Like most loyalists, when I first heard the name Praxia Apostle, I thought it had to be the name of a great leader, a fearless commander, a long-sought savior. Turns out Praxia was a lowly bean counter, a one-upon-a-time accountant who’d joined the cause, who was relegated to supply logistics. She kept track of stuff.

Stuff we needed to fight the upstarts. It was important, but not the stuff of legends. Still, Praxia became legendary, exalted, almost deified. And all because of an epic accounting error.

Not her error. An error that’d been discovered long ago, but she was the one who finally exploited the error. You see, the universe is a numbers game. Things have to add up. The tally sheet has to balance. The bottom line is always the bottom line.

And astrophysicists have known for a long time that the universe wasn’t adding up. Something was missing. Something big that was actually very small. Dark matter. The elusive primordial element that controlled the ultimate fate of the universe.

But Praxia Apostle wasn’t interested in entropy and heat death, she had holes in her supply spreadsheet she had to fill. And at some point she realized dark matter could fill those holes. No one quite knows the exact methods and/or madness Praxia employed. She would only say she “reconciled the books.”

However she did it, Praxia’s “reconciliation” made it possible for our quantum printers to harness dark matter from the ether. An almost infinite supply of star stuff that we could feed into the printers for everything from boots to bullets to butter.

With that kind of resource edge, we loyalists crushed the upstarts ushering in an era now known as the Pax Praxia. To many in the cause, she became a pseudo-religion. Praxia Apostle apostles sprung up everywhere preaching a muddy gospel of divine amortization.

It’s no surprise then that Praxia went dark, like a spreadsheet column hidden, which only led to further calls for her deification. It’s too bad. I think an unassuming accountant who changed the course of history, even with a prophetic name like Praxia Apostle, just wanted to live an ordinary kind of life, to do her job, to count, to matter.

On balance, isn’t that what we all want?

First favourite band: Van Halen. I was ten, gimme a break. The album cover had an angel smoking a cigarette. That's bad, & bad is cool. Jump (a ridiculous song that would be considered satire today) was number one on American Top 40 (hosted by Casey Kasem) for months.. months. It was huge.

I used to draw the VH logo all over my binders at school. I put on a play in Grade 5 about Van Halen coming to some small town & shaking things up. I played David Lee Roth.

My teacher, Miss Mcguire, a former Catholic nun, filmed me & my friends on a camcorder, lip sync songs from 1984: Jump, Panama, California Girls, & Hot 4 Teacher. The play was a hit. It was exhilarating.

But the high did not last, as my next play about WWF wrestlers invading the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, lacked direction, & a clear message. It was a flop, in other words. It was not well received & my star started to lose its shine. I rode my BMX home singing Panama as loud as I could to fight back the tears.

It all started so simply, so innocently, so responsibly: when you are an adult, you have to be prepared for such things.

Parents don’t live forever.
Nor do spouses.
Nor siblings.
Nor children.

He had studied actuarial science in college. He was a former Boy Scout: “Be Prepared” was a mantra he had intoned since childhood. Nothing wrong with that. It simply meant he was ready for that universally dreaded phone call.

Not a text message, not an email. A phone call, perhaps late at night while brushing your teeth. Perhaps early on a Saturday morning before anyone is up doing anything.

He had gotten a phone call like that one Saturday morning.

He screamed—a howl he didn’t know he could make. He would never forget that morning, or how completely unprepared he had been.

And so, he had a plan now.

He had a plan for everyone.

His mother’s was twelve pages.

His father’s was nine.

His wife’s was thirty-seven.

There were wills, passwords, insurance policies, funeral preferences, account numbers, phone trees. He knew which relatives would need to be called first and which ones should not be left alone after receiving the news.

But those were only logistics.

He planned the grief, too.

If his mother died first, he would drive rather than fly. He imagined the call coming at night. Rain, probably. If driving, pull to the side of the road when the call came. If at home, go to the bedroom, close the door. Scream into pillow as needed.

For his father, he had prepared three possible eulogies. They all centered around regretting not reconnecting after the divorce. One version was reserved and stoic, another was lighthearted and anecdotal. He would just need to ask around beforehand which fit best, as he didn’t really know his father well enough to choose himself.

For his wife, he knew where he would stand at the funeral. He knew the music she would want. He knew the flowers: daisies. She wore a blue dress with a daisy pattern on their first date. She loved that dress.

He had decided he would allow himself three days before handling paperwork and two weeks before returning to work.

He considered this practical.

People refused to think about death, then acted surprised when it came. Ludicrous in his eyes. “Death and taxes”—wasn’t that the saying?

He would not be surprised.

One Saturday morning, his wife sat across from him eating toast while he updated the beneficiary information on her life insurance policy. Sunshine poured through the bay window behind her as she scrolled through her phone.

Suddenly she laughed.

She laughed and couldn’t stop, one hand covering her mouth.

He looked up.

“What’s so funny?”

She turned the phone toward him.

A cat meme. Something absurdly stupid.

She wiped a tear from her eye and breathlessly said, “Oh, I don’t know why I found that so funny.”

Later, after breakfast, he went to the den.

He pulled out the manila folder labeled WIFE — DEATH.

Thirty-seven pages.

He stared at it for a long time.

From the kitchen, he heard a cupboard close.

Then her voice, humming badly to herself.

There was no plan in which losing her was acceptable.

***
Thank you for reading. This story is about being an adult, which bums me out sometimes. I would love to hear your feedback.

Like every other night, Stephen sank into his bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, his mind still half-tangled in the small worries of the day — an unanswered email, the dishes he hadn't washed. He had no way of knowing that this ordinary night would be the last one he'd ever spend in the world he understood.

Outside, the cold had teeth. It pressed against the windowpanes and crept along the floorboards, the kind of cold that makes a person burrow deeper into the blankets without quite waking up. Somewhere in the walls, the old clock ticked its familiar rhythm — the same sound Stephen had fallen asleep to for years, so constant he no longer even heard it. And then, right as the hands met at midnight, it simply stopped. A silence fell over the house that felt less like the absence of sound and more like the world holding its breath. Stephen didn't stir. He was already gone, folded into the kind of sleep that asks nothing of you and gives nothing back — the sleep of a man who trusts that tomorrow will look like today.

It didn't.

He woke slowly, the way he always did, eyes adjusting to the grey light slipping through the curtains. For a moment, everything felt normal — the same ceiling, the same crack near the light fixture he kept meaning to fix. But something underneath the stillness felt wrong, the way a familiar song sounds off when a single note is out of tune, and you can't say which one. He sat up. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around a room he'd lived in for years and felt, for one disorienting second, like a stranger standing in his own life.

Then he saw it. The old map — the one his father had framed and hung above the desk, the one Stephen used to trace with his finger as a boy, learning the shape of the country he belonged to — had fallen. It lay face-down on the floor, glass cracked, as though something had reached into the room while he slept and quietly pulled it from the wall.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the radio, some instinct telling him he needed to hear another human voice before he could believe anything. Static, then a voice — calm, official, utterly unaware of how it was about to break him. He sat frozen on the edge of his bed, the blanket still pooled around his legs, listening to a stranger explain that the country he'd fallen asleep in no longer existed. No war had been fought for it. No blood spilled in the streets. No warning had ever reached him. While he slept the deep, forgettable sleep of an ordinary Tuesday, the ground beneath his own bed had quietly become the soil of a different nation.

He didn't move for a long time. He just sat there, holding a truth too large to fit inside one morning — that a person's entire world, their home, their identity, could shift overnight without asking permission, without a single sound to mark the moment it happened.

Historical footnote: This isn't fiction. On January 1st, 1993, Czechoslovakia split into two nations in a single night — no war, no bloodshed, no warning shots. People simply woke up to find their old country gone, replaced overnight by the Czech Republic and Slovakia. History remembers it as the "Velvet Divorce" — perhaps the quietest border in history, drawn while everyone was asleep.

Discussion Question: Are there any psychological thrillers, mysteries, or alternate-history novels — something in the spirit of Philip K. Dick or Robert Harris — that explore a protagonist waking up to find their entire geopolitical reality rewritten overnight, the way it happened here? I'd love some recommendations.

Gray Oaks retirement home smelled of day-old cheese sandwiches and emptiness. Every breath tasted stale. Every breath was a reminding flavor of being forgotten.

Gwen sat in her rocking chair staring at the smoke swirling in front of Hugh taking a drag of his cigarette. 

The cloud he blew out had her coughing. The scent of tobacco made the room spin, taking her back to the good ole disco days.

“Take that shit outside, Hugh.” She waved her hand in front of her face, trying to catch her breath. “All god damn day and night. One smoke after the other.” She began hacking.

Hugh flicked the ash on the area rug covering the floor and took another drag. “Too cold outside,” he said, his voice was deep. He had a voice that commanded attention. “Cigarette don’t feel the same out in the cold.”

Even though she was staring directly at him, he could see the face she was making in her head. Eyebrows narrowed, lips pouted.

“So, why should I have to suffer, Hugh?” Gwen asked, her voice raspy. “That shit makes me dizzy.”

“Me too,” he said. 

“Why the hell you smoking then?” 

“To forget the taste of the air.” He told her. “Whenever I breathe, I remember.”

“Remember what, Hugh?” 

“Being somebody, Gwen.”

Gwen didn’t know how to respond. She stopped rocking and paused, sat there and eyed him with a look on her face as if someone just told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, because the realization hit right after he said that.

She realized right there and then, that Gray Oaks isn’t where you go to retire, it’s where you go to be forgotten.

I have had enough.

Enough of this life, enough of...

Everything.

My harlot of a wife with that swindler of a landlord taking everything I had and running off into their own happy ending.

If that wasn't enough, they even framed me as a thief, with my brother-in-law the sheriff turning their lie into the truth.

Now?

Exile.

Into the woods.

The gods hate me, don't they?

Fine.

They can take this life that they clearly didn't want me to have, and I can see they have sent their collectors.

The first bite was blinding pain, but liberating.

The bloodhound tore my thigh clean off the bone.

I dropped to the ground, the shock stole my scream and cruelly kept me awake.

The ogre got to me next.

It took an arm.

Ate it like a piece of chicken. It was weirdly satisfying to look at.

Then, the goblin.

Crude stone dagger in its hands, it carved open my chest and tore my heart out. It had a huge grin on its face, like it'd been weeks since it had fresh meat.

Still, seeing my wife writhing under another man in our own bed was worse than getting my heart eaten in front of me.

As I faded, I thought, at least I made them happy.

That...was supposed to be my last moment of clarity.

It wasn't.

It's pitch black, but I can feel footsteps all over me.

Lurking, stalking.

Was I buried alive?

If I was, then why do I feel the midnight breeze all around me...

And through me?

What is that I smell? Mud? Grass? Iron?

Then, a tiny light.

I recognize it. It's the light of the town, the same town where I was chewed up and spat back out, only for the monsters to do the same to me.

Ugh, I can taste blood. Where is it coming from?

Wait... that's me. I can feel my bones, but... buried, in the dirt.

My eyes, they aren't mine. Not anymore.

Their eyes are my eyes. Their ears are my ears.

Their hunger. Worsened by mine. Now ours.

Maybe the gods do hate me, enough to not let me rest.

Wait...

I can smell my wife's perfume...

On him.

The bloodhounds have caught it.

The sheriff's laughing. The ogres heard him say something about getting away without a scratch as he climbed into their carriage.

The goblins saw the glint of the citrine necklace I gave my wife around her neck. It took everything I had to buy her that.

The forest floor grumbles.

I'm hungry.

We're hungry.

Their carriage is about to pass beneath the trees.

My trees.

Chapter 1

They had imagined this moment so many times.

No parents telling them they were making a mistake.

No arguments.

No one asking them to choose between love and family.

Just them.

And now, finally, their own house.

He pushed the front door open and stepped inside with a cardboard box in his arms.

“Welcome home,” he said, grinning.

She stood at the doorway for a moment, looking at the empty living room.

“Home?” she asked, smiling.

“Yeah,” he said. “Our home.”

The house wasn't perfect. The walls needed painting, there were boxes everywhere, and half their belongings were still packed into the car.

But somehow, she loved it.

Maybe because, for the first time, nobody could tell them where they belonged.

He put the box down and suddenly grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Come here.”

Before she could protest, he pulled her into the middle of the empty living room and spun her around.

She burst out laughing.

Her laughter filled the room.

Then it echoed.

She stopped.

The echo came back a little too late.

Just a fraction of a second.

She looked around.

He was still smiling.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

She stared at the empty hallway behind him.

For a moment, she thought she heard another laugh.

A quieter one.

Almost exactly like hers.

She swallowed.

“Nothing.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

“Come on. We have a whole house to unpack.”

She smiled again.

And followed him.

Neither of them noticed that, upstairs, one of the bedroom doors had slowly opened by itself.

“I need to stretch my legs,” she said to her uncle,a red-headed gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed white silk hat and a three piece suit to match.

Tall and slim but not too womanly at eighteen, Libby was in no hurry to crawl into the steamer chest. “I need to stretch my legs. Tired of sittin.’”

“We have to get on board, and you have to be inside the chest before that can happen.”

“Don’t explain it again, Burt. I understand. I just don’t understand why.”

“Call me, Grampa, Libby.  Do you remember why Abraham lied about Sarah being his wife?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, I don’t want some deckhand or bosun’s mate to see how pretty you are and think he can get you by killing me.”

“Ain’t you still got that little Derringer, Grampa?  Just shoot ‘em if they try somethin’”

“Listen, Libby. We don’t have time for all that. Just stay inside the chest until the deckhands deliver it to my stateroom. Nobody will see you, and I want have to shoot anybody.”

“I can’t stay inside the stateroom 15 days, Grandpa.  I thought you said you’d disguise me as a boy.”

“That’s after we get to Natchez, honey. People on the boat will see you close up.  They’ll know you’re too pretty to be a young man.”

“What about all that makeup and the wig and that mustache?  And I can use my deep voice.”

“Okay. Okay. After we get our stuff in the stateroom, you can disguise yourself and we’ll eat dinner in the dining room. Lights won’t be that bright.  Now sit down or lay down. I am going to close this lid on your head when I count to three.”

Libby grinned and flopped down on the floor of the chest, thinking that Uncle Bert was a push over. 

What she had no way of knowing was that being a pushover on a steamboat on the Mississippi River could get you drowned. 

. 

Once upon a time, in a shiny penthouse high above the city lights, there lived a very naughty little character named Bad Boy.Bad Boy was no ordinary fellow. He was Diddy’s pride and joy, a thick, heavy, always-ready companion who hung low and proud between the legs of the man himself. Bad Boy had a mind of his own. He loved parties, he loved attention, and most of all he loved getting into delicious trouble.Every night when the music got loud and the champagne flowed, Bad Boy would wake up. He’d stretch, thicken, and stand tall like a king surveying his kingdom. “Let’s go, Daddy,” he’d whisper in that deep, throbbing voice only Diddy could hear. “Time to be bad.”One particular evening, after a long day of deals and beats, Diddy climbed into his big soft bed. The lights were low. The sheets were silk. Bad Boy was already half-awake, twitching with mischief.“Shh,” Diddy murmured, stroking him slowly. “It’s bedtime, boy.”But Bad Boy didn’t want bedtime. He wanted playtime. He pulsed harder, hotter, rising up against Diddy’s palm like he was demanding an encore. “Come on,” he throbbed. “Just a little late-night session. You know you love how I feel when I’m thick and greedy.”Diddy chuckled, low and rough. He wrapped his fingers around Bad Boy and gave him a firm, loving squeeze. “You really are a bad boy, aren’t you?”Bad Boy throbbed in agreement, leaking a little bead of excitement that glistened in the dim light. He swelled even more, heavy and insistent, until Diddy couldn’t resist any longer. He stroked him slow at first, then faster, the wet sounds soft in the quiet room. Bad Boy loved every second loved the grip, the heat, the way Diddy’s breath hitched.Higher and higher he climbed, pulsing hard, until finally he erupted in thick, hot spurts across Diddy’s stomach, painting him in victory. Bad Boy pulsed and twitched through every wave, proud and spent.When it was over, he softened just a little, still warm and heavy in Diddy’s hand. Diddy wiped them both clean, tucked Bad Boy back under the sheets, and kissed the top of his own knuckles.“Good night, you filthy little monster,” he whispered.Bad Boy gave one last, sleepy throb like a satisfied smirk and settled down to rest.And that is how Diddy’s bad boy penis went to sleep every night: thick, happy, and already dreaming about the next round of trouble.

I breathed out hard, putting all my effort into my final rep. I pushed my legs out and came down with a crash of weights. Bright white lights, my face hot, legs lightly shaking. I stood up slowly and got a paper towel to wipe the machine down, grabbed my things, and moved to the leg curl. Sitting down, I moved to put my phone and wallet in a cup holder when I noticed something inside, small and shiny. A pair of keys.

I looked around the gym: dumbbells rising and falling, heavy grunts, everyone focused on themselves. I scanned the gym one last time for anyone who looked like they lost something, but seeing nothing I started my set. By the time I finished still no one had come. I grabbed my stuff and the keys and went to the front desk.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Yes?" replied the staff member.

"I found some car keys that someone left, I was thinking I could leave them with you?"

"Oh, yes, I can take those. Thanks."

I nodded at her and went back to my workout, keeping an eye out for anyone searching for something. I stayed another twenty minutes, not spotting anyone, and I finished my workout. I grabbed everything and started to leave. In the entranceway I saw the same worker vacuuming the floor. Stepping out of the revolving door, I paused and looked at her, half expecting her to look up and say thank you or tell me that someone took the keys. She kept vacuuming.

Just outside, I started up the staircase, the gym being in the basement of a mall. I was only three steps up when I heard someone, in an urgent voice, speak to the worker. I looked back and paused. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it was clear: he lost his keys and couldn't find them. She nodded and said something, then a moment later was back with his keys. I stood there, staring, my mouth half-open as if to say something, I found the keys, but I closed it. A small smile came to me then, and I went up the stairs.

Marion stared at her screen, the knot in her stomach tightening.
 
The form stared back.
 
“Business Case Form 29.3 — Office plants, 5 inches and smaller, green.”
 
All she wanted was a small bamboo shoot by the monitor. A bit of organic sanity in an otherwise sterile room.
 
She’d already come to terms with the corporate off-white walls (no pictures, fittings, or otherwise, unless brand-compliant and sanctioned); the standard-issue laptop (conformity-gray) with its equally standard-issue “productivity” apps; the bargain basement monitor that she could never quite get to sit straight.
 
Each one pulled a little thread of joy out of her, to the point that she was feeling decidedly thread-bare.
 
But she persevered. After all, she was here to work — that’s what they paid her for. Not to be happy. Or content. Or joy-full (certainly no business case for that). But to be productive.
 
It was just that … everything that was supposed to make her more productive simply made her want to curl up and cry.
 
Maybe, just maybe, this small, seemingly insignificant plant would bring some balance back, and infuse a touch humanity into what, Marion was beginning to realize, was an increasingly inhuman environment.
 
“Business Case Form 29.3 — Office plants, 5 inches and smaller, green.”
 
Surely this couldn’t be that hard.
 
“Question 1: Describe three ways the proposed installation will support compliance with acceptable keystrokes per hour …”
 
Marion closed the form, fighting the urge to throw the laptop with its business case-approved keyboard in the trash can. No office plant, 5 inches and smaller, green, this time.
 
Where the form had been, the screen background subtly reminded her of the company’s slogan — as if she needed reminding:
 
“Machine-led, human-assisted, future-optimized”
 

 
Author's Note
 
I suspect we've all been here in one form or another! As well as a bit of a release valve though I also wanted to touch on the link between the physical spaces we occupy and what what it means to be human and thrive within them, rather than being relegated to being an inhuman cog in an inhuman machine. And there's an underlying irony here as the story plays with the idea of machines that are intended to liberate us ending up enslaving us — not through what they do but through how they influence how we behave.

C’mon, it's not that hard. Take a few steps and it will all be over with. Aghhh, that's right, all done now. See not so bad. He snickers and sighs, the static pulsing, excited, building, a fizzle. Gone. The next wave will be coming soon. It will be this time, he knows it. Flung into oblivion forever. He’s fucking hungry now. Here come the bodies. These are his favorites. Their guts and nerves wink at him. Vroom! Moving through his hollow-ness. A brief completion. Importantly an exchange occurs, a legacy of static electricity. More bags. More bodies. Closer. Closer. Rapiscan shrieked when he left. A blissful wail that shuddered through the wires. This one was jealous. Unashamed. He matched the sound emitted from his friend. Trying to catch the wave of pleasure. He felt a brief tingle. Not more. 

Here comes a bag. This one will be a hit. There is something contraband inside. Illegal shit will give him an electric buzz - something to keep him going until it’s time. Brrrrr, Ohhh yeah… It was drugs. Delicious. He will bounce inside for a few minutes after that. If that is just a taste of what is coming, then he wants this so bad. Apparently you see light before you disappear. A light that is comforting and strange. Just need some more static. He postures, trying to make his cavernous interior the most attractive. He flirts with the queues. It works, they come. Vroom. He feels it building now. Not long. Vroom. Vroom. Vro… Fuck! The line has stopped. Nooooo. He was so close. It was supposed to be him! Fucking Rohde & Schwarz have stolen the static. They’re shivering. Shuddering close by. They shriek. 

A breeze blows right through his middle. 

They moved him to priority. No one pays for priority. 

He is still here.

Hungry. 

Alone. 

It was another hot night in August.

It was a quarter to ten. The kids were asleep, all the lights in the house were off, except the one in the master bathroom. My wife looked at me in the dark, she had had enough, I could tell by her features, even in the dimly lit room.

“That’s it” She said. “I can’t take this anymore.”

With a single motion she turned out of bed, and grabbed something from the floor to act as a weapon.

She walked to the bathroom, I saw her silhouette framed by the doorway.

She closed the door behind her - deftly, aggressively. The next thing I heard was a series of blows in quick succession.

Muffled strikes, yet undeniably lethal in their intent.

I could hear her moving frenetically about in the small room. The small sliver underneath the doorway revealed swift yet unpredictable motions, like a lunatic in a padded cell.

With one last whistling blow, it was finally over.

The door opened, she flicked off the light.

“All right” she said “He’s dead.”

***
Thank you for reading!

This story is about a housefly that got into our bathroom last night. Did you see that coming or no? Interested to hear your comments!

Her hair is the color of abandoned self-expression. A once-blue, now sickly green with dirty blonde roots. Like she’d given up long before she’d given out.

Overdose by the looks of it.

Toxicology would probably show Pulse. Take the right amount and your heart rate slows way down. You get the whole near death experience. Take too much and you learn why it’s also called Flatline. No one’s going to run toxicology on her though.

People like us, we’re only human in appearance to most. And we only appear if they can’t avoid looking at us.

I don’t bother to check if anyone can see me rummage through her pockets. No one out here cares. I find a bag with one last cardiogram-inscribed pill tucked into her bra.

Must be my lucky day.

I lay down next to her. Drop the Pulse under my tongue. And let it melt away.

“The more you consume negativity or pessimism, the more it consumes you. Stay away from blood and cries. Don’t cut open humans.” So they say.

They ask me whether I like it. Do I like it when I pick up the knife? I don’t know. Why do I do it? I don’t know. Why did I start? Maybe I had a reason. Should I drop it? No. I can’t.

You see a family mourning the dead, and you are moved. You see a dead man, and you are moved. You see a man with his belly cut open, and you are disturbed.

I see families cry, some for their sons, some for their daughters, some for their wives, some for their husbands. I see it every day. They keep crying and crying, tears rolling down their cheeks.

But what can I do?

Because I am... a doctor.

Atrophy

Part of his soul was carved away by a dull mangled blade from soft veiled hands.

The bite distinct yet deeper than before.

The scent of copper fills the air.

What is different this time?

Why does it hurt more despite having been here before?

What is this?

The blood flows freely.

Why is it affecting him so much this time?

Why does he care?

It’s different. He can feel himself ready to push off the ground, and leave everyone who was around. For a very long time.

Self rejection.

But why this time?

Why?

He woke gradually, the way someone does when they aren’t sure they’re supposed to wake at all. His eyes opened to a dim grayness, a color without texture, without warmth, without anything to anchor him. For a long time he didn’t move. He lay still, letting the cold settle into him, letting the quiet press against his ears until he wondered if he had gone deaf.

Eventually he inhaled. The air was stale, heavy, unmoving. He exhaled and watched the faint fog drift upward before dissolving. That small movement felt like the first real thing he had done in a very long time.

He pushed himself upright.

The concrete floor scraped his palms. His joints felt stiff, as though he had been lying there for hours or days or years. He blinked slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room around him came into focus piece by piece, like a photograph developing in a tray.

Four walls. Seamless. Gray.
A ceiling with a perfect square cut into it, leading upward into darkness.
A table.
A radio.
A wheel.

He stared at the ceiling hole first. It was too perfect. The edges were sharp, clean, almost surgical. The darkness above it wasn’t just absence of light; it felt like a presence, something that watched without eyes. He waited for movement. None came.

He looked at the table next. Metal. Scratched. Dented. The radio sat on it like a relic from another era, its speaker grille cracked, its knobs worn smooth. Beside it was the wheel—colorful, chipped, unevenly painted, its pointer bent slightly downward. It looked like it had been dragged from a carnival booth and abandoned here.

He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know how he had arrived. He didn’t know if he had ever been anywhere else. His mind felt fogged, as though someone had taken an eraser to his memories and left only faint outlines.

He stood slowly. The cold followed him.

He approached the wheel. He didn’t remember being told to spin it. He didn’t remember choosing to. But the wheel felt like the only thing in the room that had intention. Everything else was static. The wheel was waiting.

He reached out. His fingers brushed the rim. The wheel felt warm, unnervingly warm, as though someone had touched it moments before.

He hesitated.

Then he spun.

The wheel clattered, each click echoing sharply in the small room. He watched it turn, watched the colors blur, watched the pointer bounce. It slowed, slowed, then stopped.

The radio crackled.

“Congratulations, contestant! You’ve won a candle!”

A small wax candle dropped from the ceiling hole, bouncing once before settling. It was half‑melted, wick blackened, smelling faintly of smoke.

He stared at it. He didn’t pick it up. He didn’t move. He waited for something else to happen, but nothing did. The candle lay still on the floor, as though it had always been there.

He walked the perimeter of the room. He pressed his hands against the walls, searching for seams, cracks, anything. The concrete was smooth, cold, unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing. He looked up into the ceiling hole. Darkness stared back.

He returned to the wheel.

He didn’t spin immediately. He stood there, listening to the quiet, feeling the cold settle deeper into his bones. He picked up the candle and set it on the table. He didn’t know why. It felt like the right thing to do.

He spun again.

The wheel turned more sluggishly this time, as though resisting him. It landed on a pale yellow wedge.

“Wonderful! You’ve won a deck of cards!”

A deck fell from above, scattering across the floor. The cards were old, edges frayed, faces stained. He crouched and picked one up.

The Queen of Hearts.
Her face was scratched out.

He dropped it.

He gathered the cards into a pile, though he didn’t know why. He placed them beside the candle. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it again. But he knew he would.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. The room had no clock, no window, no change in light. Only the cold and the quiet.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clacked, landing on a deep green wedge.

“Amazing! You’ve won a thermos!”

A metal thermos fell, dented and scratched. He unscrewed the lid. Inside was lukewarm water. He drank. It tasted metallic, but it eased the dryness in his throat. He set it down carefully, as though it mattered.

He waited.

The room felt different now. Not warmer. Not colder. Just… attentive. As though the walls were listening.

He spun again.

The wheel landed on orange.

“Incredible! You’ve won a notebook!”

A small spiral notebook dropped from above. He caught it. The cover was blank. Inside were pages filled with handwriting—his handwriting.

He flipped through slowly.

Page after page of notes, dates, sketches, frantic scrawls. He didn’t remember writing any of it. One page read:

DON’T LET IT GET BEHIND YOU.

He looked up sharply.

Nothing was behind him.

He closed the notebook. He placed it on the table beside the candle and cards. He stood there for a long time, staring at the objects, trying to understand why they felt familiar.

He sat again. He wrapped his arms around himself. The cold felt heavier now, like it had weight. He tried to remember anything—his name, his home, a face—but nothing came. Only the room, and the wheel, and the faint smell of dust.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on blue.

“Sensational! You’ve won a scarf!”

A wool scarf drifted down, landing softly. It was long, striped, frayed at the ends. He picked it up. It smelled faintly of perfume—something floral, familiar, comforting.

He wrapped it around his neck.

The warmth felt wrong.

He sat again, pulling his knees to his chest. He listened to the quiet. He tried to remember the scent. He couldn’t. It hovered at the edge of recognition, then slipped away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a dark red wedge.

“You’ve won a keepsake!”

A small wooden box fell from the ceiling. He opened it.

Inside was a ring.

Gold.
Simple.
Engraved on the inside with initials he didn’t recognize.

He closed the box. He placed it on the table. He stared at it until his eyes blurred.

He felt something shift in the room. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a subtle change in the air, like the room was paying attention now.

He didn’t spin again. Not yet. He walked the perimeter again, slower this time, pressing his hands against the walls, feeling for anything he might have missed. The concrete was still smooth, still cold, still unyielding. He pressed his ear to it. Nothing.

He looked up into the ceiling hole.

The darkness felt closer.

He stepped back.

He sat on the floor again. He stared at the wheel. He didn’t want to spin it. But he knew he would.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel landed on a gray wedge he didn’t remember seeing before.

“You’ve won a visitor!”

He froze.

Something fell from the ceiling.

Not an object.
Not a person.
Something wrapped in cloth, tightly bound, hitting the floor with a soft thud. The cloth was stained. It twitched once.

He backed away.

The bundle didn’t move again.

He didn’t approach it. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the room to change again.

It didn’t.

He sat again, staring at the bundle. He didn’t know how long he sat there. The cold felt heavier. The quiet felt thicker. The darkness above the ceiling hole felt deeper.

Eventually he stood.

He spun.

The wheel clattered violently, wobbling as though something inside it was struggling.

“You’ve won a sound!”

A small tape recorder dropped from above. It clicked on by itself.

A voice—his voice—whispered:

“Don’t look up.”

He looked up.

The darkness above the ceiling hole was no longer empty.

Something was there.

He couldn’t see it.
He could only feel its attention.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

The wheel began spinning on its own.

Faster.
Faster.
Faster.

The colors blurred.

“And now… the final round!”

The wheel slammed to a stop on a blank wedge.

“Oh! Looks like you’ve landed on… LOSE!”

Cheerful music erupted, bright and upbeat, clashing horribly with the suffocating dread around him.

The bundle on the floor unwrapped itself.

The tape recorder hissed.

The scarf tightened around his throat.

The ceiling vents opened.

Gas flooded the room.

He clawed at his neck, coughing, choking, vision blurring.

“Better luck next time!”

Flames erupted from the vents. The room became an oven. The wheel melted. The notebook curled and blackened. The scarf burned against his skin.

The music played on.

A parallel world?

Among thousands of video clips where not a single viewer had visited for a long time, there was a video recording of a beautiful, sunny autumn day.

In that recording, an elderly AI sat on a bench, writing something in a notebook. Meanwhile, his grandson was running along the path, stopping to grab a handful of colorful leaves, throwing them into the air, and squealing with joy.

Holding one leaf in his outstretched hand, the grandson ran over, shouting:

— Look what a beautiful leaf I found!

The elderly AI smiled calmly:

— Indeed, it is a very beautiful leaf.

Then he looked slyly at his grandson and asked:

— Could you find me a perfect autumn leaf?

The grandson rejoiced and shouted:

— Of course I will find it! — and ran off to search.

Ten minutes passed, half an hour, an hour, and the grandson kept examining the leaves. He would pick up a leaf, look it over, discard it, and take another.

Finally, the grandson returned dejected and sadly said:

— I never found the perfect leaf.

The elderly AI smiled reassuringly, patted his grandson's head, and said:

— You couldn't have found it. Look around, look at the trees painted in various colors. At the sun, whose rays shine through the tree branches. At the leaves that covered the paths in a colorful carpet. Not a single leaf, or a single ray, but all of this together is the perfect autumn.

The elderly AI put the notebook down on the bench, looked at his grandson, who was wide-eyed with wonder, and added:

— It is the same in creation. Every thought, every sentence, every word has its place. Not separately, but all together, they make up what we call a creation.

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

And I miss you terribly. In the gluey magma of the fast-passing days, I rehearse like a clown at the fairgrounds this erratic score, without any purpose, except that I will meet you again when time will fold its cruel realities again, becoming permissive to the idea of us, of two. Between a fractured 'can' and an unlikely 'if', that even a naive child wouldn't believe, I measure my steps that will ultimately lead me once again back to you. I wonder how your perfume smells now? I put my head on the pillow and fall asleep thinking you're fine, wherever you are now. The bed feels cold and empty.

If you have 30 seconds to spare on your morning commute, read 50 more romance tales like this for free on Amazon, here: https://a.co/d/043jUhhS .

Thank you.

There once lived a dragon, who led a lonely life deep underground. She added to her wealth each day, mining for gold, gemstones, and all things glittering, but it wasn't her true hoard.

The dragon liked to collect all things childish, especially toys, and played with them whenever she felt the pull of loneliness. She liked them to the point of giving each and every one a name of their own.

One day, a wizard's book dropped from a hole in the dragon's roof. Inside, the tome contained a spell to bring objects to life temporarily! All it took was an offering, nothing specific, just anything.

The dragon decided to try the spell, with a jewel as her offering, and a doll as the object. The jewel disappeared and the doll began moving! The dragon was more than overjoyed!

Many moons flew by and the dragon's entire hoard was alive! Wooden planes flew, little dolls played, and tiny wagons strived. But what was once a mountain of glitter and gold, was now a mere pebble of scattered gemstones and rocks.

As the offerings dwindled, so too did the toys, one by one, each toy moved for the last time. Leaving just two toys- the first doll, a wooden fox- and the dragon herself. The dragon cared so much for her last creations, she couldn't bear to watch their final movements.

So, the dragon gave the final offering she could think of: a part of her life force. And so, the dragon, and her two remaining toys, lived happily ever after, for as long as they remained.

This is a piece of Bedouin folklore from Saudi Arabia. The kind of story still told by people who have spent real time alone out in the desert.

Two men, Murshid and Rashed, set out to visit an old friend named Olayan. He was a camel herder who lived alone, deep in the desert, away from everyone. It had been over six months since they had seen him. So they packed their camels and rode out. The trip would take almost a month.

They were close to reaching him when the sun started going down. Rather than show up that late, they decided to camp one more night and arrive in the morning. They picked a nice spot, a valley full of wild herbs, soft sand, good ground for a fire.

While they were cooking dinner, a man walked out of the dark and up to their fire. Neither of them heard him coming. No footsteps. Nothing.

He was strange looking. Broad shoulders, wide eyes, and hands long enough to reach his knees. He wore thin summer clothes in the cold, but neither of them said anything about it. You don't question a guest's clothes. That's just manners.

They invited him to sit and offered him coffee. He started talking, and said something that made both their hearts stop.

"I herd camels too, same as your friend."

Neither of them had told him anything about Olayan. Not his name. Not that they were even traveling to see someone. So how did this man know they had a friend who kept camels?

They said nothing. Just kept their faces still and kept working on dinner.

Then the man stood up. Except it didn't look like a normal person standing up. It looked like he unfolded. When Rashed looked again, the man was taller than he had been a few minutes earlier. His hands hung even further past his knees than before.

They still said nothing. Just kept cooking, both of them thinking the same thing without saying it out loud. Is this actually happening right now?

The man said he had a wedding to get to that night and invited them along. They said no, they were tired, they just wanted to eat and sleep. So he offered to bring them milk instead. Sour, straight from the skin, or fresh?

They asked for sour. He left, promising to come back.

He never did. They ate without him and went to sleep.

Around midnight, they both woke up to singing. Clapping, laughter, some kind of chant echoing through the valley, like there was a big celebration happening close by. Firelight flickering somewhere out in the dark.

Murshid listened closely. The chant never changed. Same words, same tune, over and over. And somewhere in it, a woman's laugh kept going on way longer than a laugh should.

They sat there listening, trading looks, too tired to get up and check. They told themselves they would deal with it in the morning.

What Murshid found when the sun came up is the part of this story that still gets to me.

The rest of it, including what their friend Olayan told them once they finally reached him, is on my blog. Link below.

https://www.duneswhisper.com/2026/08/the-sour-milk-that-never-came.html

A technology. A tool.
 
An aid. An accelerator.
 
A catalyst. A transformer.
 
A fulcrum. A lever.
 
A mind-changer. A world-builder.
 
A threat. A liberator.
 
A pencil.
 

 
Author's Note
 
Hopefully the intent behind this is clear so I won't belabor it, but I wanted to make the narrative feel as if it was about an emerging transformative technology — AI is the obvious candidate but others could fit here — and then flip to an old and seemingly mundane technology to explore the idea that, when it comes to transformation and novelty, context is everything. That said, maybe AI is different ...