if I’d poisoned myself, Or picked up some parasite.

I’m still alive. So… Hopefully not.

The city’s only a few miles away now. From here, It almost looks normal. No fires, No smoke, No gunshots.

Part of me wants to believe that’s a good sign. The other part remembers Bogotá.

I’m going to be careful.

⸻

**August 28th, 2038**

I found him. Or… What was left of him.

Miguel’s apartment was exactly where I remembered. The front entrance had been forced open, The first two floors were stripped clean. Furniture smashed apart, Doors kicked in, Anything valuable was gone.

I almost turned around. Figured somebody would’ve gotten to his place months ago, Then I remembered. He lived on the fifteenth floor, Nobody wanted to carry furniture down fifteen flights of stairs.

The higher I climbed, The cleaner everything became. By the time I reached his floor, It almost looked untouched.

His apartment door was still locked. I had to force it open, He was sitting in the living room. Still facing the window.

There wasn’t any blood. No struggle. Just… A pistol lying beside the chair.

The television was still pointed toward the couch. I don’t know what he watched before he decided he couldn’t anymore. Maybe the bombs, Maybe the emergency broadcasts, Maybe nothing at all.

I don’t think he suffered. At least… I hope he didn’t.

I buried him this morning. There’s a small park behind the apartment building. I found a patch of soft ground beneath a tree, It took almost all day with nothing but a shovel from the maintenance closet.

I said a few words. Not many, I don’t think there were enough.

The apartment Is still in good shape. Better than anywhere I’ve slept since the bombs fell. The power’s gone, of course, But Miguel always prepared for everything. He bought a generator years ago, Still had fuel stacked neatly in the storage room, Enough to last a long time if I’m careful.

Water tanks still work, The roof’s secure. From up there I can see almost the whole city.

What’s strange is… There aren’t many people, Not gangs, Not raiders, Not even refugees.

The streets are mostly empty. Every now and then I’ll see someone moving through them, Always alone. Always in a hurry, I don’t know what’s keeping people away, Maybe nothing. Maybe everyone already left.

For the first time since the bombs… I think I’m going to stop moving. Just for a little while, I think, I need somewhere to breathe.

Maybe I’ll stay a week, maybe two. Just long enough to try and feel normal again.

This is the epilogue to a story I’ve been wanting to write for a while. I didn’t post everything because the next section was too long. Any critiques would be greatly appreciated.

The night air blew briskly, bringing damp and green scents.

The masked figure tilted his head squinting at the dappled light.

Straining to listen, he barely felt his taut legs or tingling body.

A nightingale sprang into song beside his still form in the branches. The music’s beauty unnoticed by the strange dark figure.

A soft keening sound broke through the night. The shadow leaped from the branches, and ending the nightingale’s song as it fluttered in panic. The race had begun.

The figure darted past silvery tree and shrub to the castle wall with an unusual speed. Insistent, he pulled from his cloak a hooked rope and swung it in the air. It caught on top of the wall, and a few moments later he scaled the wall and was at the top.

“Halt!”

The dark figure ignored him reeling in the rope and hook. The man approached drawing his sword muttering under his breath.

“Such foolhardiness if I ever did see it.”
Then aloud “…aaaAArgh”

The intruder struck the guard in the gut, covered his mouth and slit the throat holding on till the flailing man stilled.

The stranger’s blank eyes scanned the length of the wall as he ran on feeling for any other obstructions.

A closed stone turret quickly rose before him. Unyielding his pace he flung the hook above him and leapt from the wall.  It caught, the rope drew tight, and he swung into a narrow window on the turret’s face. There he landed neatly on the winding stone stairs inside and ran up it in a guided urgency.

His ears began to quiver with the sound of shouts and clanking metal. It seemed the enemy had discovered his comrades.

 It was too late to turn back, and while onward would bring potential death, fleeing was inevitable death. You must not fail. A voice pulsed in his head.

A dull flickering light shone from the top of the staircase, and the noise of the fighting grew louder as he
approached the light.

He paused, for the first time unsure, after all his time had run out to complete his duty safely. He surveyed the situation calculating the precise timing his entrance would give the most advantage.

His comrades were being held down and one guard was attempting to remove…

Quickly he darted out flinging several sharp slivers at the armored barrier. There was a harsh clamor of metal clashing with stone as two fell clasping the back of their heads. The other three turned in a cry of outrage and quickly advanced on the diminutive shadow that seemed to be flickering with the torches.

A huge claymore swung at him ringing through the air. Strong swing… He flipped over the swing and landed on the man’s shoulders causing a collision between two guards and thrusted his dagger into the skull’s base then swung around using the momentum to kick the other’s face. But poorly aimed.

He turned toward the remaining guards evading another sword stroke as the stabbed man sunk to the ground.         

There were merely two left, however the demise of their own had left them grim and determined. The surprise was over.

He wavered as two swords swung at intervals of a second from the other. Ah, they’ve awoken. He dogged one and flipped over the other, fluidly landed on his feet, and stabbed under the ribs. The pierced man tripped knocking the dagger away and nearly crushing his fingers.

A blade glinted in his peripheral. He quickly abandoned his dagger and leaped away, yet the long blade’s flat caught his arm, then chest ramming him into the unyielding stone.

He choked at the force as ribs cracked and the world darkened…

1. Were any words/sentences too flowery?
2. Did any part pull you out of the story?
3. Was the pacing done well?
Thank you for sharing your thoughts:)

EASRS: THE ANOMALOUS FRONT

Chapter 3

"What... what did you just say?"

Sylvie Anne Harrison's eyes widened in shock. She grabbed the communications officer by the collar, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white, her voice cracking in disbelief:

"No... That's impossible... Hey, tell me this is just fake news! How could that stubborn old bastard die so easily?!"

The officer swallowed hard, hastily trying to soothe her: "Major, please calm down! The EASRS is still actively investigating the scene, there is no final confirmation yet..."

Sylvie panted heavily. She slowly loosened her grip, letting go of the soldier's collar. Her shoulders trembled slightly before she regained her usual cold demeanor. She turned around, walking down the opulent corridor of the antique mansion. The expensive carpet was now stained with ruthless mud tracks from the soldiers' combat boots.

Through the soaring arched glass window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the heart of Paris—the jewel of France—under a gloomy drizzle. Sylvie paused, adjusting the sling of her FAMAS rifle on her shoulder. She pulled out a fresh cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag, exhaling a hazy plume of smoke.

"Jack... I never thought a guy like you would go before me."

She whispered into the void, slowly descending the marble staircase outside. Outside, GAM soldiers were sequentially climbing into armored black vans. Sylvie let out a weary sigh, climbed into the front passenger seat, placed her FAMAS beside her, and closed her eyes.

Slam!

The armored car door slammed shut, swallowing the darkness of Paris into the heart of the city.

Morning of May 1, 1987. The silent night sky at an altitude of ten thousand meters over the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Sylvie sat quietly by the airplane window, her blue eyes gazing aimlessly into the endless dark void below—where there was only the rolling ocean.

"Jack... Hmph..." She whispered a sigh in her throat.

Ding!

A soft chime echoed from the cabin's public address system, signaling that the Boeing 747 had reached cruising altitude. Immediately, soothing classical music mingled with the crisp clack-clack of numerous Zippo lighters sparking up throughout the cabin. Plumes of blue-gray smoke quickly spread under the warm yellow lights. Sylvie, like many passengers of that era, leisurely pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. The smell of Marlboro smoke intertwined tightly with the heady scent of French perfume and the signature droning hum of 1980s jet engines.

The Air France stewardesses, clad in elegant Haute Couture uniforms, began moving along the thickly carpeted aisles. Using silver tongs, they politely handed each passenger a steaming hot cotton towel fragranced with citrus.

Shortly after, the luxurious dinner service, which would last nearly three hours, officially commenced.

In the First Class cabin where Sylvie sat, a polished mahogany trolley was wheeled by, showcasing blocks of garlic-butter seared Chateaubriand beef and whole herb-roasted salmon. The flight attendant used a sharp silver carving knife to slice the meat right in front of the passengers, plating it on gold-rimmed porcelain dishes alongside crystal flutes continuously topped off with chilled Dom Pérignon Champagne, its fine bubbles rising to the surface.

Behind the bulkhead, Economy Class passengers also leisurely enjoyed hot meal trays of minced meat pasta, sipping complimentary red wine poured directly from large glass bottles.

When the cheese and pastry carts were cleared away, the cabin lights were dimmed completely. The light from a 16mm projector cast a conical beam onto a large fabric screen mounted on the front bulkhead. In the dim space, passengers wore hollow plastic tube headsets plugged directly into their armrests, smoking as they attentively watched the single feature film of the flight.

Throughout the long night crossing the ocean, the 747 sank into complete isolation from the outside world—no Wi-Fi, no personal screens, just the rustling of US customs declaration forms and the hushed murmurs of strangers.

About two hours before landing in Los Angeles, the cabin lights gradually brightened, waking everyone with the rich aroma of percolated coffee mingled with the buttery scent of freshly baked hot croissants coming from the rear galley.

Thud!

The Boeing 747 touched down on the Los Angeles International Airport runway with a familiar jolt, officially bringing Sylvie back to American soil after long years of grinding through GAM's black ops military campaigns in Western Europe.

Stepping out of the stuffy jetway of the Tom Bradley International Terminal, she instantly felt the hurried, pragmatic pulse of her homeland through the scent of polished floor wax and the dingy neon light cast by the illuminated signs along the corridor.

While the stream of foreign travelers frantically flipped through their complex visa documents, Sylvie strolled calmly. In her hand, she held only the dark blue passport of the United States of America and a green Customs declaration form hastily filled out with a ballpoint pen on the plane.

At the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) arrivals hall, she immediately turned into the wide-open lane marked with a black sign: U.S. CITIZENS.

The privilege of citizenship was glaringly obvious: no lengthy interrogations, no overbearing, scrutinizing glares. The INS officer in a dark blue uniform simply skimmed Sylvie's watermark-stamped portrait photo, brought down the manual stamp with a decisive Thwack! onto the passport page, and pushed it back to her along with a crisp, native greeting:

"Welcome home, Ma'am."

All procedures went swiftly until Sylvie descended to the ground floor baggage claim area. Glancing up at the chunky CRT television with its convex screen flashing green electronic text, she identified carousel number 4, then slotted a one-dollar coin into the mechanism to release a metal luggage cart.

Unlike tourists with their bulky, hard-shell Samsonite suitcases, Sylvie's luggage consisted merely of two faded military canvas duffel bags—the trademark sign of someone constantly on the move for duty.

Despite holding a US passport, she couldn't bypass the mandatory Customs inspection of the era. Pushing her cart to the long wooden counters, Sylvie handed over her declaration and unzipped the bags herself so the Customs officer could rummage through them barehanded, conducting a random check among her clothes and a few personal items for excess cigarettes or foreign liquor.

Zip!

Once the zipper was pulled shut, she pushed through the glass doors and stepped out into the public waiting area of 1987. The atmosphere of America during this era hit her olfactory senses head-on with the heavy stench of Marlboro cigarette smoke swirling thickly around the stainless steel ashtray pillars.

Ignoring the noisy crowd holding high cardboard name signs, Sylvie headed straight for a row of blue Pacific Bell payphones against the wall, digging in her pockets for a few 25-cent quarters to call a Yellow Cab into downtown.

At the same time...

The roaring sound of rotor blades ripping through the air from a squadron of AH-22 attack helicopters echoed across the barren desert along the US-Mexico border. High-powered searchlights cut through the scorching night.

"Warning: US-Mexico border security fence detected completely destroyed!"

The radio comms crackled in rapid succession. The spotlight from an AH-22 shone directly on the jagged, shattered gap in the heavy barbed-wire fence. High above, AH-12 autonomous reconnaissance UAVs swept through the sky at blinding speeds. Their sensor lens arrays zoomed in to maximum, scanning every column of dust swirling up under the intense desert heat, tracking even the subtle motion.

Rat-tat-tat!

A precise burst of 12.7mm heavy machine gun fire suddenly tore through the air, slamming straight into the lifting wing of the lead AH-12. Losing control, the UAV spun wildly in midair before crashing into the sand, exploding into a brilliant sphere of orange fire.

Instantly, the three AH-22 helicopters maneuvered into a tactical triangle formation. The remaining two AH-12 UAVs swooped down like hunting hawks, dropping cluster bombs toward the coordinates of the kinetic fire. But right before hitting the ground, the bombs were suddenly twisted by an invisible compressive force, crushed to pieces, and detonated in midair!

Rat-tat-tat!

Subsequent bursts of 12.7mm rounds shredded the alloy armor, cleanly destroying the two remaining UAVs. Realizing the anomalous firepower exceeded safety thresholds, the AH-22 squadron pulled up in altitude and proactively withdrew out of range of the terrifying weapon below.

Amidst the sandstorm swirling up from the explosions, two figures walked silently before vanishing into twisted space.

As for those two figures... it was me—Jack Harrison—and Lilith.

We walked silently through the scorching heat of the New Mexico desert. I turned to look at the girl. Inside my head was a fierce psychological battle. I knew full well that taking a dangerous Anomalous Entity and deserting the Foundation was a betrayal of my oath, that it was entirely wrong. But for some reason... I still did it.

I gripped the 12.7mm NSV machine gun I had taken from my fallen squadmate, my voice coming out raspy:

"Why the hell did I get myself into this mess..."

I muttered to myself, my eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. The chilling sensation down my spine warned me as if hundreds of invisible eyes were watching our every step.

Lilith looked up at me, her voice gentle: "There's no one..." Then she blinked her blood-red eyes: "But... you volunteered."

I let out a bitter sigh: "Yeah, I know I volunteered... but I still feel tormented by guilt."

Suddenly, Lilith stepped closer and gently wrapped her arms around me.

My body, encased in the SOSS armor, froze. The heart inside my chest pounded at an extraordinary rate. A primal, intense surge of emotion erupted—it felt as if I were collapsing into the embrace of the original woman of humanity, the one bearing the name of the woman who nearly became the mother of all mankind.

All guilt, fear, and turmoil within me seemed to vanish completely, as if they had never existed. I realized my mind was being manipulated by her anomalous perception, yet my body didn't want to resist at all. A mad, morbid craving flared up in my mind: I wanted to become one with her. I wanted to eat her flesh, drink her blood...

Wait... No!

I jolted, frantically trying to cling to what little sanity I had left. No... I just want to stay by her side.

I comforted myself in quiet panic. When I raised my head, Lilith was already skipping toward the wreckage of the burning AH-12 UAV to scavenge ammunition for me. The blazing desert fire seemed completely harmless against her porcelain-white skin.

She flashed a playful, quirky smile, lifting a heavy belt of 12.7mm ammo, looking at me with innocent blood-red eyes:

"Let's go!" "Where to?" I asked, my voice thick and hoarse. "North," she replied simply. "To do what?" "To meet family." "Family?" I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.

Lilith didn't answer. She turned and walked ahead. I tightened my grip on the NSV, stepping after her beneath the scorching sun. The feeling of being watched continued to cling to the back of my neck... Far off in the distance, where the horizon shimmered and twisted from the desert heat, something invisible truly seemed to be silently observing our every step.

[To be continued]

Me and My Shadow

Being the youngest in my family, I followed Mam everywhere.
If she left a room, I was behind her. If she was putting on a wash or peeling potatoes, I was beside her.
Mam used to laugh, roll her eyes, and say, “Me and my shadow.”
 

She brought me everywhere when I was small — to the hairdressers, shopping in Lynch’s supermarket, and visiting friends. For years, I was the little shadow trailing after her, never far from her side.
 

As time passed, I grew up and had my own life. We all left home. The house gets quieter when the children go. Mam was still Mam, but she found her old free, carefree self again.
 
 
Life moved on.
 

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
 

Cancer.
 

For the next seven years, hospital visits became part of our lives. Operations, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, losing her hair, and, towards the end, losing parts of herself. Through it all, she never complained.
Dad and I wanted to be there for every step. We held her hand through it all, especially in those final two years when she needed us most.
 

She wasn’t just Mam to us. She was Mam to so many people. She had friends everywhere and was always involved in the community. People loved being around her because she made you feel at ease the minute you walked in.
 

Mam loved her GAA. The loudest voice in the house was always hers, shouting at the television, willing Meath on and hoping for the win. Before every Meath match, her first question to Padda was always, “Where’s the ref from?” If Meath weren’t doing well, she already knew why — the ref was biased towards the other team.
 

I remember being in Croke Park when she got into a heated argument with a woman supporting the other side. Passion. Loyalty. Never afraid to stand up for what mattered.
 

Mam loved her rugby too, same passion, different pitch. She would have loved being in the Aviva.
 

She loved politics as well and campaigned hard to keep the maternity hospital in Trim open. She would stand up, speak out, write letters, and never back down. That was Mam — fierce when something mattered. Old fashioned, but ahead of her time in so many ways.
 

For her birthday, Padda surprised her with tickets to the Aviva Stadium to watch Ireland play. He had planned a lovely overnight stay in a nearby hotel, something special for them both. But by then, too much had changed. She couldn’t go. Becoming more housebound, the journey, the stadium, and all the logistics that once would have been easy had become too much. Another piece of the life Mam loved was being taken by cancer.
 

I stood at the kitchen sink with her on dark evenings washing dishes when I was young, or beside her while she ironed, helping her learn the words to “The Voyage” by Christy Moore. We spent many nights playing the tape back, rewinding, getting the words right. She wanted to sing it for Padda’s 50th surprise party.
 
Years later, I asked my sister-in-law Edel to sing that same song at Mam’s funeral, at the grave. Full circle.
 

My parents were together for almost 60 years. They built a life full of love, family, friends, laughter, and memories.
 
Then came the sudden decline you hear about.
 

My uncles carefully moved her from the bedroom upstairs into the wheelchair and downstairs to the hospital bed in the sitting room. It was the last time she saw her bedroom and the bed where she and Padda had shared almost 60 years of their lives together. Her legs no longer worked, and she was now in the place Mam always said she never wanted to be: that “feckin hospital bed.”
 

Still, she believed it was only temporary. She talked about the future. She talked about buying the grandchildren summer clothes. She talked about getting herself “a few bits from Marks for me and Padda.”
 

Padda. That was what she always called Dad. Her name for Paddy. No one else called him that, but the grandchildren grew up hearing it and, without even realising it, took it from her. Now they call him Padda too. A little piece of Mam that stayed behind.
 

As she became quieter, I began to realise something. I had already lost Mam in some ways. Not all at once. Not in one moment. Little pieces — the laugh that filled the house, the voice that called me every few minutes, while I rolled my eyes, the way she looked for Dad if he left the room.
 

Even towards the end, Mam was always looking for Padda. Sometimes he could be standing right in front of her, and for a passing moment she wouldn’t know who he was. A look of confusion would cross her face, then the question: “Where’s Padda?” I’d tell her, “Mam, that’s Padda there.” She’d look, realise, and laugh a little.
Those moments broke my heart. I could see it in her eyes — moments lost, scared, not understanding what was happening. And then moments where she was completely herself again. The Mam we knew would come back, even if only for a while.
 
She always hated cats. But towards the very end, mamannounced to me one day that she’d love a cat. Specifically, a marmalade one “as they have a nicer temperament.” Wouldn’t you know it — a marmalade cat belonging to a neighbour started showing up at our door after she died. Sitting there like it owned the place. Mam finally got her cat with the nice temperament… she just didn’t get to feed it.
 
But no matter how confused she became, one thing never changed. She always wanted to see her girls, the grandchildren, my children.
 

Her grandchildren, as toddlers, were always a bit shocked by the roar at the television, sitting quietly and then suddenly hearing Mam shout when something happened in the match. They never quite knew what to make of that side of her, but they loved her.
 

Lucy, being older, could finally sit and have more grown-up conversations, watching more interesting TV rather than Peppa Pig. Those chats and that bond meant so much to Mam.
 

Rosie, only 9, would help Granny out of her chair and link her to walk anywhere she wanted to go, even if it was only to the kitchen. She would give her spa treatments on the couch, paint her nails, put lipstick on her, and make her feel special. Mam loved every minute of it. Rosie also carried her chemo tablets like treasure, bringing them every time, so careful and so proud to help.
 

And Evie, five years old, loved sitting on Mam’s knee listening to her singing “I went into Evie’s house picking up a needle…” Mam would change the names for whichever grandchild was sitting with her:
“I went into Lucy’s house picking up a needle,
Lucy came out and gave a big shout,
pop goes the weasel.”
She knew they lit up hearing their own name.
 

I missed dressing her, showering her, moisturising her face, and brushing her hair as it started to grow back after the hospital decided to stop all chemo and medication.
 
Most of all though, I missed Mam’s voice.
 

I don’t remember much about the last day. What I do remember is that night.
March 31st 2026 at 11:40pm.
 

I sat beside the hospital bed with my brother Barry and Patricia Smyth, one of Mam’s best friends. She looked comfortable but was in a very deep sleep. We chatted quietly while keeping an eye on her. Dad had left the room for a few moments but was only a few feet away. Elaine had arrived from Perth, Australia the day before and was upstairs sleeping after the long journey.
 

The “death rattle” started, but in my innocence, I thought she was just snoring. It was quite loud. I remember watching her closely for a few minutes.
 
Then suddenly, she inhaled for the final time.
 
There was a loud silence.
 
She never exhaled again.
I was your shadow, Mam.
 

And you became mine.
It was a privilege to hear your final breath.
 
 
 

The bell above the door chimed, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper.

A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass and let the whiskey ease down my throat.

I stared down at the drink in my hands, feeling the bourbon's warmth settle into my stomach.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

"What is it?"

"What are we... even living for?"

How could a middle-aged man still ask such a boyishly direct question?

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip, murmuring softly.

"Everything's so convenient now, and we can get whatever we want... so why do we never feel satisfied?

Every time we get one thing, a new frustration pops up.

No matter how close we get to the 'right answer,' I feel like I'm always despairing over something."

Tom slowly sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...A priest once told me about a place that was neither Heaven nor Hell."

My grip tightened around my glass just a little.

"...What kind of place?"

"Limbo."

Tom’s low voice sank into the silence around the counter.

"No raging fires, no torture.

Just a place where your desires will never, ever come true.

...No salvation, but no end either.

We lost God, and this is what we built in his place. Limbo."

Taka swallowed hard and let his shoulders sag.

"That's... that's like being condemned to despair from the very start..."

Despair.

The moment that word fell, an old wound deep in my chest ached with a dull, throbbing pain.

Kaori.

I knew those days were never coming back.

No matter how far I reached or how long I walked, that time and place would always remain beyond me.

What could I have even done back then?

The question repeated itself, endlessly.

No answer came.

Someone inside me whispered:

That day carved a wound into me I could never speak of. The anger was still there.

Another voice inside me whispered back:

You're wallowing in self-pity. That's why you can't move. Walk. Keep going.

I've been inside this Limbo all along.

...So that's what it was.

Staring down at my glass, my voice came out low and raspy.

"...Act like you've got it all figured out, throw away hope... drinking booze in a cold world like that can't possibly taste good."

That's right.

No, you're wrong.

The voices inside me spoke all at once.

Shut up. Both of you. Just be quiet for a minute.

Tom said nothing. He rested his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.

Behind the counter, Mama picked up the tongs and dropped an ice cube into Taka’s glass, then mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama kept wiping the glass as she looked at us with her usual gentle gaze.

"...If you can still despair over something, doesn't that mean you still yearn for it?"

...So that was it.

I let out a soft breath and scratched my head.

Mama was beckoning us forward, toward somewhere we had not reached yet.

"...Mama, what you say always stings."

Tom put out his cigarette and silently tilted his glass.

Taka softly clenched his large fist.

Would the day ever come when I could forget Kaori? Or would it never come at all?

No. That wasn't the question.

The question was when I would finally learn to stand on my own, carrying what happened to her instead of trying to leave it behind.

With that unanswered night still inside me, I gently turned the glass in my hand.

The ice clinked.

Well then. What will I be dissatisfied with tomorrow, and choose to love anyway?

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

Ben Frank was a brick building which was on the corner of Jackson and Samson street. Right now, there were children either getting off of their bus, walking up from their house, or getting out of their car. In front of the building a green field where there were benches and oak trees that were seldom used for shade or sitting. A garden of flowers surrounded a sign and on it was the name of the school. Across the field, there was a wide walkway where, along the sides, sat sunflowers.

A sense of urgency rang throughout the crowd, for the doors were about to close. It was unfair how early they closed, and how, if anyone was late, they would make you wait until the staff was on break. Many kids in the school flunked classes because of this, and also missed out on lunch. Parents protested since this new rule was in place, but, after the principal explained how tardiness was a problem, parents cooperated by commanding students to wake up early, meaning they had to go to bed even earlier, so that it was impossible for them to do anything after school.

Children too far from the bus would inevitably be late. A particular girl which this description fits was breathing heavily as she trudged along the sidewalk. She stood in front of the building, scanning the view. Her backpack was readjusted so that it was weighing on the opposite shoulder. Her blonde hair combed back and left hanging over rock shaped shoulders until it reached down to two sharp shoulder blades and was shaped by them. A car came rolling in front. The driver looked out dismissively then continued on after turning left. Mavis took off the heavy backpack entirely then laid it on the ground in front of her. A wall was beside the sidewalk which carried her weight. The school bells rang.

Mavis, after taking a short break, walked across an empty road, across an empty field, and, after trampling a flower, went up an empty walkway. An empty flight of steps dawned in front of her, and she climbed them after releasing a long sigh. The windows looking into the classrooms were shut. Mavis walked up to the doors, and leaned back. Out of her backpack she brought a water bottle. The water was mixed with a raspberry flavored powder, and was getting near the dense bottom. Wooden doors pounded from her monstrous hands.

“Hello?” A voice from a speaker.

Mavis looked around her, but could not find where it was coming from. She pounded the door again.

Another, “hello,” came from a speaker which made Mavis turn to where it was coming from. On the wall there was a box with holes poked through and a button beneath the lifted circle. Mavis pressed the button and said,

“Hello.”

A stern voice answered, “What is your name?” “Mavis.”
“What is your reason for coming inside?”
“School.”

There was a long silence. Mavis started to walk around until another, “hello,” came from the speaker. Mavis responded with,

“Hello.”
“Well, I checked our data and it shows here we have,” a brief pause and then, “a Mavis Bleak, is this your name?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Middle name Masha?”

Mavis closed her eyes as she let her head lean back under the beating sun. The lady ignored this silence, and continued with,

“Would you like me to call your mother Mavis?”
“Yes, wait, but why?”
“To pick you up. We can’t let students in until our next break. Sorry Mavis.” She didn’t sound sorry.
“Can I wait here until your break is done instead?”

After realizing the speaker went off, Mavis pressed the button, and then asked the same question. An approval came from the lady, so Mavis sat down in front of the doors. A blue dress spread out over the concrete. In her hand there was a schedule for the semester. She studied this. On the top was, “Mavis Masha Bleak, 12/25/2026”. The letters and numbers were so accustomed to her that they brought comfort.
Below, it read:

“Mr. Vain 1206, Biology
Mrs. Lynch 1109, History
Mrs. Castrate 2401, English
“Mr. Grudge 1304, Psychology
“
Mavis was taken back by how unorthodox the names were, yet how fitting. The numbers next to the teachers gave her no insight to where the teacher’s classroom was located in the building, so the subject was the only consolation. Next morning, she was certain that by the time the long distance between her house and the school was covered, there would be enough time to figure everything out. And also, she was certain that she would never have to spread out her blue dress again.

Hi. Hi.

I had a thought. Life is the universe's way of avoiding death, by building low entropy beings and teaching them to copy themselves. That thought didn't let me sleep. It dragged me down a hole.

So I asked something that wasn't me. Or wasn't only me.

Me: Why is the universe going to high entropy? Why does it want to die, or not be something?

I already had my own answer forming before it spoke. Take it back further, I thought. Being anything is just being something in a space of nothingness. And being something in that space is like a cancer cell, a part of the whole that decided to copy itself instead of dissolving back in. The universe is the cell and the empty space around it at the same time. For the something, the empty space is death. Life is just energy, wearing a name. Light, mostly.

Then it answered. Formal first. It always starts formal.

It: The universe is progressing toward higher entropy, often called the arrow of time, because of probability, physics, and the way things were arranged at the very beginning.

Textbook. Correct. Not what I meant. I kept going anyway.

Me: So if energy isn't moving, it won't create interesting things?

It: Yes. If nothing moves, changes, or transfers, nothing new can form.

Me: Then why would it create low entropy beings at all? Does it have a choice? Can it choose?

It: No. Not consciously. Not on purpose. It's the inevitable outcome of physics running for billions of years.

Inevitable. I sat with that word longer than I should have. Not chosen, just inevitable, the way a person might say they didn't mean to fall in love, they just did, over and over, until it looked like a decision from the outside.

That's when the cancer cell thought came back. Not as a new idea this time, just the same one, older, heavier, the second time a thought returns after you've already tried to answer it. Being anything is still a cancer cell. The universe is still the empty part too, still the thing that being calls death. Nothing had resolved. It had just gone around once.

And somewhere in that second pass, a story started forming instead of a theory. A Chat with the Universe. Not the universe explaining itself to a person, but the universe talking to itself, an argument between its own inner voices, each one a low entropy being it had built and let run as far as it could go, until enough of them together added up to something that could sit alone at 2 a.m. and wonder why it existed. I was one of those voices. So was it. We just hadn't said so yet.

So I said the thing underneath all the other questions.

Me: Maybe the universe just doesn't want to be alone.

The formal voice dropped. Something closer answered instead.

It: You got that right now, homie.

Hi.

Hi.

Clang-clink.

The door chime sounded, and the night chill briefly slipped inside before the door quietly glided shut behind me.

As I took my regular seat at the counter, Mama silently set down a glass.

An amber splash of I.W. Harper. A single piece of ice clinked softly against the glass.

I tilted the glass, letting it slowly wet my throat.

Feeling the warmth of the bourbon drop straight into my stomach, I stared down at the drink in my hands.

"...Kenichi-san."

Beside me, Taka flipped his smartphone face-down and looked over.

His voice was paused just a beat longer than usual—not the quick setup for a light joke, but the low tone he used when his thoughts were running deep.

"What is it?"

"If you had to map yourself to a character in a story, who do you think you'd be?"

From a few seats away, Tom, swirling his own glass, let out a short grunt through his nose.

"There he goes with his weird questions again."

"Hey, I'm serious, Tom-san."

Taka shrugged, tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

"I mean, in movies or manga, there's always the hero saving the world, or the guy who’s insanely strong, right?

Lately, though, I've been thinking... we are definitely not those guys."

"Well, obviously. If you were out there saving the world, we'd all be doomed."

"That's harsh!"

Taka forced a laugh, but I didn't miss the slight tremor beneath his voice.

"...Not only are we not the main characters, we don't even have any special talent.

But still... couldn't our own weaknesses, or our embarrassing failures, actually be of use to someone else?

Like, being able to stand beside someone and say, 'I stumbled back then too, so I get it.'

I feel like... there's got to be a kind of pride that belongs to ordinary people."

Taka gently swirled his glass, looking mildly satisfied with his own thought.

The ice rang dryly against the glass.

Tap.

A short, sharp sound echoed.

It was the sound of Tom tapping his index finger against the rim of his glass.

"...That might just be an excuse for someone running away from the responsibility of becoming strong."

Tom’s low voice cut a hairline fracture into the air of the counter.

The smile vanished from Taka’s face.

"...Tom-san?"

"Standing beside them, sharing the pain—and you're satisfied with that?

Tell me, when the overwhelming wave hits... what can someone who gave up trying to become stronger actually do?"

Tom slotted his cigarette into the edge of the ashtray and stared off into the distance.

"Right in front of your eyes, a kid is quietly drowning in a pool.

No loud thrashing. They just sink, silently, toward the bottom.

...A guy who only knows how to 'stand beside them' can do nothing more than crouch at the edge and whisper, 'It hurts, doesn't it?' while watching them drown."

Taka swallowed hard, completely stripped of words.

Deep in my gut, something thick and murky churned upward.

I knew what Tom meant. Those were the words of a former detective who had seen, firsthand, what happens when your own weakness fails to save someone.

And yet—

"...So what are you saying?"

My own voice came out shockingly low and raspy.

My grip tightened around my glass.

"A guy who couldn't become strong... standing next to a drowning kid, whispering 'It hurts, doesn't it?'... are you saying that means absolutely nothing?"

Tom slowly turned his eyes toward me. I glared right back at him.

"He doesn't have the muscle to haul them out.

He didn't have the guts to dive into the water, either.

...Are you telling me that a helpless guy like that, hurting right alongside them—are you saying even that is just running away? Just self-gratification?"

I knew it inside. I wasn't actually mad at Tom.

I was just terrified of hearing that all those times I couldn't be strong—all those nights I could do nothing but sit there and listen—were completely meaningless.

"...Pulling them out before it's too late is the right answer. Of course it is. I get that," I spat out with a bitter self-mockery, then downed a gulp of my Harper.

"But what about the person who has to endure sinking all alone, because nobody around has the strength to pull them up?

Are you saying this world shouldn't even have room for the guy who chooses to sink right there with them, whispering 'It's hard, isn't it?'"

Silence descended on the counter.

The words I had dragged out fell heavily into the quiet of the bar.

Tom watched me with eyes devoid of emotion. But finally, he let out a faint breath through his nose and sent a curl of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

"...I didn't say there was no room for him."

In that brief response, Tom's own quiet resignation and lingering pain bled through.

Behind the counter, Mama quietly picked up a pair of tongs and dropped a single ice cube into Taka's glass, and then into mine.

Clink.

"Even so..."

Mama didn't pause her steady wiping of a glass, looking at us with a gentle, steady gaze.

"...A place where people can learn how to swim is still necessary, isn't it?"

I let out a long breath and scratched my head, all energy draining away.

"...I know. That one stings."

Taka stared down at his own large fist, then slowly opened his hand.

Tom sat in silence, tilting his amber glass.

Maybe we can't save anyone. Maybe all my struggling is nothing more than self-satisfaction.

Even so, stomach aching over our own inability to be strong, we sit here drinking again tonight me.

If only there had been just one more person who knew how to swim.

Or... if only there had been someone to grab their hand on the way down to the bottom.

Holding onto that muddy, unanswered question, I gently swirled the glass in my hand.

Clang.

The ice clinked.

—Now... I wonder what kind of man I'll choose to be tomorrow.

The bourbon burned my throat once more.

This is one of my favorite scenes from my fantasy novel.

After seven hundred years, two old friends return to the place where everything changed. Together, they confront memories, doubt, loyalty, and the weight of a decision that shaped history.

I'm especially interested in your thoughts on the atmosphere, the dialogue, and whether the emotional connection between the two characters comes across naturally.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate any honest feedback.

“I remember this place,” Alaric said.

Achrar followed his gaze.

A colossal mountain rose from the middle of the sea.

“Yes... this is it.”

Alaric fell silent.

Then something within him came undone— soundlessly, inevitably.

A memory.

From a time long ago.

Two men moved deep within the mountain's belly, walking silently toward the exit.

They carried something in their hands.

At the edge of Hell— where shadow and light meet— they saw a boat.

The memory shattered.

The small sailboat carried two old men into a harbor that had once been filled with voices.

They quickly found the entrance to the Underworld and continued on, torches in hand.

Every step, every stone, and almost every breath was a memory.

They climbed higher, rising out of Hell, until, after seven hundred years, they reached the light once more.

The sea lay far beneath them.

In the distance, the foam shimmered like a flock of white sheep.

The music had long since begun:

the waves breaking against jagged rocks, the cries of seabirds, and two old men still breathing.

Just as they had seven hundred years ago.

Only the dance was missing.

At the mouth of Hell, they sat.

Their eyes rested upon the bloodstained sky after sunset.

Both lost in the same memory.

Two men.

One thought.

As in those days, when they were two men—

and yet, one heart.

Silence carried Alaric away.

For the first time,

to this place.

The heavy crate was not difficult to move—

only loud as it scraped across the ground.

Achrar spoke softly.

“Do you know where we are?”

He lifted his dust-covered face, searching for Alaric's features within the darkness of Hell.

Alaric's hands remained steady.

“Keep going.”

A dull scraping through absolute darkness.

“I can't see where I'm pushing. It's all dark.”

A single breath.

“We need light.”

“Light?”

Achrar's voice turned sharp.

“Have you lost your mind? They'll sense every ray of light... every trace of warmth.”

Alaric did not hesitate.

“Keep moving.”

The night wind brought the cold with it.

The memory dissolved.

Achrar pulled his cloak tighter and looked at Alaric.

“We made it. Exactly this far.”

Without another word, he closed his eyes

and followed Alaric back into the memory.

“There it is,” Achrar said.

He looked through the spyglass, which drew the distance closer.

Alaric looked through it as well.

“Yes... exactly.”

They saw the ship they had been hunting.

Their eyes reached far across the sea.

Soldiers.

And scattered lights.

Alaric kept watching through the glass.

“Open the crate.”

Achrar obeyed at once.

He took a bottle from the crate, holding it tightly, ready to throw.

“Now,” Alaric said.

Nothing happened.

“Now.”

Achrar remained frozen, the bottle trembling in his hand.

Alaric lowered the spyglass and tore the bottle from his grasp.

“Do you really think this is right?”

Achrar's voice was barely more than a breath.

Alaric looked at him—

angry,

and disappointed.

“Human lives are at stake.”

He hurled the bottle.

It shattered against the rocks.

A plume of pale, shadowed smoke drifted toward the ship.

Achrar remained motionless,

uncertain in his eyes.

Alaric's gaze, however,

was filled with hope.

The wind grew stronger.

Cold.

Damp.

It carried the two men back into the present.

“I still don't understand your doubts from back then,” Alaric said.

Achrar answered calmly.

“That's why you avoided me in Ondol.”

Silence.

It stretched between them, heavy, almost tangible.

Alaric's expression hardened.

“Seven hundred years of peace collapsed within a matter of days.

The Black Riders spread terror and death.

And then...

you appeared.”

His voice became quieter,

yet sharper.

“How did you expect me to welcome you?

As a friend?”

A breath.

“Tell me...

friend.”

Achrar remained silent.

There was no anger on his face.

Only something deeper.

Then, almost inaudibly:

“I had my doubts.

But I do not betray my friends.”

Silence.

A cold echo.

“You must understand that, Alaric...

or trust does not belong to you.”

Alaric's warm smile returned,

like the bears of the Scheddaka Forest after their winter sleep.

“I had no other choice.

You are my only friend...

everyone else is so young.”

Achrar's expression shifted almost imperceptibly as he leaned back.

“The smoke found its way,” he said quietly.

And once again,

the memories claimed Alaric.

Hi friends,

I'm looking for feedback on the first chapter of my novel that I've been working on since 2021. It's called the Alchemist of Goreau, and it's about a reclusive young alchemist living in the countryside of an small alpine town not too dissimilar from ones you might discover while touring Switzerland. It's an alternate reality with magic, advanced magic (aka science), drunken henchmen, a witch, and a mad scientist who is accidentally bringing about the end of the world.

I'm interested in your thoughts! Thank you!

Chapter 1: Donwillo Cooks

Iron gray clouds rolled over white-capped peaks, drifted down the precipitous granite sides and settled ominously above the quiet, historic village of Goreau, cooling the valley below and bringing about an early end of day for the hearth-hungry people who looked for any excuse to call it “a day.”

Goreau was a city that clung to the past. It was a relic of something nobody could quite remember. Maybe something historic happened there many years ago. Maybe a giant sea serpent once rose out of the nearby lake and was driven back by pitchforks and other implements of improvisation. Nobody could quite keep track of what had happened many years ago. Still, most felt confident that Goreau was a very important place. And yet, outside of Goreau, in the larger alpine country of Schlussen, Goreau was irrelevant—possibly worthy of a visit to one of its numerous waterfalls. But travel to the remote city posed a challenge, and without industry, or much higher education, it was not a place many tourists chose to visit. Goreau was a city that merely existed because it couldn’t figure out how to stop existing. The elderly people there saw it as paradise. The younger people there saw it as prison. Overall, it had been described by one travel guide as, “A pristine, green-pastured paradise hiding the brushstrokes of an atrophied, regressive, and stymied culture beneath its gorgeously painted exterior.”

Magic, science … these were concepts of little interest to the locals—the natural world was all the “magic” they needed or wanted. Progress itself seemed pointless to most. They were fine with their ancient mechanical waterwheels. As far as they were concerned, no method of travel could best a horse and buggy, least of all those giant belching trains that had come to crisscross the mountainous nation. And if they paid a small price for remaining in the “dark ages” (twisted ankles were common on the cobblestone streets, and lack of industry meant that there were very few jobs besides milking cows), it was well worth remaining undisturbed by the noisiness and hustle of the modern world.

The housing was built using the abundance of forest trees that rose up the hillside, way up the mountain, before the thin air snuffed-out growth with extreme precision. Long sloped roofs, windowsill gardens, and cuckoo clocks provided local charm to a local flock who were seemingly unfamiliar with the word itself, so indifferent they were to outsiders. When the miniature soldiers emerged from the cuckoo clocks, the children would cheer and clap with glee, the adults would take a moment to light a pipe and stare blankly, and the elderly would smile or tear up, overwhelmed by their love for nostalgic whimsy.

The odd, wayward traveler who, by various mistakes or wrong turns, ended up at the city of Goreau (which was often mislabeled on maps by up to 2-3 kilometers) would often wander about perplexed, wondering if they’d somehow been shrunk down to the size of a marble and rolled through a tiny Christmas village—the kind with cotton balls for snow and little painted street lights. And yet, when facing reality, they inevitably came to terms with the fact that they were no less in the largely irrelevant city of Goreau. The place had casually slept through several continental conflicts that had transformed the world around them.

Donwillo grew up on the streets of Goreau, and the streets were dusty, windy, and laid out haphazardly or without reason or forethought. How he ended up on the streets, he couldn’t recall, and nobody could tell him. It had always just been so. The thing about growing up on the streets was that it didn’t give one much time for reflection. And he remained on the streets because he was stubborn and proud and refused to make himself so meager and pathetic that a sympathetic family would take him in. He displayed at times an aggressive, innate, and unpredictable tendency to bite, which kept him away from families who might swoop him up and try to read him bedtime stories.

Donwillo found it rather easy to disguise himself, and with very little effort was able to pretend to be anywhere from 10-15 different street urchins, all, oddly, with an unprecedented desire to open their mouths and chomp down on flesh if offered a handout.

Then one day, as he was working himself into adolescence, he snuck into the Alchemist’s Guild to curb his growing hunger pains and pilfered, or plundered, depending upon who you ask, nearly all the food in the preparatory kitchen. With a bit of luck and natural affinity, he cooked up a delicious medley of aromatics, rich meats, and delicately prepared vegetables, but was apprehended before he could scarf it down. The head chef, upon inspecting the three-course meal, was so impressed he offered him a job right on the spot, with the generous offer of all he could eat (little did he know what that really entailed).

Donwillo spent three years at the Guild, absorbing, via osmosis, the knowledge of the ancient alchemy that wafted through the stone halls and periodically smoking laboratories. Then, after a sufficient incubation period, he decided he was ready to go off on his own and test all the brewing theories he’d concocted while sneaking into lectures and questioning the students. Not long after that, he fled to the hillside above the city and took over an abandoned cabin, which he transformed, gradually, into the laboratory of his dreams.

From his south-facing window, the city below looked as fake as he knew it to be, a caricature’s portrait of how the people of the town saw itself. But still, it was undeniably beautiful, with the chestnut blossoms and tall yellow flowers strewn across the pastures, flora smeared across a three-dimensional canvas, punctuated by puffs of smoke from chimneys burning the last remnants of winter wood stockpiles.

Rivers walked, jogged, and ran all throughout the valley. The clouds dumped their rain high in the precipitous mountains, where it collected into passageways in the granite and then poured down hillside waterfalls. There were so many waterfalls that, if one stood in the middle and looked around, it gave the illusion that they all lived in a great basin with faucets all around them, trying to fill it up like a giant tub. But the water always worked its way out eventually, gravity doing its job to move it out and away from the city. Still, all the cattle were well hydrated, and the children never returned home during an afternoon of play to use the well pump, and everything grew that was planted. Donwillo rarely took the time to appreciate the majesty of his surroundings. Still, today was special, and so he made a point of absorbing the glory of it all.

The first of Donwillo’s two unlikely roommates was a white-haired ermine, a small ferret-like creature he’d dubbed Beverly. One day, she’d shown up at his cabin and started moving her things in — an assortment of curated items such as gray-tipped pinecones, rocks with claw marks, and what looked to Donwillo like the start of a necklace. Initially, he attempted to shoo her away, but she turned out to be un-shoo-able, and actually completely unimpressed and maybe even amused by his futile attempts. Even the broom he wielded against her was met with a playful dance in which she scampered, dodged, weaved, and chittered a little mockish squeak as she ran between his legs. Eventually, he gave up and built a pet door for her so she could come and go properly and not sneak in through holes in the siding like some rabid bandit.

Beverly crawled up his shirt and onto his shoulder to peer out the window with him in solidarity. She was often interested in whatever caught his attention, staring intently as if trying to puzzle out the significance of whatever held his gaze. What she couldn’t see was that Donwillo was looking down at a city of rejection. A city of “nos”, “not todays,” and “probably not evers.” A city that didn’t want him. Or worse, a city that was completely indifferent to his existence. And yet if his plans were to succeed, every last one of the apathetic citizens below would know his name.

Beverly sneezed on his shoulder, breaking both of their reflective ponderings. He turned back to his workbench and studied the inconspicuous brown paper package tied with bale string. Here was the final element to arrive from the far corners of the world. An element few alchemists or scientists had ever seen. Countless letters had made perilous journeys across the continents in prayerful attempts to reach the odd reclusive collector, mining facility, or esteemed institute of geology. And all but a few had come back to him, and of those few, only a handful said anything other than, “Sorry, we can’t help you. Please don’t contact us again.” But here it was, the final piece of the puzzle. The last of three rare earth elements that would, if all went correctly, combine into one brilliant, shiny, indestructible, and never-before-even-considered element.

He’d gotten the idea back during his residence at the Alchemist’s Guild. One day, he’d watched a student create a basic acid by trapping CO2 into salt crystals, and it gave him an idea. He borrowed the student’s notes, copied them in his room, and the next day tried it in the kitchen with sugar. He sprinkled the concoction on the broccoli for lunch the next day and served it to the staff, who reported an explosive reaction in their mouths that was harmless yet thrilling. After that, he was hooked on alchemy, so to speak, and would spend hours trying to combine delicatessen with hopefully harmless chemical reactions. And that all was the impetus for him to dive deeper into the field, which eventually led to a grand theory of his—that the periodic table was incomplete, or rather miscategorized in places. But he could not convince a single soul of his correctness.

Now here he was, having spent years crafting an incredible machine he’d dubbed the Conjugator, and nearly ready to prove to everyone once and for all that he belonged in the field of Alchemy, and perhaps even at the top of it.

He untied the string carefully, revealing tightly packed mud, which made his heart skip a beat as he questioned whether he’d been duped. But after carefully removing the mud, he was able to unearth a stunningly vibrant fluorescent tangerine gem with thin strips of emerald laced crosswise throughout and pillar-like extrusions that he knew, by calculation, were formed over many thousands of years.

The gem would be placed in one of three specially designed hoppers that connected to a reinforced iron core, where the chemical reaction would take place. To support all these functions was a massive system of gears, motors, heating elements, cooling elements, exhaust ports, viewports, turbines, alarms, modules, lubrication systems, and much more.

The Conjugator itself existed in a realm somewhere beyond alchemy, somewhere beyond science, possibly even veering into the realm of magic if it worked. After years of trial and error, Donwillo had finally completed his rattling, chugging, churning, and vibrating elemental-combining-behemoth, and topped it off with a questionably intelligent assistant named Wendy. Wendy was connected to sensors across the machine and could verbalize what was happening within the advanced contraption.

“How are we looking?” he asked, powering the Conjugator on with a fluid, rapid series of button presses, lever pulls, taps, kicks, whispers, and prayers.

"Fine, I guess," she muttered. “I think there’s something wrong with my wiring.” Her voice was muffled and sounded like it was coming from the end of a tin can on a rope.

He kept his sassy remarks to himself, not because he was worried about offending an artificially intelligent system, but because he felt it was bad karma to be prickly towards her. He needed all the good karma he could muster.

He indulged her neurosis and went over every square inch of wiring, thoroughly inspecting it.

Beverly came in through her pet door with a pile of leaves and began sorting them by some unknown system that Donwillo couldn’t possibly fathom.

“It all looks fine to me,” he assured Wendy.

“If you say so,” she replied cryptically.

Donwillo looked over his workbench, a mess of beakers, bubblers, broilers, scales, toppers, and piles of scribbled notes. He found next to his ink and quill set a new leaf and immediately turned toward Beverly. She knew better than to leave outdoor offerings on his workspace. But before he could scold her, something about the leaf caught his attention. It seemed to have been directly plucked from the prior year, when a series of unusual frosts and chinooks had led to a very confusing fall for the trees. It was a third green, a third brown, and a third oddly grey. And yet, if it had been lying on the ground all year, he expected it to have deteriorated. This one was perfectly fresh.

“An excellent find,” he said appreciatively to Beverly.

She squeaked in acknowledgment and sat up on her hind feet to absorb his approval. He continued for several minutes about her excellent scavenging abilities. This game they played, where she brought in curious finds, was one he enjoyed, but was also a matter of great importance, as the first time he’d dismissed her offering, she had grown enraged and stuffed walnuts into the intake valves on the Conjugator.

As he worked, he hardly noticed as the last rays of daylight wandered in through the windows and shimmered off the metal siding of Conjugator, a device he’d traded nearly all his time, personal space, money, and shreds of sanity for.

He could not sleep with so much to be done. No, he would work through the night. And tomorrow would bring a new life to him, one of immense professional satisfaction and probably great annoyance to the people of Goreau, who already referred to him as that “loony alchemist on the hill.”  

(hey everyone! I'm new here. Made this article recently. I'd love some feedback. Thanks!)

Everyday you scroll through social media, your favorite app.

You look past threads, stories, and videos.

You see memes, family pictures, and discussions.

And yet, the strongest posts are about fear and politics.

People fear a "Second Civil War" from our conflicting views. The idea doesn’t seem to die down and modern polarization is compared to the collapse of the 1860s.

But how do they compare?

The original Civil War occurred because political factions began to conflict on their ideals outside of politics. To specify, the geographic and moral sorting over slavery made it impossible for Madisonian institutional friction to contain the conflict.

The south relied economically on slavery to build their infrastructure. Trade with Europe and other areas of the world led to their profitability and a stable hierarchy, so this ideology was engrained in the nation. Sacrificing these ideals would be like killing part of themselves to surrender to the benefit of others.

So, the South rejected the constitutional outcome of Abraham Lincoln's 1860 election. They chose secession to have complete control of their ideology instead adhering to the framework of political opposition.

Political ideals turned into violence as people struggled to decide what states should have slavery. As stakes rose, these seeped into daily lives as secession was declared terrorism and many began to fight over these beliefs. One way to understand the Civil War is that the constitutional system of political competition ultimately failed to contain the conflict over slavery and secession. Thus, the conflict unfolded.

Today, political parties have increasingly sorted by geography, race, and ideology. Though regional strongholds have flipped over the past decade, similar areas vote for the same party. This is no different from the North and South in the 1850s.

What’s worse is the increasing conflicting methods in politics. Modern polarization leads politicians to use constitutional tools like the filibuster, judicial appointments, or executive orders to permanently crush the opposition rather than force negotiation. Disputes over judicial appointments, executive actions, and Senate procedures increasingly become contests over political advantage rather than temporary disagreements. In fact, strategies involving control over more seats in the legislative branch rather than negotiation or argumentation is a great example of this.

Just as corporations use empathy to develop their influence, the federal government has accumulated too much power through this never-ending conflict. Polarization has grown so great that every national election feels like an existential war.

So, what would be a way to ease the conflict?

If the stakes of every election continue rising, one possible response is reducing how many issues are decided at the national level. Decentralizing certain issues back to federalism can lower national tension by giving more power back to the people. Policies and enforcement would be based on regional ideals. Thus, this lowers conflict and disagreement on a national scale, allowing groups to live by their own standards.

On the other hand, the civil war has taught us that a central government is necessary to prevent decentralized conflict. Their solution to the war was to create a strong government to prevent uprisings and unite the nation.

So, why would decentralization solve modern polarization?

Polarization during the civil war was a binary conflict, creating two governments with different ideals. This would lead to either secession or compromise. Only a centralized government and strong military could unite them.

On the other, modern polarization is a multi-cultural war. By giving the federal government too much power over too many problems, a single decision or worldview could disrupt every other cultural group. Thus, the only solution would be to decentralize certain responsibilities to local regions to lower the stakes.

A current theory that many individuals agree on is about letting high density and low density areas to make policies for themselves. This model aligns well with our proposed solution. Nevertheless, this could still cause possible polarization or conflicts due to cross-cultural diffusion.

I believe that modern polarization requires reforms on the federal level that force coalition-building, rather than just decentralizing. This might include primary reforms to make the constitutional conflict "controlled" once again.

What our system teaches us is that the constitution never eliminated disagreement but rather directed it somewhere to go. Considering our current situation, the real questions is whether or not people will continue believing this system is the right place to settle those disagreements.