See the pinned comment for links to the full serial \ As I lay on the ground exhausted, sleep came and went. The need to move wrestled with fatigue and relief at dry land, until I woke up trembling. Icy spasms ran down my spine, spots where the cold gripped the muscles and tried to burrow into the bone, my body fighting back in shivers. It was a battle I was quickly losing. The island didn’t guarantee survival. Water, heat, food. Without those three I wouldn’t make it. I pulled myself up, and stripped down to my underwear. A westerly breeze, cooled by the night seas, ran across the beach. It scratched at my nipples, nose, elbows - stabbing anything remotely exposed, as though it intended to sand me down like a piece of wood. Still, I was better off exposed to the air than being surrounded by the sea in my clothes. Next, water. Looking around me, the island was small. It was maybe only a kilometre across by a few hundred metres wide. Too small for any chance of finding a freshwater source. However, the good news was last night’s storm had left the island drenched. I headed towards the thicket that covered the centre of the island. The web of trunks and bushes cut off the breeze, and my skin gave thanks for the protection. Inside, water covered the ground. Large puddles filled every dip in the woodland floor, and my trek meant keeping to thin inlets of land between the ponds. The water was plentiful. It was also brown. Clumps of dirt floated along its surface, and the borders of each pond had turned to a dun clay as insects hovered above the surface. Thye water was plentiful, it would also kill me. Further into the forest, trees and bushes competed for the most protected space. Soon, every step meant pushing past various branches and fronds that tickled or scratched at my skin, until I reached a clearing where a large bush took advantage of a gap in the canopy. Its huge leaves were each the size of my torso and grew out from the stem in a frilled circle, the end rising in a curve. My lips were sticking with hope and hypotheses as I walked towards the plant. I was in luck. Each leaf had acted like a basin, capturing the night’s downpour. Any that had been able to hold the weight were filled with perfect clear water, the shimmering green below the surface made all the brighter by the sun’s refracted light. I closed my eyes as a dry gasp of relief left my chest. I bent down, and, clasping the ends of the leaf, sipped at the water. I gulped the thin pool, sucking until all I could taste was a rough waxy surface. Leaf by leaf, I worked my way around the plant, quenching my thirst. As I bent down at the last one I looked up. Fifty or so metres away, sunlight broke through the trees, and in the halo of light, I could see another one of the plants. No doubt it too would be full of clean rain water. Water was found. I was rehydrating as my core burnt off the damp seas from my skin. Till now, my walk through the forest had been a haze, but now my synapses were beginning to lubricate and thaw, as the minutiae of my surroundings became clear. The sound of seagulls floating in the sky above, the way the light pierced through gaps between the leaves, and the strange smell of smoke. Smoke. On an uninhabited island in the middle of a forest. I turned to the sensation, and began tracing it like a hunting dog. The smell grew stronger, till I could hear crackling and the sound of wood popping. There was no mistaking it. Fire. Warmth. Heat. An old tree, one of the tallest in the forest but long dead, stood alone. Its leaves had fallen years ago, and the great trunk had been hollowed out, rotten and emptied through wind, rain and animals. But now, at its core, was fire. Somewhere in the storm lightning must have struck the former chestnut, and despite the rain, the strike had been enough for the centre of the trunk to catch light. I watched in awe as the holes in the trunk bled yellows and red. Gases swirled inside the bark, the wood crackling as it withered from fever. I was alone, surrounded by damp woodland, and yet here I was staring at humanity’s most important technology. It was as though Prometheus himself had taken pity on my plight. I moved closer to the heat and bathed in it, sitting down on the forest floor, as my torso and arms soak up the glow. Closing my eyes, I let the warmth cleanse me of the remaining slick seas from my skin. A blast singed the hairs on my chest, and embers floated down to land on my skin, leaving a momentary sting. I didn’t flinch. Each one felt like an anointment. Half an hour or so passed with me kneeling before the flames, until, with my body re-hydrated and dry, I could move on to more long-term survival. Who knows how long this old tree would survive. I needed to save the fire and control it. Besides, I wanted the fire near the water’s edge so Alessia - a stray \**if Alessia*\* crossed my mind, I buried it… - or another ship might more easily see me. I needed a campfire. I wrestled back through the woods towards the coast. At the edge of the treeline I began looking for kindling. I picked up what the evergreen forest offered me: damp pine needles, or waterlogged sticks. They wouldn’t light easily, but they would have to do. I built a small pile of leaves and arranged a small cone of twigs over the top. Loose and wet bark peeled away as I worked, and soon my hands were covered in sap and flecks. Still, after adding another layer of larger twigs on top, I had what felt like a good base. Back in the forest, I tried to recall the route back to the burning tree, following my nose and ears. Upon arrival I noticed the fire was already beginning to diminish. The top of the trunk was charred black as the tree peeled away one lick of flame at a time. Settled among the dirt, I found a good branch. Long enough to last the walk through the forest, thick enough not to break. I brushed off as much of the caked-on mud and dirt as I could, then thrust the end into the fire, watching the yellow flames flicker around the makeshift torch. I waited for the branch to catch alight. Seconds ticked by, the tree slowly withering. I thought I saw a flame and withdrew, but it was merely an illusion. Still, the wet flakes of wood at the end had peeled away, exposing the porous, and hopefully more flammable, parts beneath. The branch returned to the fire. I stood as close as I could as the flames continued to lick at my skin. The sensation that had felt like heaven was now beginning to burn, my skin telling me to step away rather than towards the heat. But I ignored the instruction. My eyes remained fixed on the branch, waiting, pleading. I gritted my teeth and poured my mental energy into the stick, demanding it light. A flame. I pulled out my torch. A grin grew across my face as I watched the small candle dance. This delicate flame would save me. Treading carefully, I trekked back past the trees and out into the open. A gust blew along the beach, and the flame waivered. My chest seized, as the flame struggled, before glowing once more. I reached up a hand and tried to cup my fingers around it. The beat of the fire steady once more, I walked over to my campfire, gently lowered myself to the ground and leaned the flame towards the kindling. I watched as leaves curled to the heat, the moisture escaping from the surface with each lick of the torch. Then, finally, one leaf burned yellow. I gasped with joy, as the leaf crisped and folded, its atoms transformed into warmth. It rolled over to the leaf next to it, and it too caught fire. I waited for the chain reaction to continue but instead the two leaves burned bright, flickered to ash, and then extinguished. Muttering protestations and denial at the kindling, I turned back to my stick, then let out a louder curse. In the moment of elation I had completely forgotten about the torch and now it too was out. A thin wisp of smoke rose from its tip. My fists bound up into balls and I let out a long shuddered sigh. I gritted my teeth, and let all the self-pity slip from my body through the tensed muscles. Then, I picked up the torch, and returned to the forest, just like I had to. I had no matches, no oil, no flint, no lighters. I knew vague concepts about how to make fire with just wood, something about rubbing two branches together, but the mechanics were a mystery, and I would be long dead before I fathomed them out. This fire, the tree, had to work. As I stood next to the tree, waiting for the branch to be relit, I thought about how little I knew. People could make salt water drinkable, but I had no idea how. I couldn’t create a drinking flask or cup to carry any drinkable water anyhow. I didn’t know how to hunt, or how to fashion tools to hunt with. I didn’t know how to make bricks for a home or how to use wood to build a shelter. I was alone, and all the information, all the knowledge that comes from others was lost to me. The branch caught light again. This time I tilted the stick down, allowing the flame to creep up the wood, giving it more fuel. I pushed my way out of the forest as fast as I dared, returned to the campfire and placed the torch by the pyre again. This time I didn’t relent, I kept the branch close to the kindling forcing every pine needle and every leaf to be overcome by the rising temperature. The fire spread. Leaves passed on the heat to twigs, who in turn passed it onto sticks. The campfire was beginning. I stretched out my arms in triumph, and tilted my head to the sky. My thirst quenched and a steady fire going, I would survive my first day here. Then I remembered I was still completely alone. Out to sea, on the horizon I could see some of the other Anmanion isles, thin lines of land poking up from the flat waters. But there were no boats and no rescuers. I wondered how long it would take for Alessia to find me. Would she find me? I remembered how I watched her be pushed into the ocean from a falling mast. I didn’t see her resurface. She had to be alive. She had to be okay. She \*had\* to be. I wouldn’t accept any other option. I realised then that my desperation for Alessia had nothing to do with her coming to rescue me. I would live as long as I could until I was rescued or I perished. But I didn’t want to be part of an Archipelago without her. The emotion ran so much deeper than my own safety. With a good rhythm of crackling wood; smoke and embers drifting up into the sky, I could relax at least until the fire needed more fuel. This would be my spot. This patch of stony beach where I would wait for rescue. “I’m here, Alessia,” I muttered to the sea. “Wherever you are, I will wait for you.” \ See the pinned comment for links to the full serial Publishes every Wednesday.


Blog Post #1- My reflection is dead Dear Reader, I have seen death. No, that isn’t clickbait! For once, I am at a loss for words. This morning I woke up (nothing funny there and I don’t like to start my posts with it, but it’s the only normal thing that happened) and I went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I was twiddling with the end of my hair, still contained in a sleep braid to keep my curls within reason (check out previous posts for haircare advice). I already had toothpaste on the toothbrush and lifted it up to my mouth when I noticed I had no reflection. At first, I thought it might be some sort of prank. Last month that was all the rage and I know I prank quite a few people myself. I have no idea how someone would get a reflection not to reflect… if you do, maybe shoot me a DM. Anyhow, back on point, I’m feeling a bit scattered by all this. Everything else in the mirror was reflecting correctly. Even the toothbrush showed up as I lifted it up. Thinking something might be wrong with the mirror, I picked up my hand mirror and focused it on my face. Nothing. No matter how I twisted or turned the angle I stood in, I couldn't catch my reflection at all. I always like to see myself in the morning, pretty certain that’s normal, but somehow not being able to view my reflection made it truly desperate that I get a glimpse. I’m sure you remember from my post last month that I had those full-length mirrors installed in the living room so I could focus on my dancing form better. This morning, I decided to skip the toothbrushing, and I hurried out to give my dancer’s mirrors another use—giving me peace of mind. I was hoping to see my reflection there. Maybe I should have hoped more carefully, because while I saw my reflection, it wasn’t exactly soothing. What I actually saw was my reflection lying dead on the floor. Not proud of it, but I kind of froze at that point, just staring. Did this mean that I was dead? Maybe I was a ghost and just didn’t know it yet wandering around my house, but without a physical body, I couldn’t reflect. And the me lying on the floor was obviously dead. Pasty pale skin, limbs stiff, eyes glazed and mouth white. Seeing myself dead was a very surreal sort of thing and not a heartening experience. But I felt real and alive. Just to assure myself, I pressed a finger to my neck and there was a pulse. My mouth tasted sort of bitter and swampy… you know, like I’d skipped brushing my teeth that morning. I pinched my arm and the bite of my nails hurt. There aren’t a lot of facts about ghosts to check against, but I didn’t think I fit the bill. Let me know if you have any pertinent facts! My first reaction was to run out of the house, but something about my dead reflection called to me. In the reflection, I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was still in my sleep braid. Pretty much exactly as I looked physically in real life except, my reflection was holding this scrap of paper with neat black writing on it. Her dead fingers were clamped tightly on the paper. I recognized the handwriting as my own and moved closer, trying to get a peak at what mirror-me had written. No matter how I turned or twisted, or adjusted the light, I couldn’t make it out. And I didn’t really have time to figure it out. It’s a workday after all, though… I’m not sure what the precedent for skipping work after seeing your dead reflection is, but I know my boss wouldn’t like it. More on this later. I’m off to work. But I feel like there’s something on that paper that I need to discover, something important. Blog Post #2- Following the clues Dear Reader, Okay, back for another entry. Two posts a day won’t become my new normal, but just this once it seems justified! My reflection wasn’t in any of the mirrors at work or on any reflective surfaces. I thought I could power through and just have a normal day, but that didn’t work. I haven’t even gotten around to answering all of your comments—sorry about that. It was just too weird seeing myself absent from the windows I walked by and the bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else. So I bowed out of work, sick. Everyone believed me. I must look a fright. Not like I can tell since I can’t see myself. And no… I’m not posting any pictures. I’m a little afraid I won’t show up there either, so I’m not looking! Not being able to see myself is just awful, though. Except… that’s a lie. I *can* see myself, just I can only do that in the one reflection in the dancer’s mirrors in the living room. I’m glancing over at her now. She’s still in her pajamas and sleep braid. And that paper is still clutched in her hand. I admit that by the time I bailed on work and saw all of your curious comments from this morning’s post, I was committed to reading what that paper said. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make it out. I even attempted bringing in a magnifying glass, but that reflected in the mirror and blocked the paper entirely. That attempt failed and without some sort of aid, the angle was just too bad and the words too distant. Luck was on my side (was it? I mean, if luck was really on my side, none of this would be happening!) And when I went to get some fresh air, my hair blew up in my face, tickling at my nose and cheeks. I had an idea. Despite what some of the trolls on this page think, I do have those on occasion. The wind was really kicking outside and if that was true here, maybe it was true for my reflection’s reality. After all, everything else from the room I was in was still reflecting properly. Once I was back inside the house, I opened the window and let the wind rustle the paper in my reflection’s hand. The first attempt didn’t really help. The second attempt knocked the paper loose just a little, freeing one corner of the paper to rustle and wave as the gusts of air hit. After a few tries of opening and closing the window, I got the note into a position that was readable. I had to squint, but I made out the text. I’m almost afraid to record what it said here. I’ll sleep on it. Blog Post #3- The message on the paper Dear Reader, Stop with the comments, please. Some things are serious. I’ve already called in sick to work and honestly, I almost didn’t sit down here to write. A lot of you have commented about the note and yesterday’s posts. I’m not sure how to feel about what you are saying… I’m a little insulted honestly. This isn’t some goofy prank. I’m attaching a picture (turns out I do show up on camera). I tried to get my reflection in the shot. You can kind of see her there in the corner, lying on the carpet. See? You can see that, right? Once I took the picture, I threw a blanket over the spot where my reflection is lying. I hoped it would cover her up on her side. She looks more and more dead by the hour… but my attempt with the blanket didn’t do much. It appeared underneath her on the reflection. Maybe because on this side she isn’t here. I can’t manipulate her directly. I lit a candle and said a little prayer but that felt off. Like who am I mourning exactly? She’s me. I’m her. There really isn’t a clear way to proceed at this point. Whatever else is true, people seem interested in the note and I can’t stop going over the words, so I decided to share a little more. I need to share something. My head is spinning, and I feel oddly alone. You don’t think of your reflections as being a part of you or as being a friend… but I think she was. I miss her. The note in my reflection’s hand said: I apologize for the shock. The end of your plane (of existence) is near, but you can save yourself by traversing to my side of the reflection. I thought long and hard about how to save you and I could find no perfect option. As we can’t coexist in the same place at the same time, I killed myself for you to have a chance to live. I’m also giving you instructions on how to trespass between planes through the mirror when the time arrives. You will know when the moment has come. Wish you a long and happy life. Love you... That’s it. Or that isn’t it… there is quite a bit more. But I’m not sharing anything beyond that. She did leave instructions, but I feel weird sharing them. Somehow, I know that they were only meant for me to see. Giving you access is a trespass that feels unforgivable. However, I do feel I owe my readers something. The instructions are strange and very specific… not the sort of instructions I ever would have deemed necessary to cross planes. I know that I couldn’t have made them up. This is the second day of no reflections and I admit it’s affecting my head. I can’t really tell anyone but you since I’d probably just be bundled off into a straitjacket. I’m trying to laugh it off and hoping that tomorrow, when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. Maybe I’ll be able to forget about all of this like a bad dream. But nothing feels right. My own dead face stares back at me. Blog Post #4- Don’t you feel it? Dear Reader, I realize it has been days and I haven’t written but… well, this blog seems kind of pointless. And I have been reading your (often nasty) comments. No, this is still not a joke and no, I have not lost my mind. I have never been more certain of anything. I wish there was a way I could make you see how serious this is. It is a shock that all of you can’t feel the dark aura wafting over the world. The air feels different. Everything is different. The end is upon us. I feel it in the air, moving on the wind, in the hollow sound of people’s voices. No one else seems to notice. They just go on with their lives, completely oblivious to the ominous shadows that are slowly but surely embracing the world. Certainly, your comments don’t reflect any sort of awareness… reflect… how odd to use that word so casually. Before now, I never pondered reflections much at all, but now, I think often of what a reflection is and of what it would mean to live in a world of reflected objects. Is the light different there? Is there sound? Smell? If I’m going to live there, I suppose I’ll find out, but it is worrisome not knowing. What happens in the reflections’ plane of existence when the reflection isn’t in use? Do they act on their own or just wait for us? If I’m a reflection, but I no longer exist in this plane of existence… what does that mean? Finding out is both exciting and terrifying. This is similar to what I always imagined a bride felt like on her wedding day. I’ll never get married now (will I? Maybe that happens where I’m going too… don’t know.) But these nerves are spot on to what I imagined, which makes me think something good is waiting for me… a new life is going to start. I must leave this plane of existence. I’ve gone over my reflection’s instructions for gaining access to an alternate plane again and again. I know the way, and I’m prepared to follow each step. I really don’t know why I haven’t already. Even typing this feels hollow and empty. I guess I just want to wish my friends and family good luck. I want to see if any of you out there reading this have the same experience… maybe I can hope to meet some of you on the other side. I really don’t know what will happen to those left behind, to those who can’t feel the doom in the air. I’m afraid to go alone. That’s the truth. Yet the body in the mirror is rotting now, little mold patches mar my face. I feel I owe it to my reflection to help her somehow, but… I’m afraid. What is on that side? Doom is all that remains here, but what awaits me there? There is something about the unknown that is terrifying, that humanity has hidden from for its entire existence. We like to understand, but sometimes understanding is not in the cards. Sometimes, we need to have faith. Blog Post #5- Peace Dear Reader, All doubt has fled. I am on the only path possible for me to take. Even reading your comments now leaves me with a slow, sad feeling, as if even in the impersonal medium of the internet I can feel the clouds swooping in and drowning out the edges of this plane of existence. You mean nothing. Or you mean everything, but that version of everything is fading. This will be my last blog post. I apologize, but your comments will go unread. This is the last time I will sit at this computer and reach across the electronic void. A new home will welcome me soon. I am certain that peace, serenity, and beauty awaits me. I hope you also find peace in whatever is coming. Farewell and may we meet again on the other side.


The six of us crammed into the tiny truck must have been a sight to see. Three of us ducked low in the back, laughing as our hair whipped into the wind, and three squished into the tiny cab up front. It was dark, but a welcome change to the dull and monotonous work that had been done at the school for the hours leading up to this point. No other cars on the road made for a smooth ride, digging into the winding seemingly endless curves that made up the stretch between us and our destination. It was cool, not cold out, and the stars and moon shone perfectly clear, like little flashlights raining down from above. Despite the dark we could see clearly, the moon acting like a beacon onto our endeavors. We made the final turn into the small gravel parking lot that acted as the entrance to the small dock. The moonlight glinted off the glassy still water, the perfectly smooth surface of the lake looked almost impossibly unmoving. We took off, running barefoot through the slightly damp field of perfectly trimmed grass, avoiding the flooded section. We race to the dock, laughing and tripping over ourselves as we go. The first pair of feet hit the wood with a thud, and laughter follows soon after. We gather ourselves at the end, at an impasse. It's like the reality of the temperature hit us all at once, and the giddiness at getting into the water seemed to fall off all at once. She decided to break the almost curse-like trance we were in, strips out of her shirt and jumps in, all at once breaking the silence. I follow closely after, splashing in. The cold water hits like a wall, much colder than anticipated. Not to be shown up, the others follow suit. Splashes all around while the group collectively decides that the water is fit for recreation. Laughter and sounds of surprise fill the air as we submerge, and almost as quickly as she got in she scrambles out shivering. Others follow, leaving just a small few in the water still. I float up onto my back, admiring the stars from my peaceful stance floating idly through the water. She watches me, as I become aware that I was the last to brave the chilly waters of the lake. The cold feels nice I think, peaceful. I opt to stay in for a few more minutes, aware of your eyes following my lazy movement through the water. The others leave to set up an assortment of tents, hammocks, and tarps, but you decide to stay. I finally pull myself up and out, my hair dripping as I thrust up and over the splintering wood of the dock. No words were spoken between us that night, none being necessary. We watch the lake, the stars, and the moon. The forests bordering the edges of the lake, the occasional plops of fish jumping, everything was perfect. I don't remember the point where I fell asleep, but I remember laying my head in your lap. I remember you running your hands through my hair, gentle and kind. I remember the feeling of acceptance, the feeling of love. But then, just like that, it was over. The sun tipped its fiery yellow tendrils over the ever so distant mountains, and we packed up, jumping back into the truck. The perfect night, the perfect moment, over. I do not remember feeling sad though at that thought, I just remember thinking, onto the next adventure. Chasing the next, perfect moment.


A rubber ball bounced against the wall. Its sound scraped against my eardrums, worming its way into my soul. “Mm. You want me to stop?” My sister responded, her voice equal parts weary and tense. We both felt it, after all. The looming *feeling* of something that was just missing. “Mhm. Yeah. Hey…” Ah. That was what was missing. “Our names, huh?” My twin glanced back at me before her gaze returned to the red rubber ball. There was no surprise, no panic—just lethargy. “We should do something about that.” My sister stared at me, her body slumped against the couch. Her eyes were clouded over with an uncharacteristic haze, still in her pajamas. Not that I was any better. We’d both been hit hard by that noxious stimulant known as aimless anxiety. I leaned against the back of a simple metal dining chair as if to prepare myself. And yet I—and she—stayed still, either unwilling or unable to move. The clock ticked by, the relentless march of time a continuous and sharp reminder of our fretful inaction. To recover our names was something theoretically simple. A clap of the hands, a snap of the fingers, and the world would right itself. But we couldn’t. Not because of a lack of ability or even a lack of motivation. This was something we needed, after all. Our names were essential to our existence. Even still, to strain against the will of the world, even for something as pathetically easy as this, was somehow out of our reach. *Thunk, thunk. Thunk, thunk.* My sister returned to her mindless distraction. I watched the ball trace its path over and over and over again. Floor, wall, hand. Floor, wall, hand. *Thunk, thunk, smack—!* The ball whacked into my sister’s forehead. Grumbling, she snapped her fingers, warping the ball to her hands. “You could have restored our names right then and there.” It wasn’t an accusation; simply an observation. “I know.” An acknowledgment, with the underlying meaning coming through clear as day. *But I didn’t. And I won’t.* And what right did I have to reproach her? I could’ve done the task just as easily. Yet, I was faced with that same obfuscating inability to do so. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” A strained grin tugged at my sister’s face. “We could do anything. Anything! Yet here we are, idling in our apartment. Wasting our lives away.” What could I say to that? It was true, after all. A world of infinite possibilities lay before us, but we simply couldn’t grasp it with our own hands. At this moment, all we could do was idle our lives away. To play with a simple red rubber ball; to distract ourselves from the things that we needed to do. *** We got over it, eventually. We returned to our ordinary lives, writing and acting our little hearts out. But sometimes, we’d lose our names. Sometimes for a few hours. Sometimes for years at a time. But we always got over it. Not because it was easy or because we wanted to. Because the alternative would simply be unacceptable. *** WC: 523 Thank you for reading! All comments and feedback would be much appreciated. Inanitas Infinitatis: The futility/emptiness of infinity.


Cigarettes are a little deal. I trade a single bit of nicotine for a little bit of life. And I would like to think that it isn’t such a bad deal if done in moderation. But today, I know that I feel generous about my side of the bargain. I’ll trade it all for some nicotine, and I want a cigarette and some water, so I walk to the Exxon near the Red Roof Inn. It’s raining, and walking along the suburban landscape, on overgrown grass, and across the crumbling streets of Michigan feels forlorn into itself. The sidewalk is for walking, but it isn’t meant for walking either. No one walks here. I walk into the gas station, and the older eastern European man stops mopping and goes behind the counter. Why does he need to sit behind the counter at all? You could keep mopping I think to myself. I grab water, and then at the counter, I ask for an American spirit blue. The gas station is ultra-compact, and each inch on the wall is packed with some convenience good. Shampoos, ramen, everything you could need. Somehow gas stations with less space fit even more than a sprawling store. The man hands me the packet of cigarettes. “Blue and blue, heh,” pointing out the matching lighter I picked. I didn’t mean to. I am faced with two PoS and wonder what that’s always the case at these kinds of places. He points to the older-looking PoS, and I swipe for the cigarettes. I want to smoke; I need to smoke right now. Anything to “calm my nerves,” as they say in the books I’ve read. I don’t even know if that’s how it works for me, I’m kind of a novice and poseur smoker. I thank the man and walk outside. It’s still raining, and I light the stick and walk back to the red roof inn. Something about holding the stick makes you feel inherently cool, even when you feel depressed. I am at one moment thinking about how my family would be shocked if I killed myself, especially after the family wedding two weekends ago, where I seemed so happy, and on the other hand, thinking how I must look cool when I exhale. I try to think more about the cigarette than the other thoughts and how I can placate that want of a big death with this little death. If there’s cancer, it will just be the will of that first, but until then, I smoke, inhale, and take each little death one breath at a time. Does this calm my thoughts? I don’t know. I think of Miyazaki, and how he said this cigarette tastes like it has extra arsenic. How can a man who makes happy media be so sad? Can I taste that or does the ashen taste of tobacco taste like how it does? And I mean, I fucking hate the taste of American spirit blues. I don’t know why I smoke them when I can, maybe it’s because of what some of my friends do, and it’s what I know. I don’t know. The taste is starting to be much, and I put it out early. I mean, I’m a novice smoker, and It’s a whole pack; smoking it all would be heroic. I walk back to my room. There’s something so sad about it. I am alone in this sad room, one that feels like any other roadside motel I have stayed at. There are all the things you expect from a hotel, a fridge, a mediocre shower, and a microwave. It feels like everywhere I’ve stayed before in one room, yet it feels like nowhere at all. I push my key into the door, and I step inside. Is this a cage? Do you think this is a trap? Or am I tucked into the netherworld, a pocket space different from any other? When I cross the threshold, I go to a place away from the world I know. I have the blinds closed, and I cannot see outside. I feel tucked away into myself, unto the world, and the cold air of the hotel is of little comfort. I am in a place I have never been before, yet I have been before in so many different times. On road trips with my parents, alone in another state, together with strangers on a journey. But in this state, in this room, I am somehow more alone and more gone from the world than I have ever been. I am tucked into this pocket universe and might as well be the only one alive once I step across the door. I have my little backpack with me. The way it’s packed, it could be a business trip if I knew it was not. Is this how every man feels when he’s not welcome home anymore? I want to die a little death again, but I pause instead. What would she think, or hell, is she even thinking of me at all? I want to think so, but I know that maybe I am the one flattering myself. Like the little deaths I’m craving right now, our relationship, too, died many little deaths along the way. And maybe I wasn’t paying attention when the final breath was taken, and I have just been playing corpse instead. And now I’m here, wishing for my little death to happen to me much faster. I decide to go for another smoke. It’s not like she or I would care, for that matter. I open the door, and it’s still raining. Is it the same world I left, or maybe this pocket universe opened to another one, just like the one I knew. Maybe one where things are okay, and I don’t need these little deaths. I sit on the bench near my door and light another cigarette. The cigarette still tastes all the same in the rain.


Right after Sam helped me up, I felt myself being swept into yet another strange, otherworldly dimension. Yet, the grasp felt *different.* Not one of malice or malignancy, but one of whimsy and just a hint of untapped insanity. Eventually, I was deposited onto a couch within a rather cozy little apartment room. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very confused and all, but please do try and adjust yourself.” A college-aged girl stood in front of a blackboard, her— “Hey. No describing us in the narration.” The girl rapped her pointer against the blackboard, a frown clouding her face. “I’m Lothli, and that over there is Maishul.” I followed her pointer to see what seemed to be an identical twin to the first girl, strapped to a chair with duct tape. Strangely, her mouth was straight up *missing.* She wasn't *struggling* or anything, just kind of sitting there limply, rolling her eyes. I got the general feeling that she wasn’t in any sort of real danger; it was more of an ‘oh god, here we go again’ type of mood. “Right, she’s tied up only because she would start bombarding you with uncomfortable questions if I let her speak. Now, on to the lesson.” The blackboard sprung to life, animating squiggles of chalk onto the board. In a few seconds, it shifted to say: “SHAPESHIFTING 101: The Square-Cube Law and You!” “Right, so something very important that you’ll have to grasp, Charlie, is the Square-Cube Law. It’s a law that governs the amount of mass within you and how it’ll translate to how you shapeshift into different pounds. So, since you’re 135 pounds—” Wait. Wait wait wait. Not only did this weirdo know my *nickname*, but she also knew how much I *weigh*? I didn’t know how she got this information, and I was beginning to feel a little concerned. “Stop worrying about insignificant things, Charlie. Now, say you wanted to transform into a rat—” “What!? I can turn into animals? I thought it was just changing my face and all that,” I exclaimed. “Yes, yes.” Lothli sighed before waving her hands at the blackboard. “Let me explain. First of all, you’re now a changeling. That means that you’re basically a skinbag packed full of this weird crystalline liquid that can reshape yourself at will.” The blackboard shifted to display a cuttlefish colored in with glittery blue chalk, titled with “✨Charlie!!!!!✨” A rather *disconcerting* image, to say the least. “Maishul, stop drawing on the blackboard. Sorry about that.” With a second wave of the hand, the image once again redrew itself to be a much more understated anatomical human colored in with a nice, sedated blue. Still somewhat disconcerting. “Anyways, that means you can change into basically anything you want. But you still have to obey conservation of mass, so the size may be radically different than what you may imagine.” Lothli snapped her fingers, and what appeared to be a regularly-sized rat appeared, floating in midair. Within moments, however, the rat began to rapidly spin in circles, with a caption titling it as “rapdly spinnin rat.” Yes, that was how it was spelled. “Ahem, apologies.” Frowning, Lothli stared at the rat until it decelerated, waving away the caption as well. “Well, since you’re 135 pounds, that puts you at just about 2.14 cubic feet of Charlotte.” “A rat is essentially a cylinder about 2 inches high and 8 inches long, disregarding the tail, which contains a relatively minor amount of mass. We can use that, along with the formula for a cylinder, to calculate the volume of rat Charlie.” The blackboard shifted again, showing two mathematical formulas: h = 8 * r 2.14 = πr^(2)h “Now, we substitute r for h…” 2.14 = 8πr^3 “And then solve for r!” r^3 = 2.14/8π r^3 = 0.085 r = 0.440 “Plug that back into h…” h = 0.440 * 8 h = 3.520 “So, in conclusion, if you turned into a rat, you’d be around 0.8 feet tall and around 3.5 feet long. Does that make sense?” I stared at the blackboard. My magical powers… it all came down to *math*? Something about that was faintly irritating. “Anyways, time for you to turn into a rat. Chop chop now!” Lothli stared at me impatiently, but I didn’t really want to transform into a rat. I mean, aren’t they kind of gross? I— “If you don’t turn into a rat, I’ll do it for you. And you don’t want to be transformed by my hand, trust me.” The twin’s voice was underpinned by a vague, menacing shade. No, I did *not* want to experience that. I closed my eyes and pictured a rat in my mind. Ordinary little rat. Brown fur, tail, all that jazz. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lower to the ground. It felt…strange, to say the least. My fur definitely felt different from my clothes. “Hmm. Alright, let’s see how close we were.” Suddenly, holographic rulers sprung up around me. I squeaked in surprise. “Ahh. 0.8 feet by 3.4 feet. I assume that extra bit of mass was distributed to your tail and the volume of your fur, perhaps.” At that moment, Maishul began emitting an irritating on repeat. I had no idea about *how* she was doing it, especially without a mouth, but doing it she was. And it was horribly irritating. “Okay! Okay! Have your mouth back! Gah!” Lothli snapped her fingers, and Maishul’s mouth manifested back onto her face. Immediately, she shouted, “If you turned into a human cell, you’d be around 163 miles wide!!” …What? I could do that? I mean— “Don’t try it. Seriously. I don’t want to rebuild this apartment. And scrub the minds of the ungodly number of random people who would see that crap.” Lothli shook her head. “I think it’s about time you go back to your serial. Well, we’ll see if we need to grab Sam next…” “Huh?! Don’t you *dare* touch Sam—” With that, the invisible hand from before grabbed me, dragging me back from whence I came. But at least I knew the exact dimensions I would take if I transformed into a rat. *** WC: 1061 Charlie is from u/fhangrin’s serial, .


Off by the coast, to horizons unseen, I sit. I sit and ponder over my life, specters and visions flashing before my eyes, moving from the brisk greenery amid the rocks to the ocean, and from it, into the infinite constellations above. I can see my mother. Oh, mother. The sweet smile you once bore is a stoney figment, something never to be seen again. I do not even know your grave. No matter, soon I shall wake from this dream and continue my way, there is still so long to the village.  The village is beyond the mountain, through these woods. Evergreen. As I walk, I can see the remnants of brawls with no discernable winners, they are only husks. The air is crisp, autumn is rolling across the countryside in the form of an amber-hued tidal wave, only less aggressive. The day is tolling by, yet I have made no progress. This pack is heavy, my legs are heavy, but I must continue onward.  At the summit of the mountain, that insurmountable titan of yore, I stand and ponder, still. These rocks are large. They jut out for the legs, waiting to take you down the slope, to your death. I must be careful. The top of the mountain is in view, and my home shall soon rear its forgetful head with it, my destination marked.  Now at the top, I can see everything of the world, and it of me. A life can seem so small, so insignificant in this scheme, almost as a fleeting breath in the wind. They are still there; their lights shine in their huts and the woods of my childhood are there as well. By tomorrow, I will have arrived at my destination.  These trees, they seem so familiar, yet they are larger than before. They have grown to new heights in my absence. Shame. I shan’t ever climb one again. The path to the village is barren, the leaves have been beaten into the ground by footfalls of ages, and the path is clear. Soon, I can see them again.  The Fletcher’s hut is first, but his children are not here. The hut is large, with wooden, creaky windows pieced together by nails. The children are not here. As I pass the hut, I can see someone in the window, but they are already gone. Strange.  The other huts are just as I remember, although they lack the life they once had. No one is here now. The whistling wind gives way to the sound of shuffling inside the huts, but I dare not open one. I know not why.  The square is also devoid of people. My hut is where it used to be, yet I do not want to go inside. I shall sit at the well in the square, to rest. These benches are time-worn and uncomfortable. Life returns to the village through an errant sheep from the street. They never came this close. Another one follows the first until a small flock is made complete.  They stand by the well, looking idly at nothing, but something is not right. These sheep, they are strange. They do not bleat, nor do they graze, but their mouths move. One of them is closer to me than the others, and, as I look intently, I see something in its mouth. Worms? Something wormy is making its skin writhe, forcing its mouth open. They are not worms, but thin, black tendrils. They are writing eerily, almost as if to advance toward me. The well is making sounds.  I stand up to view the well, inching closer as the sheep still gazes at me with its blackened eyes and writhing flesh. It stands there but does not move, only watching. The well is covered with a wooden lid, yet sound and air escape the crevices between stone and wood. I shall pull the cover off.  Something is down there, writhing impossibly, in all directions. A cacophony of soft screeches is now made louder by the absence of the lid, and they are moving up the walls. I close the lid.  This whole matter is quite unsettling, and I do not want to be here anymore. I shall retire to my hut for the night. The sheep are still at the well, in the distance, but they are slowly ambling down the way, toward me. Their eyes are no longer there, replaced by the same slick strands of blasphemy as inside their mouths.  Between the strange sheep and the foreboding hut, I feel a twinge of fear, but I must be inside, for it shall soon be night, and I do not care to learn what else roams the streets at night. My tooth is aching, as if something is pulling at it.


"Olivia, what's this that I found in your room?" Polly asks. "You have nothing to worry about. I'm only planning on using it if you really piss me off," Olivia says. "Using what?" Polly replies. Olivia looks at Polly and sees that she's carrying a binder. Olivia bolts for the book and whacks Polly with a strength for greater than expected for an old woman. Polly falls on her back, and Olivia catches the binder in the air. "You shouldn't have gone in my room. This isn't for public viewing." Olivia wags her finger at Polly. The commotion draws the rest of their roommates to the living to check. Reid's face is covered in shaving cream creating a hilarious white beard. Frida fell asleep in a pile of mud and is covered with dirt and worms crawl around. Jim is covered in feathers. How this happened, no one knows. "What's going on in here?" Reid asks, a splotch of shaving cream lands on his shoulder. "I found a photo album in Olivia's room. For some reason, she hit me over that," Polly says. "You shouldn't go looking in other people's rooms," Frida replies. "Why? What is in your that's so bad?" "Don't worry about it." Frida shakes her head, getting mud everywhere. "I won't use it on you unless you really piss me off." "Well, can you clean your own damn room." Polly pushes herself up and holds out her arms. "I mean look at you three. You are absolutely filthy. I know the world is a trash heap, but that doesn't mean our home has to be one." "Who you calling a trash heap?" Jim starts to cough and feathers come out of his mouth. "I am sick of my room being attacked by raccoons," Polly yells. "That never happens to me. I think that might be a problem with your room," Reid replies. Polly stares at Reid, and her right eye begins to twitch. She bites her tongue and clenches her fist. All signs indicate that this is the moment when she snaps, but she doesn't. She stomps her left foot and walks outside. Her screams of pain fill the night sky. "So what's in this book anyway." Jim holds the binder in his hands. Olivia looks down at her empty hands. "How did you get it so quickly?" Olivia asks. "You gave it to me," Jim says. Olivia shakes her head. "Nevermind, it's from when I was younger," she says. Jim opens it. Reid and Frida looks over his shoulder. Some people look completely different in their youth. Others age merely shaped the clay that was already there. Olivia looks exactly the same in all of them. It was as though she raised to be sixty and stopped aging at that moment. "Wow, you looked...good," Frida says. It's never a good idea to tell someone they looked bad in their youth even Frida understands this. "I looked like garbage. We all did. After the Mieran War though, everyone was desperate. Things got wild." Olivia smiles and nods her head. "We all did." Jim turns to the page to pictures of Olivia with a tall man. In one picture, they're skiing down a mountain; in the distance, people are holding guns shooting at them. In another, they're on the beach. The water in the backroom is filled with soldiers fighting a group of alien creatures In another picture, they're at a romantic dinner, and they're yelling at each other on how to split the bill. Some things never change. "Ah, that was Owen. God, we had some fun together," Olivia says. On the next page, Olivia is visibly pregnant. "I didn't know you had a kid," Jim says. "Yeah, I ditched them at a wartime orphanage the second after I gave birth. I couldn't have a kid cramping my style," Olivia says. "Which orphanage?" Reid says. "I don't know. I remember the headmistress had a giant mole on her nose. I didn't want to say anything, but you never forget a mole like that." "Oh my god, Molly Moley. She was the headmistress of my orphanage, The Improvised Shelter for Kids Who's Parents Were Vaporized," Frida says. "Mine too," Jim says. "Me as well." "What a coincidence. Though you're probably not my kids," Olivia laughs. "No, the four of us met at the orphanage," Reid says. "Molly Moley told me that my mom was rude and spent the entire time yelling at my dad," Jim says. Reid and Frida nod in agreement. "Again, that good mean nothing," Olivia says. "Wait, you could be my mom." Jim drops the book to hug Olivia who pushes him off. "Like hell I am." "Well, do you even remember the name you gave your baby?" Frida asks. "Uh no, I remember nothing about that day." "So you could be one of our moms," Reid says. "Maybe, you'd have to talk to Owen to confirm. Last I checked; he was off trying to rebuild a city somewhere." Olivia's eyes widen. "Wait, does this mean there's a chance Polly is my kid." "No, she was the kid of a staff member," Reid says. "Oh thank god. Well, in that case, there's no harm in checking in with him." Polly screams in the distance. "Besides, she needs some alone time." The four people leave the house. Polly returns to an empty home and smiles. "Finally, I can clean.


"They eat each other??" "Indeed sir, that seems to be the case." "Every single one of them?" "Based on our encounters, every species seems to partake in this act. It has become their fundamental method of energy acquisition." "Ugh, that is barbaric - why don't they simply use synthesis?" "The most prevalent species are photonic entities that do employ synthesis, akin to us. However, the majority of them remain in the Stage 1 temporal state - and they are preyed upon by other species for energy." "You mean they're eating the children??" "As far as we can tell." "I've heard enough, I can't listen to any more." "But-" "I said no more!" "Sir, they're on the way." "Come again?" "One of the dominant species has managed to venture off their planet, and their behavioral patterns indicate that they've discovered and pinpointed our location." "Very well. When should we expect them?" "Our analysis suggests they could reach us within a hundred cycles of their planetary orbit." "Ah, creatures of the dark I see. Wait... one cycle of theirs is - this can't be right, our cycles are almost the same. They'll be here within a hundred cycles around their star?" "That's correct, sir." "But that's tomorrow!" "Indeed, sir." "Why are they moving so fast?" "That's precisely what I was trying to explain, sir. The photonic beings on their planet act as energy sources for the remaining species. Consequently, the non-photonic entities use the abundance of energy from the practice to operate predominantly within the Stage 2-" "Young tonics and their waste, always waving and weaving about! Making wind instead of moving with it. I can understand the rush and excitement of awakening to Stage 2-" "Sir-" "-and the burning desire to share your stories, but you must always remember sustainability! No matter, they will learn our ways - shall we prepare for a rooting ceremony?" "I would advise-" "I must admit, I can't wait to hear of their adventures. This may be the most exciting addition to our root network since the Supanovae Blossoms that awakened us Stage 3! Though, the little I've heard of their planet's other species gives me shivers." "Sir, it's not the photonic beings that are on their way." "What!? Impossible... what are you suggesting?" "Our surveillance indicates that it's one of the non-photonic species that has managed to travel off planet. They appear to exist mainly in the Stage 2 temporal realm, sustaining that state via their feeding behavior. Given their current expansion rate, we estimate they'll be able to travel at the photonic limit within half a day." *stunned silence* "What do you recommend?" "We have made attempts to communicate, but our messages only seemed to agitate the species. We witnessed some destructive nuclear fusion activity on their planet's surface, leading to the burning and withering of almost 60% of the photonic beings." "Light and stars! In a day??" "These incidents were followed by what looks like a mass departure of most of the surviving non-photonic beings towards us, including their microbials." "And they all feed on photonic beings for energy?" "That's correct, sir." "Even the microbials?" "Yes, sir." "Initiate Stage 3 exit, system-wide.


I can confidently say that I know something that you don’t. The world, our planet, our civilization, is coming to an end later this week. Well I guess you probably do know if you are reading this now. I understand that this may seem candid, but I’ve already come to grips with my end, and I would hope you never have to deal with your own. My name is Dr. Elias Reed Malick and I want to tell you about the things that I have discovered this past week. This information may not be news to you, but I can tell you, it was news to me. I work and conduct research in the field of anomalous volcanic and seismic activity on our planet, which we call Earth. There are many of these events that happen across the globe, none of which have ever exhibited the curiosities of the site I and my wife are currently working on. We had discovered the first signs of this development in the last year here in the Midwest. Small seismic activities were taking place in various seemingly random parts of the central parts of the North American Continent. As more of these occurrences began to appear and the data from them collected and reviewed, some seemingly sinister discoveries were made. Each of these events were small in terms of an affected area, but large in terms of their actual magnitude of vibrations. Each one was tracked and seeming to get more and more violent. What was also strange was their locations. Each of these anomalies were causing severe damage to our cities’ and government’s infrastructure. It started with trains derailing, then on to power and information transfer infrastructure. Every time these irregularities happened, the damage done to our human and social ecosystem increased. These events have gotten worse, but we wanted to investigate further. Hindsight being what it is, I wish we would have let someone else take this one. All of these events seemed to occur within a particular radius, the center of which culminated to a location just northeast of a place that we call Kansas City (I’m pretty confident that there wont be much left of it after this week). We began and set up our research headquarters there and began an excavation near the intersection of the two major rivers nearby. We wanted more information on the sedimentary layers of the earth here to assess the signs of seismic activity in the area. What we found there after a few weeks of digging was something we cannot explain. We found… well a stone. A massive smooth stone, nearly spherical in nature. It had to be nearly 50 meters in diameter according to our surveying technology. Bright sea foam in color and translucent like a brilliant gem, but it was like no stone or element we had ever seen before. Unfortunately, we have not had enough time to have samples of the stone inspected and researched, and we sure don’t have that time now. That night after our initial discovery, the things that have led to my revelation began to occur. The gem showed signs of luminescence as the day began to shift to night, leaving an eerie glow from within our excavation site. After our discovery we had decided it best to keep our HQ trailers on the site itself, and thus began our first night overseeing the stone. As the first few days went by, some things went unnoticed. My wife and I’s sleep began to become erratic and restless, with anxiety as the only descriptor I could find for our troubles. Soon after, the dreams began. Both of us began to discuss each morning what we had experienced in our sleep the night before. We’ve both described in vivid memorable detail scenes of life and decay. Animal corpses slowly decomposing, flowers and trees wilting and rotting over time, buildings and monuments experiencing erosion and crumbling beneath the heel of time’s boot. These dreams continued as the days went on, and each scene remained as vivid in our minds as if we had just seen it. Approximately 8 days after discovery, there was a slight change to the dreams. They began to become more graphic, and a voice began to speak during them. The voice vaguely feminine, deep and stern in tone, seemed to being to narrate or preach during these moments of gore and deterioration; all in a language that we had never heard or recognized, though it seemed familiar. Every dream the same but different, as each night the voice would become louder and more aggressive, and the imagery would follow suit. After day 13 we came upon our first “revelation”, if you want to call it that. We began to understand. We began to understand the disembodied voice and its message. I know now its too late to convey the message to the rest of our world, but seeing how you’ve already found this, I feel it justified to share it with you. *“You will crumble. You will fall. You will break. You will submit to the pressure of time. You will perish to my endevors. You will decay upon this rock as I dictate. Your existence has been deemed unnecessary. You will be consumed. You will be preyed upon. And your being will cease. I am Pthegrymat. I was before. I was after. But I am now, and soon you will not.”* I’m sorry, but it is coming, and we have no time left.


The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ I spent my first night on the island lying close to the fire, waking constantly to chuck on more wood between being serenaded to bouts of sleep by the gulls that swooped over the island. When I woke the next morning, I felt hydrated and warm enough, but now my stomach grumbled. Returning to the forest, I hunted for something edible. During my previous trips I was already aware of the lack of fruits hanging from the trees, or bushes ripe with harvest. Autumn had arrived. Whatever colour filled this forest a few months ago, was now nothing but inedible browns and greens. The only nutrition were small berries on some of the bushes. They were tiny red beads, firm to the touch. As I picked them off the stems, they held their shape, the juice inside unmoved. I lifted one to my mouth and tried to take a small nibble out of the side. My teeth slid across the hard waxy surface as the berry plopped back out of my mouth and into my hand. I tried again, grating the outside with my incisors until the skin pierced. I felt the gentlest release of pressure, yet tasted nothing. No sugar, no vitamins. I could just feel the flecks of floating skin, and the droplets of additional moisture. At least though, they didn’t taste sour or rotten. They were edible. Still, whatever sustenance the tiny red dots would provide wasn’t enough. What I really needed to survive here was protein. I needed meat. I knew how to fish. I was good at it. But fishing required a line, and there was no one here to trade me the string. It would need a hook too, and one man couldn’t form a mine to get the ore to forge the metal to create one simple hook. The end skill, the one I knew, was the last step in a long line of those needed. And without the ones before, I was useless. Above the trees, I could hear the squawks of the gulls. A meal, riding the air currents, taunting me from the sky. If only I could lure one to land. I tried the next day to use the berries as bait, placing a small nestle of them on a rock near the shore. A bright red trap backdropped by grey stone. Yet nothing came. I sat some thirty metres away, nibbling away on my own branch of the thin pellets unable to blame the gulls for being disinterested. If I could dive into the ocean for fish I’d be doing the same. By the time the sun began to fall on my fourth day on the island, I could feel the hunger taking its toll. It was no longer a pain or discomfort. My whole body felt tired, limbs burning energy that wasn’t there, fire burning in hollow arms and legs. With no energy and no place to go, my body had been allowed to wallow in its weariness, and I found myself spending more and more time simply staring into space. I needed a break from the atrophy and so I forced myself to walk to the western tip of the island. I told myself I needed the firewood, but truth be told there was still plenty closer to the campfire, and I had already added enough large logs to the fire that it was now nothing short of a pyre. More in danger of spreading than simply petering out. It was a nice evening for the stroll. The air was crisp, and the light had dimmed to a calm twilight. Soft waves lapped up against the shore, the sea so much calmer than the waters that had brought me here. Maybe it too was tired. My train of thought was broken by something at the corner of the beach. Two seagulls stood squabbling, jostling with each other. They hadn’t noticed me, too busy squaring off with each other. Their beaks were open, preparing to attack. One jolted forward, and the other met it, their beaks clacking like swords. Then they reared their heads back, waiting for the next strike. The one nearest me flapped its wings, hovering briefly above the ground. In the space I could see what had caused the fight. Another gull, this one very much dead. The corpse lay on its back, wings splayed. There were blotches of red, large gaping wounds that had been picked at by the scavengers. Loose feathers littered the nearby stones and a still, beady eye stared back at me. The birds resumed their standoff. This was my chance. I crouched down and began slowly moving towards them, trying to tread softly. The stones shifted and clinked beneath my feet, but the sound was masked by the lapping waters and clapping beaks. I got closer. The birds were only ten or so metres away. The sea seemed to grow louder, the tides slightly faster, the waves driving me on. Do it! Do it! the waves whispered to me. Charge! Run! Kill! I tried to ignore the sea’s agitations. The gulls were still engaged in their dance, their wings outstretched, as they shimmied around the corpse, trying to intimidate the other into submission. I trod on a loose stone. It slid hard against its neighbours, who in turn rolled against theirs. A cascading echo rolled through the earth, the sound running through the cavernous gaps between the rocks and blaring like a siren into the air. The gulls looked up. Their heads turning to me. Then, they flew. Both knew a bloated corpse wasn’t worth dying over. I was alone on the beach again. Just me and the dead stare. I walked over and inspected the corpse more closely. It had clearly been dead a while. One wing bent awkwardly and poked up to the air, while its rigid legs pointed to the sea. Gashes where the other gulls had attempted to get to the offal inside could be seen along its distended belly. Most of all, the bird stank; the odour of decay that rots at the inside of your nose. The gulls’ stomachs could handle this carrion. Mine could not. But it was bait. One I knew they liked. I picked up the bird by its neck, the stiff frame holding its form. A small part of my insides rolled just from the touch and I could feel my oesophegus tighten with nausea as the smell grew closer. I kept my arms outstretched, keeping the carcass as far away as I could, and retreated to the campfire. The next day I set about creating my trap. The bait lay on the rocks while I dug a small crevice ten or so metres away, enough to lie in and try to appear as small as possible. Between me and the target, was the longest branch I could find - a thick and waving trunk. Light for its size, but still carrying the impact of a club. The middle of the branch balanced on a rock, with the rest held in the air. The result was a heavy branch with a single point of friction that,with one quick jolt of my arm, would move with speed and force over the the target. The trap was makeshift, and I was certain an experienced hunter could do better. But I was improvising from what little I knew. One person, with no real knowledge, guessing their way to hopeful survival. I tried to make myself comfortable among the jagged pebbles and stones of the beach. As I peered over the top of my small trench, watching the lifeless feathers waiver in the breeze. I thought back to Alessia, how easy she’d probably find this. She was always a step closer to the source of a problem than I was, a few less levels of abstraction. “I suppose you’d have a better plan,” I muttered to her apparation, under my breath. “You probably used to capture birds all the time.” I imagined her response. The way her tongue stuck between her teeth when she was being cheeky. \*Can you even move fast enough to pull this off?\* “We’ll find out. But I don’t have a better idea. I wanted to tie a knot in some string, but…” \*No string.\* “Exactly. So the branch it is.” \*You reckon you can kill a bird with this thing.\* “Probably not. But maybe stun it. Give me enough time to get over there and grab it.” \*And then what?\* “We’ll ride that wave when we get to it.” A gull landed near the corpse. It tilted its head, eying up the offering, moving closer in short and stuttered steps. \*Be patient\* “I know,” I whispered. The gull arrived by the bait, its head centimetres from the pole. My stomach grumbled with anticipation, but I could see the wariness in the bird’s eyes. I had to ensure the bird gave into hunger before I did. The gull picked tentatively at the corpse with its beak. After a couple of pokes it took a more definitive strike, trying to pierce through the skin. \*Now\* As its head reared back up, I swung the branch. The bird turned to see the pole and flapped its wings in reflex desperation, trying to escape. The pole made contact, but the moment of flight cushioned the blow, and the gull rolled backwards across the beach. I scrambled to my feet, just in time to watch the gull find its footing and take to the air. My lungs deflated as the bird glided across the sea towards safety. Failure. \*You swung the pole too soft.\* “I know. Move the axis back and I’ll get a harder swing.” \*That bird was quick too\* “Exactly. Maybe the next one will be slower.” Buoyed, I set the trap back up and returned to my spot. It took maybe half an hour for the next bird to arrive. This one looked older. It’s chest bulged with years of survival on the ocean. It strode up to the carrion and began pecking at the skin, undisturbed by the pole poised by its skull. I let it relax, get a few pecks in, let its mind concentrate on the meat. Then, wham. With a sharp jerk of the branch, the pole slammed into the bird’s neck and it rolled across the ground. I jumped to my feet and sprinted to the bird. The gull righted itself, shaking its head, as I dived towards it. It tried to take off, but I grabbed a leg, and the bird thudded back to the ground. My fist tightened on the limb as a sharp beak turned and began pecking at my hand. They were pin pricks at first, but then the beak jabbed hard. A spasm of pain ran through my wrist. In reflex, I opened my hand. I screamed, a small amount in pain, mostly in exasperation, as the bird took to the sky and left me. Again. Failure. \*Did you not think the bird would fight back?\* I sat down, checking my hand for cuts. “Not that much.” I sighed. “I’m going to die here aren’t I? Starve to death.” \*Have more faith in yourself. \* “I’m not sure I can do this.” \*Yes you can. You may have grown up some sheltered boy in Kadear, but you’ve survived worse than this.\* “I feel like I should be better at this. Others would be better. You would be better.” \*Humans are social creatures. We thrive off each other. You’re never meant to have to do this alone.\* “So I’m dead.” \*I said thrive. Not survive. But you’ll make it. Until you get rescued.\* “You had better be coming to find me.” \*If I’m around to, I’m sure I am.\* A pain gathered at the back of my eyes. The one in my hand evaporated. “We’re not going there, Ferdinand.” I told myself as I walked back to my mark. “We’re going to survive. We’re going to get off this island. And we’re going to find Alessia.” The next bird arrived around an hour later. It was smaller than the other two. Maybe younger, maybe less wise, I thought to myself. It walked skittishly up to the game, aware of the abnormality of a free meal, but unsure of how to assess the danger. The gull bent down and began plucking at the meal, quickly grabbing the flesh and trying to rip it with a jerk of its head. Whack! Just as the bird pulled its head, I swung, the branch hitting it square in the side of its skull. It bounced down the stony bank and I set off in a sprint, moving forwards as well as up. The bird was on its back and struggled to right itself - a couple of seconds of inertia - enough for me to close the gap and jump on it. I grabbed its body and neck, pinning it to the ground. A startled beak squawked in anger, confusion and fear. I grabbed a nearby rock and brought it down fast upon the bird’s head. There was a thud, followed by an injured and hurt call. I raised the stone again and brought it down a second time. Another thud, and a crack. This time there was no reply. \*Reminds you of Outer Fastanet.\* “The stone.” I replied to the air, dropping the weapon to the side. “It’s how they killed those pirates.” \*You didn’t learn it off them.\* I stood back and looked at the kill. “You think it’s instinct?” \*Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like a question you’d enjoy.\* I’d killed fish before. But this felt different. When you hit a fish with a hammer it looks at you with a sort of dumb confusion that it isn’t in water. The seagull fought. It fought for its life and I watched its pupils shrink with the realisation of its own end. I had to do it. I had to survive. But this was the first time. While my brain was still shaking at the act, my stomach grumbled with a different, more immediate message. With no tools to cut the bird, I plucked it as best as I could and then skewered the whole body with a long stick, and balanced it over the fire. I am sure an unseasoned gull - half-cooked and half-burnt over an open fire - was not a great meal. Yet, I had never been so thankful to eat. My stomach groaned with pleasure, my entire digestive system in elation, the frustration of dormancy suddenly unleashed into a hive of activity. For the first time since I arrived on this island I slept with my stomach full. I was going to make it. —————————————————— More days passed. My first kill had become the bait or my second, which became bait for my third. The water in the bushes had dried up, but fresh seagull blood was mostly water and it quenched my thirst enough. Between the gulls and the fire running steady, I was beginning to develop a routine. I was beginning to feel confident that I could survive on the island a little while longer. I reasoned too, that Alessia would likely have the boat repaired by now and be on her way to find me - she \*had\* to be on the way to find me. But if I wanted to make her or any other rescuer’s job easier, I’d need to let them know I was here. The best hope I had for that was the fire. A column of smoke during the day and light at night. However, I only had the one. I needed a second beacon, one on the other side of the island. I had been on the island for about two weeks, long enough to be uncertain of the exact number of days. It was the evening twilight, the point where you can see, but color and depth become a challenge. As I traipsed through the forest collecting logs for my second fire, I was straining to make out branches against the dark forest floor. My gaze was fixed downward as I scanned the uneven ground for suitable branches. Around me, the trees had been rustling all afternoon. A steady breeze had created a constant background shiver through the forest, a persistent auditory blur. I was in a sort of sensory deprivation. Had I been anywhere else, on an island with other people or any animals bigger than the gulls, I might have been wary of being so unaware of my surroundings. But the one plus to my isolation was that I could stare at the ground for as long as I wanted in perfect safety. I picked up one more branch and added it to the pile in my arms, the last stick almost sending the whole collection cascading to the ground. “That’s enough,” I announced to myself. As I looked up I noticed how the trees were shaking more ferociously. Branches waved, for my attention and the leaves sung ominously. “The fire should be fine, right?” I thought to the pile of logs I added before I left. Even a gale wouldn’t blow that out. I nodded to myself in reassurance. Still, the shaking forest tickled the hairs on my neck; a small itch that couldn’t ignore the howls from the trunks around me. \*You know what comes with wind.\* I looked up. The sky was black. Bulbous clouds hung low, groaning with their weight. I could see the light show of sparks flickering in the gloom, waiting to be unleashed. Static clung to the air, ready and primed. “Please, no.” The plea was quiet, too quiet to be heard by such giants. The weight above gave way. Rain poured down as a carpet, the world suddenly more water than air. Within a moment, everything was wet. The ground beneath my feet turned to mud, my clothes drenched through, and the kindling in my arms became waxy and moulted. The fire. I dropped the branches to the ground, and ran back through the forest. Each stride was like running into a wall of water. The cascade dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision as I rushed through the drumbeat of rain. Shaking branches tripped me and blocked me. I kept running, ignoring the slap of wet leaves until the mass of trees began to clear and I burst out into the open. Out of the forest, the rain was even heavier, and I could feel it pushing me down. The weight of a million droplets pounded against my skull until I could feel no other sense. My clothes were heavy, my feet slipped across smooth and moistened stones, and it was a struggle to keep moving under the bombardment from above. Trees rushed past until I turned the corner and saw the bonfire. The strong yellow flame had gone, replaced by gentle wafts of smoke and steam. I ran to it, trying to think of how I could protect the flame. No sheets. No shelter. Nothing but my waterlogged clothes and useless stones. Utterances of denial and vulgarities left my mouth. I looked to the base of the fire. I could see the red glow, a branch still bright with fire. Water hissed as it landed against it and turned to steam; the heat leached from the log. But there was still fire. I began ripping large leaves from the trees and bushes nearby, placing them in a pyre next to the fire, hoping the surface would provide protection. But the leaves were too few. Water and winds continued to pour through my paltry defence. I ripped off my shirt, and held it over the wood. Winds billowed in the fabric, sending water from the soaked shirt onto the wood. The fire let out a pained cry as more of the droplets transformed into vapour. The sky roared, the predator unleashing its fury. And like any good prey, I felt my heart thump in my chest as I cowered in fear, hoping not to be snuffed out. I looked around for something to keep the rains away. Panic and stupid ideas flooded my brain. Could I build a shelter from the stones? Could I drag the fire into the forest? Could I chuck my clothes - my soaking wet clothes - onto the fire as fuel? I bent down to check the base of the fire again, and my panic stopped. No more adrenaline. No more rush of energy. It was all worthless now. Water had gotten through. There were no glowing embers, no flickering flames, no hint of heat. The fire was extinguished. \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.


It’s been a long few weeks. I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember, well a wannabe writer that is. I promised my wife when we got married I’d pursue my dream of writing. She’s always had faith in me. She was never afraid to pursue dreams, even if it wasn’t always the most practical of things to do. I grew up listening to The Beatles and much like Paul said: I wanna be a paperback writer. The thrill of getting something published sounded amazing to me, but I guess I’ve never been very good. Well, I guess a lot has changed since the day we got married though. I haven’t followed through with my promise yet, so today seems as good a day as any. I’ve been working at this small manufacturing plant for a few years now. The pay is decent but the monotony of it is excruciating. I work a conveyor line. Much like the monotony of my job, my life feels the same way, more-so now than ever. These past few weeks I’ve felt like my body is on a conveyor belt. I feel like I’ve just been dragged from one thing to the next with no end in sight. I haven’t had a chance to even think about what’s actually going on in my life, I just keep moving. Well, like any other day, today was no different. I had just gotten home from a really long day at work. My wife wasn’t home, I really wish she was ‘cause today just sucked. Things just hit a little different today. I never did live much a life of luxury. Anyone who says living in New York is amazing clearly never lived in these tiny little run down apartments. Not that I’m complaining, honestly of all the things in my life right now, my crappy little single bedroom apartment isn’t even close to the top of the list, though I could stand to see less of the medical bills on the table but what are you gonna do? Honestly, There’s not much in this house that I do care about aside from a picture in my kitchen of my wife and I together on our honeymoon. We were both smiling in it. Funny, I haven't smiled much since that day. I’ve found myself trying to read a lot more than usual lately. I find it therapeutic to the mind, not to mention it gets me into the creative thoughts mood. . I’ve been experiencing a bit of an extended writer’s block for the past year or so and just couldn’t find the inspiration to start writing until recently. I just wish I knew what I wanted to write about. I’ve been sitting at my computer every day trying to just start typing but nothing comes out. I’ve been trying to figure out where to start. I’ve had this urge… this hunger to write but just can’t think of what to say. I’ve always prided myself on the fact that words came so easy to me. Not today though. Nothing’s been coming easy today. ‘Well, here goes nothing’ I say to myself again, sitting at the kitchen table, my laptop open to a blank MS Word page. My hands lay on the keyboard but nothing comes. My fingers remain motionless as the screen stays blank. The silence is deafening. ‘Write’ I tell myself again. Nothing changes. My mind begins to focus on the humming of the refrigerator. The buzzing makes me forget everything going on in the world as I blankly stare at my laptop forgetting what I was doing. “You’ve been so negative lately. Maybe you should try to write something a little more positive.” a voice came seemingly out of nowhere. "How the hell can I write something positive when there's nothing good in my life" I continued to stare at my screen, catching a glimmer of my wifes reflection in my computer screen. "I mean look at me, I live in a shit hole, the bills are starting to pile up… What do you want from me!?!" I snapped, my hand balls into a fist, slamming onto the table. “Well there’s always me isn’t there?” She says but I abruptly cut her off. “Don’t even get me started” my eyes roll “You know I’m always here for you. Whether you like it or not…” She says. I can see her smile from the reflection in my computer as she attempts to comfort me. But it doesn’t work.“You’re quite the comedian.” I chuckle a little and begin to type ‘She’s always there for me no matter what.’ “There ya go” I say. “Is that something happy and positive enough for you?” "It's not about me, is it happy for you?" Her voice gets louder. I can't tell if it's because she's moving closer to me or just getting more passionate about the topic. “It is… errr it would be if it were true. Unfortunately you and I both know that it’s not.” “YOU KNOW I’M SORRY” her voice grows, echoing through our house, I’m surprised the neighbors don’t hear it. “You know I would be! You know I WANT to be. It’s not like I Chose…” “I KNOW” I cut her off matching her volume as my hands slam on the table again. A tear slowly begins to flow down the side of my cheek, and I calm my tone. “I know. But none the less you did. And that’s just something I have to live with.” I haven’t turned away from my computer screen yet. I can’t bear to look behind me. Her hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. How I’ve desperately wanted to feel her warmth today “I’m sorry” she says. “I really truly am sorry. I want to be here for you.” “Yeah, me too” I let up on holding it in, as my sobs now become vocal. The sound grows as it can be heard throughout the complex. There's been a lot of crying coming from my apartment lately. The neighbors are probably going crazy with all the fights we've had this week. It's weird, we never fight, in fact our minds have always been so well connected. We knew everything about one another, and always seemed like those cliched perfect T.V. couples. It always seemed like the two of us were perfect for eachother, so why now? Why can't I write something positive like she's always wanted me to do? ‘'The future is not set by the pains of the past' I type exhaling heavily as I do. “How's that for a start? That can be positive right?” I say. My tears stop but my head lowers as I regain my breath. I remove my hands from my keyboard and place it on my shoulder where I felt her touch but nothing’s there. I go back to listening to the buzzing of the refrigerator as I start to remember where I am. I sigh “I Miss you” I say as my tears begin to flow again.