01. Writer
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Sam Moore

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02. Theme
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Work

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Rozwell Kid:
Kangaroo Pocket

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04. WRITING
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I rustled my blankets, turned over, and glanced at the clock. 3:52 a.m. A little over two hours before that alarm clock would screech itself into oblivion, waking me up for work. Why is it that my brain can’t shut off when it knows it has to be up early? I need to be up in a few hours, I could hear it say. So now’s as good a time as any to run a mental marathon of every anxious thought I’ve ever had! 
I imagined my brain, all wrinkled and squishy, sneering at me while it told me this. “You bastard,” I said out loud in response to this nonexistent conversation. It’s a vicious cycle: needing sleep, can’t sleep, wake up sleepy, rinse and repeat. Day in and day out. 
What I wouldn’t give to just punt my brain like a damn football. Just walk it into the backyard, square up, and blast that sucker over the fence as far as I could. Watch it fly off and plummet like a doomed rocket back to earth, crash land in the neighbor’s yard. Watch their mutt gnaw on it like a toy. Ha ha. 
Sigh.
I rustle back the other direction and yank the blanket over my head and groan. My leg dangles off the bed in No Man’s Land, unprotected by a cover, exposed in demon territory. That’s how I know I’m tired. Everyone knows you are absolutely fair game to whatever ghouls lurk under the bed if your leg is sticking out. 
Try me, monsters. I’m too tired to care.
Is it possible to be too tired to sleep? I wonder. 
Lately I’ve felt especially tired. The kind of tired that seeps deep into your bones, burrows its way into your head. A heavy, thick, syrupy exhaustion that feels impossible to wade through. I work all day and spend all night in my homemade darkroom, hunched over trays and chemicals and images for hours on end. Photography is just a hobby, but what else is there to do in life except work and have a hobby? It’s nice making some prints and selling, oh, maybe one or two a month if I’m lucky, but I don’t know what else to do with my time or how to stop aimlessly chugging away at a thing I find fulfilling. 
By now I can see splinters of light cutting through the blinders and hear a bird or two chirping outside. Has that much time already passed that we are now passing from middle-of-the-night to beginning-of-the-morning? I rustle more without ever getting comfortable. My fan drones on, but even white noise can’t lull me to sleep. I make a conscious decision not to look at the clock from here on out until my alarm goes off--looking at the time now will only make me realize I have even less time to sleep, causing me to get even more anxious, making it even more difficult to finally pass out.
I’m. Not. Looking.

Five seconds later I am awake and the clock is screaming itself to death and I want to set the entire world on fire. 
I roll over and crumple out of bed like a bag of bones just spilled all over the floor. For a brief moment I consider this predicament: I have, essentially, slipped from one bed (my bed) onto a perfectly fine new bed (the floor). What good fortune! I think. Today I must be destined to sleep more! Who am I to argue with Fate?
Then I realize that if I don’t get up now--right now--I actually will stay put, accidentally doze off again, sleep through the rest of my alarm, miss my shift at work, get written up, then fired, lose my paycheck, and, thus, my room in this apartment. That would mean access to no beds, which is far less than the amount I have access to now (ie two: bed, floor). I could skip showering and give myself an extra ten or so minutes of Floor Time, but ultimately decide against it. 
Fate is cruel. I force myself up from the floor that desperately needs to be vacuumed with the same gusto I imagine the greatest heroes in history have channeled in their darkest moments, right before they turn the tide of battle and claim victory. Then I scratch my ass on the way to the kitchen and eat spoonfuls of peanut butter for breakfast directly out of the jar. 
I stand in front of the mirror wrapped in a towel, holding up my toothbrush in one hand and the tube of off-brand toothpaste (Crust™) in the other. I stare into my own face for the first time in a while and realize I look like shit. Like exhausted shit. No matter. All I have to do is show up at work and mindlessly stock shelves. They don’t pay me to look good.
I begin scrubbing the clumps of peanut butter out of my teeth when I feel a strange sensation in my head. It feels itchy, fuzzy, but not all over. More like a line of itchy fuzziness, straight as an arrow, circling the inside of my skull. For a moment I wonder if I’ve hit the level of caffeine intake that requires coffee first thing in the morning or your head starts to hurt (I’m only drinking a pot a day), but this feels different. I ignore it and continue brushing. 
I am nearly done when the strange feeling sharpens quickly and I immediately recoil. Something feels deeply, deeply wrong--I lean over the sink and stare at myself hard in the mirror and look for any sign of anything. My eyes dart back and forth, an urgent paranoia jutting out of my every cell. Nothing is happening as far as I can tell, but I feel like something is happening and the “not-seeing-but-feeling” feeling is making my skin crawl and I don’t know what to do except stare into my own face and wait.
This is when the top of my head flipped open like a lid and my brain crawled out like a sleeper agent awakening from its cryochamber. 

A burst of vapor puffed out, even made the psssshhhhhhh noise as my head opened up. My brain was now on the sink, staring up at me.
“Whuhhhduhhfuhhh?” I said through a mouth of toothpaste. 
“You can prolly close that,” my brain said, gesturing up. “Don’t want anything wandering in that oughta not be there.” I took note and closed my head. 
“What the fu--”
“Save it. You’re gonna be late for work.” My brain hopped down off the sink and started walking away. I realized my brain looked smoother than I imagined as it trotted off. Was it supposed to be that smooth?
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I don’t know!” it snapped. “I have no idea. I just need a break. I gotta get out of that head of yours. You’re a real mess, you know that?”
“What are you even talking about?”
“All these thoughts you’re having, all day long? I hear them all. And they are dumb. And mean. I’m working overtime just to keep you functioning, man. If I don’t take a break I’m gonna lose my mind.”
If I still had a brain I would ponder the thought of my brain losing its mind, but since I don’t, I didn’t. 
“So that’s it? You’re just...leaving? When will you be back?”
“I dunno,” my brain shrugged. “Haven’t really thought that far ahead. Why do you care?”
“I just feel like I’m supposed to have a brain.”
“Not my problem.” 
My brain lept up and turned the handle on the front door and swung it open. I followed it outside onto the sidewalk. It left tiny blotches of goopy juice on the ground with each step. 
“Wait!” I called out as it made its way onto the street. It turned and looked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be more wrinkly?”
My brain glared at me, then dove into a sewer drain. 

Just like that I was left standing on my apartment porch with a brain no longer in my head. I didn’t know what else to do so I said “shit” to myself and went back to getting ready for work. 
When I went back inside my roommate Jeff was up. He was having a morning beer at the kitchen table with his laptop open. Then again, Jeff operates on strange hours so this could be the equivalent of a night-beer for him. 
“Morning, buddy. Hey, you ok? You look like shit.” Jeff always had a way with words that way, knew just how to cheer a guy up.
“My brain unlatched my head and climbed out and dove into a sewer.”
“Ha! That’s hilarious, man. We all have those days.”
“No, I’m serious. That literally happened. Just now.”
Jeff paused for a moment, then downed his (night?) beer and set the can down on the table with a hollow clunk. His belly peeked out from under his Metallica shirt he’d been wearing for several days straight as he leaned back and sighed heavily.
“Shit.”
“That’s what I said.” 
“I was about to call it a night, but I can’t leave you hanging like this. Lemme see what I can do.” Jeff cracked his knuckles and began furiously typing away. 

To be honest I’m still not sure what Jeff does. He pays his bills each month to my eternal surprise and gratitude, but I couldn’t tell you how. He doesn’t work any sort of 9-5, doesn’t head off anywhere at night. Barely leaves the apartment, or his room for that matter. All I know is he’s good with computers. Maybe he’s a hacker. 
Neither of us had said anything for...how long now? Don’t feel like doing the math. It’s been a while, though. Once Jeff snaps into focus there’s no shaking him, so I sat there and let him do his thing. Cartoons played on the tv while his keyboard clacked away. A couple more cans had accumulated on the table next to him. 
“Hey, you told work you weren’t coming in, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“What’d you tell them?”
I shrugged. “The truth. Didn’t really have the mental energy to cook up a lie.”
Jeff pushed his glasses up, back into focus after they slid down his nose. “So you just told them your brain hopped out of your head and took off down a sewer drain? How’d they take it?”
“Not great. My supervisor was yelling something like ‘how dumb do you think I am’ or something like that. But as far as I can tell I did the right thing. Most people just lie when they don’t want to come in.”
“Huh, guess you got a point there. Anyway, come take a look at this.”
Jeff spun his laptop around on the table to face us both. It showed a complex graph accompanied by a map with multiple diverting paths. “So I did some digging to figure out where that sewer drain could lead to. I’ve narrowed it down to a few different places, if you wanna try and find it.”

“This is what you’ve been working on this entire time? How’d you even figure all this out?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jeff said quickly. “Worry about whether you’re gonna find your brain. As you can see, there’s at least a handful of different places that pipe could spit out at. But your brain clearly has a mind of its own, so something tells me it could end up going wherever it pleases once it finds an exit.”
“Yeah, he’s a real bastard,” I said.
Jeff shook his fourth can, listening for any of those last Secret Drops. He swigged them back and added the can to the growing night/morning collection. 
“So,” he began, suddenly serious. “We have some possible leads as to where your brain could be. It won’t be easy, it’ll take a lot of hard work, and there’s no guarantee it’ll pay off. Such is the risk of adventure. But we could track it down, get you back to normal, and save the day. What do you say? Are you up for it?”
I pictured a massive orchestra behind Jeff as he spoke, inspiring music swelling behind his words. I pondered what this could mean for me. Was I up for the call to adventure?
“Honestly, no.”
“Okay, thank God, man,” Jeff said as if he had been holding his breath. “‘Cause, me either. You wanna get high and watch Die Hard instead?”

“If this is their idea of Christmas, I gotta be here for New Year’s!” said Argyle on the TV, then walked out of frame. The credits started to roll. It was only nine in the morning but I had already watched Bruce Willis kill ten people. 
“Damn, that movie still rocks.”
“Yeah, man. It rocks a lot. How you feelin’, anyway? Your head okay?”
“Honestly, I feel...kinda great. I’m not at work, I’ve got nothing to do, and no pressure on myself to do anything despite that.”
Jeff got up and put the DVD in for the next Die Hard movie. “I’m real glad to hear it, man. I know I’m not one to talk, but you’ve seemed real cooped up lately. Either working all day at that awful job or tucked away in your darkroom, hunched over your supplies in the dark for hours on end like a damn goblin. Which rocks, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve been neglecting a very important art form lately, if you’ll allow me to say so.”
I cocked my head to the side. “What art form is that?”
“The art of being a lazy piece of shit from time to time. Now that I think about it, I bet that’s why your brain booked it outta here. It’s probably been running on fumes and needs to recharge. When’s the last time you just took a day to do nothing--like what we’re doing now?”
I thought back as far as I could but came up with nothing. “I don’t know,” I said.
“My point exactly. This is just what the doctor ordered, man. Here, let’s watch the next one. It’s basically the same as the first one, but in an airport.”
“Cool,” I said.

By the end of the day we had watched the entire Die Hard franchise. They really go off the rails towards the end. 
It was now dark out. Jeff and I were surrounded by a graveyard of empty beer cans and pizza boxes. There was still no sign of my brain by the end of the day, but I was surprisingly calm about it. 
“So, the third one is better than the second one, but the fourth one is better than the fifth one, and the third one is the second best, but none of them are as good as the original. I’ve watched them all enough to know. I’ve crunched the numbers and these are the official rankings.” Jeff leaned back with his hands behind his head, satisfied with his assessment. 
“I think you’re right, man.” 

A week had passed and I was still brainless. I had started going back to work (turns out it didn’t take much mental effort to stock shelves. I got written up for the first day I called in, but several other people called in the following day and they shifted their anger towards them instead), and spent my downtime playing mindless video games and watching cartoons. There was a part of me that felt guilty about not being “productive” outside of work when I had the time. I could be working on some prints, trying to promote them, if I’m (very) lucky sell a piece or two. But I would be lying if I said this was a nice change of pace. And that pace was “slowing down as much as possible for a while.” Basking in a season of recharge.
It was almost two weeks before my brain came around, appearing on my porch smoking a cigarette. 
“Welcome back,” I said.
It took a long drag and exhaled deeply. “Yep. Just felt like it was time.”
“What were you doing that whole time?”
“Traveling, sight-seeing. Doing a lot of thinking. What about you?” 
Bruce Willis popped in my head, saying swear words.
“Same,” I said.
“Glad to hear it. Look, you and I--we gotta figure out a system that makes this work. You know? Love it or hate it, we’re stuck. And in the past we’ve clashed and exhausted each other and fought and messed things up. So whaddya say? You scratch my ass, I’ll scratch yours. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said and we went inside.

01. Writer
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Sam Moore

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02. Theme
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Resentment

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Ryota Kozuka:
Camp Ichigaya

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04. WRITING
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     When I woke in the morning, there was a large black egg resting on the kitchen counter. It was chalky and scuffed, like an oval-shaped chunk of moon dipped in dark ink. The sight of it was jarring among the rest of my tiny apartment in a way that made it difficult to register. It looked wildly out of place here, but I can’t imagine a place where it would look like it belonged. 

     I carefully lifted up the object and found the touch of it surprisingly warm. It was about the size of a squash and equally heavy. You’re certainly not a rock, I thought, and I don’t think you’re a seed. But you’re no sort of egg I’ve ever seen. What are you?

     My mind started backtracking, running through any and all possible explanations as to what this was or how it got here. Was it some sort of prank? Did I bring this home in a drunken stupor from some strange vendor? Did I simply forget that this object has been here with me this whole time? The problem was, of course, that none of these explained it away. There was no sign of entry--no windows or doors left open or unlocked, nothing stolen, nothing else out of place. I wasn’t drinking last night, so my memory was in fine shape. I had a perfectly normal day. Worked, grabbed a few groceries on my way home, and read in bed until I fell asleep. 

     I wracked my brain further, but it got me nowhere. Besides that, I didn’t have time to think about it now. If anything, I was now a few minutes behind schedule and I found myself unnerved by the sudden appearance of this thing I couldn’t deal with. I scarfed down a quick breakfast (a slice of toast, an orange, and half a cup of coffee), and got ready for work. As I hurried out the door I thought I saw the object on the kitchen counter wobble ever so slightly, but I could have been mistaken as I was in a rush and didn’t get a good look.

     The subway was crowded, too crowded to find a seat. I stood between a man who kept sniffling loudly and another mouth breather with a bad case of morning breath. At least I could drown out some of the annoyance with my headphones--if I didn’t forget them at home while I was frantically trying to get out the door. I groaned. The ride lasted too long and everyone seemed to be on edge the entire way, packed away tightly like gunpowder ready to go off.

     As soon as the doors opened I pushed my way through. A brisk walk later and I was at work, slightly out of breath. Nobody said a word when I rolled in, so I assumed I wasn’t late. This was a mistake, of course. As I was draping my coat over my chair and getting ready to start, someone coughed behind me. It was a “trying-to-get-your-attention” cough. Nothing good ever follows those coughs. I contemplated ignoring it. My day would be objectively better if I didn’t receive whatever news was coming. I knew this wasn’t an option, however.

     “Morning, Mr. Brock,” I said.

     “What time is it?” His question came the split second I had finished saying his name, as if these few precious seconds were being stolen from him by having to interact with me.

     I glanced at my watch. “8:02, sir.”

     “What time does your shift start?”

     “Right now, sir.”

     “No,” he said firmly. Brock barely moved a muscle when he spoke. It was like watching an old statue learn how mutter sounds. “It starts at eight o’clock. Don’t make a habit of this.” And then he left.

     I sat down and began taking calls. 

     Most of the people I talk to fall into one of three categories. There’s the abhorrent, horrid customers. These are the ones that have a knack for exploding over things that are wildly out of your control at the bottom of the proverbial food chain. Then there’s the casually-cold, unfriendly types. They won’t curse you out or raise their voice, but you can tell they’re just looking for a reason to. And finally, there’s the ones that prefer to make the calls as quick and painless as possible. These types still aren’t a joy, but they at least get it over with fast. 

     The vast majority fall in the first and second categories.

     Selling insurance is the equivalent of being a punching bag. Follow the script, take your blows on the chin, and keep it moving. Nothing more than bodies to take the verbal abuse that the higher-ups deserve. 

     It’s a gig, right?     Several hours later and I’ve been berated enough to nearly forget about the black egg that appeared on my kitchen counter this morning. Can’t really stop and worry about it when I have to keep the calls, and the money, coming in. Worry about being able to pay your bills first, I tell myself. And then worry about your boss, about whether you’re expendable (I am, we all are), and what you’d do if something happened.

     Treading water, indefinitely. That’s what it feels like.

     My brain is cluttered enough with other things to worry about. There’s no room left for whatever it is that’s back at my house on the kitchen counter, waiting. I take another call and am immediately drowned out by the angry wailing of an old man, upset over something several leagues out of my control.

     For some reason I stop for groceries again on my way home despite the fact that I went yesterday. I tell myself I’m just being responsible, that I had forgotten a few things, that it’ll save me a trip later. It works to an extent, but deep down I know I’m putting off going home for as long as I can because all that awaits is one more problem to deal with. 

     The egg is still on the kitchen counter when I return. It hasn’t moved an inch. The sight of it, especially after today, makes my stomach sour. I realize now I didn’t truly have any time to process its appearance this morning, almost as if I could have imagined it in a groggy haze this morning. Now that I’m home with time to digest this fact I feel a thick, syrupy claustrophobia just being around it. Like I’m trapped in a sinking mire, slowly plummeting with nothing to grab hold of. Without even putting the groceries away I feel the object again and wonder if I’m just imagining things or if it really is warmer than when I felt it this morning. 

     I don’t know what to do with it so I don’t do anything. It stays where I found it. Perhaps it’ll suddenly disappear as quickly as it showed up. I tell myself this over and over knowing that it’s foolish, but right now I’m home and I only have a few hours to myself to let my brain shut off and not worry about anything else. The mind only has so much mental energy in a given day and once it’s gone it’s gone. By the time I get home every day I am drained and empty, and you can’t argue with emptiness. 

     I watch movies all night. The images flash over my eyes and I register the sounds coming from my tv, but it all washes over me like raindrops down a window pane. I absorb none of it. At some point in the middle of the night I hear a muffled pecking noise, but I ignore it and try to go back to sleep. 

     I arrive at work the next day at 7:57, three minutes before my shift starts. Mr. Brock remarks that I am “cutting it a little close” but turned and left before I could respond. There is no pleasing that man, I realize. It’s the same with sales. Bad sales are, obviously, upsetting. But good sales are just an excuse to push harder and further. They don’t bring contentment or celebration or a moment’s rest. They bring new goals that must be met, but at the same pay and with the same amount of workforce.

     These days it feels like my coworkers converse even less than normal, like anything spoken to someone other than a customer is forbidden. Maybe it is, to an extent. I am not close with any of these people, but I wish I had some meaningless small talk to keep my mind off the crack forming on the outside of the egg I saw this morning. I try to keep my mind off of it but it permeates my every thought, and I fumble several calls as I am unable to focus. Words become noise and lose meaning and these people do not like to repeat themselves if you don’t listen correctly the first time. It’s not that I’m not listening, it’s that I’m listening to too many things at once and I can still hear that muffled pecking like a metronome in the back of my head. 

     After work I desperately need a drink. I tell myself I deserve it, that it’ll help ease my mind for a moment. The dive bar is dark and mostly empty and I spend a good chunk of my night nursing a couple drinks and munching on the complimentary nuts while reading a book I had with me. I don’t want to be at home, so I drag out those couple drinks for as long as I can. A baseball game murmurs on the television and the bartender doesn’t make much noise except the occasional scrubbing of glasses. It’s a decent way to put off things I’d rather not deal with. 

     The crack has grown by the time I return home, splintered like cobwebs around the top of the black egg. I assume it won’t be long before whatever is inside finds its way out. The sight of it makes me dizzy so I turn off the kitchen light and retreat to the couch. Its oval silhouette is still visible against the darkness in the room, a disfigured shadow amongst other shadows. It makes me think of a home intruder hiding in the darkness. I ponder this and decide it’s an accurate description.

     A week passes by in a hazy blur. Mr. Brock reminds me every day that I’m cutting it too close when I arrive just a minute or two before my shift, the calls all blend together, and I barely manage to pay my bills with anything left over. One night I come home to find a paper tucked inside my apartment door. It is the landlord of the complex, thanking his residents for their continued punctuality on rent payments followed by a statement explaining that rent would be going up again in a couple months. This happens once or twice every year. All of the residents here, including myself, have come to expect this.

     Forever treading water. Always back to square one. Nothing on the horizon except more horizon.

     I’m becoming a regular at the dive bar. This should concern me but it’s become the “highlight” of my day. I find that this is when my mind is most shut off, and that’s all I can hope for these days. I order the same thing every time, sometimes mindlessly watching the tv, sometimes perusing my phone, sometimes reading. I still have barely heard the bartender speak a word, and this is fine by me. 

     At the end of the week the cracks have spread down the sides of the strange black egg. At night I hear whatever is inside pecking away, muffled and monotone, keeping me awake. The uneasy feeling it gives me is coagulating with viscous resentment. That gunpowder feeling beneath my skin. I don’t have the time or energy leftover to deal with this burden. 

     In the following afternoon I daydream solutions to this problem in between phone calls. I devise a plan to take the thing far away and leave it. Maybe some woods, I think. Leave it and never think of it again. Effectively turn this entire situation into nothing more than a bad dream that I can forget ever happened. 

     The day goes by normal enough until Mr. Brock announces we have to stay late tonight for a meeting.

     “And before you ask, it is not paid overtime,” he states. 

     The meeting is pointless fluff. All the basics are covered--how the company is doing, things we can do to make the work environment better (none of which include better wages, better hours, vacation time, etc), how to get sales up, and so on. It is painfully obvious that our boss is only doing this because his boss required him to so they can at least pretend to be communicative and care about their employees. Despite making ourselves miserable just to scrape by, the takeaway from these meetings is always that we haven’t done enough. After some time I zone out, my mind having spent all its energy for the day. Maybe Mr. Brock noticed this, and asks me a question that I don’t hear, probably some roundtable fluff where I’m supposed to give a generic answer about the work environment or the company. He calls my name again, snapping me out of it, and I ask him to repeat his question.

     “Are you with us?” he asks instead. “Or has your mind left the building?” His voice remains a lifeless statue-esque tone. “Let me tell you something--these meetings aren’t for me. They’re for you. For all of you. I’m doing this because I care. I want to see the company improve. I want to see you all improve. I already know all the numbers and graphs and data that I’m sharing with you all today. You don’t. So again, let me be clear. I’m doing this for you. Be grateful. And pay attention. Or, I can get someone else to take your spot. It’s that simple. Is this clear?”

     The entire ride home I am too livid to think straight. I resent my job and my boss and the black egg at home. I resent and I resent and I resent. I change course for the dive bar instead. It isn’t until after I’ve slammed a couple drinks and pay my tab that I get a notification on my phone that I’ve overdrafted my account and now have to pay a fee on top of everything else. Being poor is expensive, I realize. I leave feeling even worse than when I arrived. Treading water.

     I stumble inside my apartment, buzzed and angry and ready to pass out and forget the entire day ever happened. Without even bothering to turn on the lights I head straight for the couch, half asleep before I even make it. As I walk past the kitchen something catches my eye in the darkness. I stop. 

     On the counter are large chunks of something I can’t quite identify. They are nearly indistinguishable from the darkness of the room. I pick a piece up. One side is rough and chalky, the other is wet and dripping with something viscous. I realize I am a fool for not piecing it together sooner. The bottom of the black egg rests there like a bowl with jagged edges, the top half of it shattered, its pieces scattered around it.

     From the other room I hear a faint noise. Something like a wheeze, but more guttural. Painful. It happens again and again, as if forming a tempo. 1, 2, 1, 2. In and out. I’m frozen and wondering if I shouldn’t just leave now and never look back. The croaking continues, the only noise or movement in the house. I am unsure how long I stood still. My head and stomach were spinning and I had to grip the chair just to stay up.

     I crept into the next room, following the noise. A shape stood out in the darkness, rested on the floor in the middle of the room. The thing that was wheezing must have noticed my presence because it started to get louder, and the inky black shadow seemed to shift its look towards me. I fumbled against the wall for the light switch and flipped it on. 

     It was all mouths, and no eyes. Gaping holes with a gumless teeth were dotted around its entire elongated head like spots of disease had eaten away at it. The mouths surrounded a crude, ancient-looking beak in the center of its face, all of them painfully wheezing in and out like every breath was causing intense strain. Its skin looked like it was made of tar, still wet and dripping from the embryonic contents of its egg. It crawled on all four, its body somewhere between bird and reptile, like its shoulders should have wings but they didn’t grow properly while the rest of the body was designed to crawl and slither. Some of its digits were talons, others were like half-formed glumps of tissue and muscle that looked like weren’t yet ready for the outside world. Its tail lazily furled and unfurled as it looked in my direction. 

     The creature cocked its head to the side as if it were curiously pondering a question, and then struggled its way over towards me. This thing had only existed in the outside world for moments, but it looked like every second of its existence was agonizing. It moved slowly across the floor, every reach forward like it was climbing uphill and desperately trying to hold on. I froze. It wheezed and wheezed. It struggled on, its belly sliding across the floor as it moved, leaving a trail of fluid behind it as it went. The mouths clacked in between exasperated breaths, like it was hoping to eat anything that came its way. 

     When it finally reached me, it clung to my leg and wouldn’t let go.

     I let the boss call me for several days before I finally answered. The thought of Mr. Brock becoming increasingly angry day after day, wondering where I was or why I wasn’t showing up for work, gave me a certain sense of joy. When I finally answered he seemed unable to speak, perhaps surprised to finally hear from me.

     “Where have you been?” he asked after a pause.

     “At home,” I said as simply as I could while laying out a plate of food on the floor.

     “You had better have a very good excuse as to why you have been missing your shifts.”

     “I’ve been busy,” was all I said. I knew he could catch the petty cheerfulness dripping from my tone. The creature clawed at the pile of raw meat on the plate, and then stuck it in its many mouths, starting with the beak in front. 

     “I--you--this, this is not a very good excuse. But, as you know, I’m a level-headed and understanding man. Generous, you could say. Come in right now or you can kiss your job goodbye. This is your last chance. You need this job.”

     “I have everything I need,” I said, and hung up. 

     The creature had already grown over twice its size in under a week. Through trial and error I’ve found it prefers its diet to be raw. Sometimes I let it outside at night to feed on whatever it can find (it has learned to move fairly quickly already, and, despite its lack of eyes seems to be perfectly capable of finding whatever it needs). After a few moments it has cleared the plate but continues clawing at it, perhaps in hopes that I’ll notice and refill it. I pick up the plate and the creature nips at the sleeve of my shirt, which I now notice I haven’t changed in nearly a week. Its beak catches a pinch of skin and I start to bleed but I am sure this was on accident. The dishes are overflowing in the sink. I add one more to its tower. The creature scurries off, its mouths clacking away. Even its breathing has grown exponentially stronger, the wheezing decreased.

     The fridge is nearly empty, but this causes me no worry. In a few weeks more bills will arrive, but instead of wondering how I will handle them I find myself wondering how much more the creature has grown by then. My priorities are shifted, and this excites me. My entire life has been without purpose; nothing more than treading water. But this has changed. I have found something to hold onto. Something that needs me. I am no longer treading water. I have everything I need. 

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

---

02. Theme
–

Flow

---

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Marcus D:
Times Past

---

04. WRITING
–

I still don’t know how it got there. It just appeared that night out of thin air, planting itself against the wall. Tall, dark brown, old. Ticking back and forth. Left, right, left right. Perfect symmetry, counting out loud amidst the otherwise silent room.
I had woken up in the middle of the night from a heavy, dreamless sleep. I wasn’t anxious, or restless, so I’m not sure what it was that stirred me from such a deep slumber. Nonetheless, I was up, and going back to sleep didn’t seem probable. Perhaps diving into a book would lull me back to the dreamworld, I thought. If I’m awake, I might as well spend this extra time wisely. 
My paperback was laying face down on the kitchen table, right on the page I’d left it earlier. Some old mystery novel I found used for cheap, all worn out and falling apart like the slightest touch might cause it to crumble. It sat next to a cold, half empty cup of coffee. Maybe something to drink would help wash away the middle-of-the-night grogginess that clung to me. I rinsed out the cup, grabbed a teabag, punched some buttons on the microwave, and waited. Outside the city was asleep. Silent and still, as if the flow of time had abruptly stopped dead in its tracks. The lights were a frozen glow, unmoving and unblinking. No leaves scuttled by in the wind, no stop lights bobbing up and down. For a second I wondered if time was stuck--
--and then the microwave beeped. 
I grabbed my cup and my book and walked into the living room. This was when I noticed it--how had I not seen it before when I walked past? A looming grandfather clock, up against the wall, its metal pendulum swinging back and forth behind a case of glass. It was dark brown wood, very nearly black. The clock itself rested on top, above the pendulum in the glass case. It swung back and forth against a velvety black emptiness behind it. Spindles and spires sprouted from the head, like the tops of old castles and towers. 
I didn’t own such a clock. I’ve never even seen one like this before in person. Up close, it looked almost fantastical, like it had been plucked from the past and dropped in the present. Why was it here? Certainly someone wouldn’t have broken in and done the opposite of stealing. What other explanations did that leave, then? I had no working theories, nothing that stood up to the laws of logic. All I knew was that it had appeared for one reason or another, and planted itself in my room. In fact, in the dead of night while everything was silent and still, it looked as if it had always been there. Perfectly in place. Like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.
The tchok of the pendulum was almost hypnotizing. Maybe this is what woke me, I thought. This metronomic ticking must have stirred my subconscious, and I only now realized it. I set down my book and tea to take a closer look. Behind the glass was a deep, deep blackness. A thick wall of shadow. But behind that wall was something else. Something in the very, very back...a tiny, glowing speck, like the last ember in a dying fire--a light at the end of a tunnel? This isn’t just a clock, I realized. It’s the entrance into something else. For reasons I once again can’t quite explain, I needed to venture in and see what laid at the end.
I slid open the glass. It opened effortlessly as if it were inviting me in, and I stepped inside, ducking around the swinging pendulum.

I was now standing in what appeared to be a long hallway. A liquid black tunnel leading me...somewhere. It was too dark to tell how wide it was. I reached out, touched walls I couldn’t see with my own invisible hands. Just wide enough on both sides to get through comfortably. I reached up but couldn’t feel a ceiling. My room was still visible behind me, now on the other side of the looking glass, appearing in pieces behind the undulating pendulum. The tchok of its swing was clearer here, like pure splashes on a silent pond. No going back now that I’m inside, I thought. I journeyed forward, and realized my footsteps made no noise as I walked.
Never once did I feel out of place as I walked down this dark hallway, like it was a bad idea or that I should turn around. There was a magnetic pulse to it, pulling me in, deeper and deeper into whatever it held at its core. The appearance of the clock was strange, but inviting all the same. When strangeness seeps through one world and into your own, all you can do is accept its presence and follow its current like a flowing river. In this case I had to obey its own rules and logic, which meant stepping in and accepting the invitation. How could I ignore it? As I traversed further in, the emptiness emptied even further,  like I was losing myself, losing my form, melding into its liquid darkness, dissipating into an incorporeal entity hazily floating away…
Lost in thought, I hadn’t even realized I reached the end. I looked back--now, the pendulum and my room were the tiny speck at the other end of that long hallway. The pendulum was now just a distant, barely audible ticking. I had arrived.

I was in a large, rectangular room. White walls, shiny wooden floor. Pristine. Paintings hung up everywhere, blotting out most of the walls.
A gallery? This is what the clock had wanted to show me? 
Dead quiet. The pendulum was no more audible here than my own heartbeat. Not a speck of dust in sight. Dim lights hung overhead, not off but not completely on either, the in-between level of brightness when a place is closed but leaves a couple on anyway for whatever reason. No blotches, smears, nothing, which meant it had obviously been kept up. How strange! And what are these paintings of…?
I decided to look through them clockwise, starting on my left. First, an infant. Wrapped up in a cradle, sleeping soundly. The first batch of paintings were all similar, all featuring this same child. Next, an adolescent. Standing outside a school, entering a favorite cafe, bundled up and waiting for the train to arrive at the station, working their first job. All places I’d been. Could it be? Then--adulthood, arriving home late, pouring over emails, love, loss, falling apart, starting fresh--
“You see now, don’t you?”
The voice cut through my focus. I spun around, and saw a man standing before me. 
“Surely you’ve figured it out,” he continued in a rough, weathered voice. He was a short, older man, dressed in a security uniform. More eyebrows than eyes, more mustache than mouth, both the color of dirty snow. A cap matching his uniform rested on his head, and a ring of keys hung at his side. He stood straight with perfect posture, his hands folded behind his back.
“These are photos of me,” I answered.
“Got it in one,” the man said. “Perhaps you’re not as dull as you look!” He coughed up a raspy laugh, equal parts painful and joyful. Where had this man come from? He seemingly appeared out of nowhere. 
“What is this place?” I asked. 
The man bounced up one time on the heels of his foot and let out a deep breath. “Well, it’s yours, is what it is. That much is obvious now, isn’t it? Look around. Take your time.” 
I continued my way around the room clockwise, looking at paintings of different moments of my life. Different chapters. The pendulum ticked away quietly, far away. 
“How strange, the flow of time. Like a pulsing river. Some of those moments feel right there, don’t they? But it never stops, does it?”
“I suppose not,” I said. 
“And the flow--it only gets stronger and stronger.”
“It certainly feels that way.” I continued making my way around, looking back on moments and memories. The man was not wrong--they felt as chronologically close to me as ever, like I could reach inside and pull them out and relive them all over again. What I wouldn’t give to relive the bright parts, or to undo the dark ones, I thought.
“Seeing all these moments laid out together, it’s...odd.”
“Lotta feelings welling up inside you now, aren’t there? Can’t exactly be helped.”
“No, I guess not. It’s a lot to take in. But you didn’t quite answer my question. Where am I, really?”
The man huffed. His mustache flickered back and forth. “It’s exactly as it seems. A chapter gallery. These are chapters of your life that have come and gone, swept up by the flow. Those chapters were carried off and washed up here. You’re standing right outside the flow.”
“So right now, here, I can’t get swept up in the flow.”
“Got it in one.”
“And you?”
“I’m just the humble caretaker, nothing more. Someone has to watch over this place, right?” He jangled the ring of keys at his side. “Every chapter gallery needs someone to keep it nice and neat. I think I’ve done a fine job, if I do say so myself. Say, you alright there?”
The paintings had stopped, leaving an empty wall. The last frame before the paintings stopped was also blank. Something was stirring inside me, a strange swelling of dread, a rushing wave threatening to inundate me and pull me in.
“All those chapters,” I murmured. “They really don’t seem so long ago. And now they’re gone. And there’s so many of them. So many swept away by the flow.”
The man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, let out a grainy mmhmm between the cigarette in his lips to acknowledge he was listening while he fumbled for his lighter. “Don’t mind, do ya?” he asked as he lit. I continued staring into that blank frame, wondering what would go in it. He shrugged and blew out a cloud of dirty smoke.
“Yeah, they’re gone, those chapters,” he said. “But not really. They’re still here, aren’t they? They still happened. Swept away, but washed up here. The good, the bad, and, outnumbering them both, the somewhere-in-between. Nobody can take those away from you.”
“Still. It seems...sad, somehow.”
“Can’t think of it like that,” he said as he pocketed his pack. “Not sad, just is. The flow is wholly indifferent towards everything it touches. Besides, still a lot of blank space on that wall isn’t there?”
“And what’s this? This blank frame here, where the chapters end?”
The man exhaled, long, as if he had been holding his breath. “Ah, that. Well, that’s now.”
“Now?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Gotta explain everything, don’t I? Well, why do you think you’re here? The next frame needs a chapter. That’s you. This you. Swept away by the flow, you washed up here. You were drawn in, weren’t you? Like it was pulling you in? You’re the next chapter. The flow continues, and a new chapter will start. Those are the dots, all nice and connected for you in plain view.”
I reached up towards the blank frame, wondering if it would feel real if I touched it, then pictured my fingers melding into the canvas, unable to pull them out, as it absorbed me bit by bit. I recoiled at the thought. “You’re telling me--this me--is going in that blank frame?”
The man must have picked up on the worry in my voice. His brow furrowed like descending storm clouds. “Well, don’t sound so worked up about it! It’s the nature of the flow, isn’t it? Who are you to stand against it, like a heavy stone that refuses to be carried downstream? We’re all just pebbles against such a force. And that’s fine. Can’t change the way things work. You can only react to it. You’ll be alright, y’will.”
I was already backing away towards the black hallway that led me here. “But...it doesn’t seem fair...it’s not fair. Even you don’t think so, do you?”
The man huffed. “Doesn’t matter what I think. Or you, for that matter. Go on--take a look. Go back the way you came, see if I’m wrong.”
I was gone before he finished, his words floating behind me. I sped through the thick, palpable darkness, back towards the pendulum. I don’t care about the flow, or chapters, or any of that--I’m getting out, I thought. I was moving quickly, clumsily, stumbled, caught myself on a wall I couldn’t see. My palm ached as it slapped against it and kept me from collapsing. The tchok was getting closer--I could see it--how long is this hallway, anyway? Louder. Piercing. Time seems different here. Malleable. Liquid. I can’t tell if it’s flowing in multiple directions or none at all. But--the entrance--close enough to see through now! The pendulum was doing its dance. I could see inside my room. The glass was still slid open--I’m close! Only a few feet away before--
--a figure walked into view, into my room, in front of the grandfather clock I entered through, and I froze. They looked in, quizzically. I stared back from the darkness. For a moment, all was still. Then, I watched myself close the case, trapping me on this side of the glass, and walk back out of view. 

“I thought you said that I couldn’t get swept up by the flow here,” I said.
“And I wasn’t fibbin’,” the man said, sitting in a chair in the corner, smoking. “You can’t be swept up here. The flow doesn’t reach this place. But you already were swept up, out there. And now, here, this chapter is done.”
“I think I understand now. This chapter is done, but that means a new one is about to start. I think I saw that, on the other side of the glass.”
“Got it in one.” For a brief moment it almost looked like a smile had cracked behind his bushy, curtain-like mustache. 
“Then...I accept that.” 
“Well, good!” The man stood rose from his chair. “Not like you had much of a choice though, did you? You’re a pebble against the flow, remember? Still, it’s a good thing all the same. About time you reached a sensible conclusion.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now, the flow goes somewhere else.”
I stared into the blank canvas. My vision got lost in the emptiness but behind it, I could almost see bits and pieces of...something else. Like staring straight through a clear lake to the bottom. Glimpses into whatever was on the other side. Possibilities, I thought.
“I think y’know what you have to do next,” the man said.
I reached up, touching the blank canvas, as my fingers melded into it. 

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

---

02. Theme
–

Distant

---

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Lena Raine: 
Trance State

---

04. WRITING
–

            I stared down into a cloudy cup of coffee I had barely touched. Next to it, a plate with some sort of generic pastry with a tiny nibble taken out. I stirred the cup with a spoon and watched the cream swirl and churn like the warning signs of a terrible storm.

            “...Anyway, does that make sense?” she asked.

            I looked up. Her head was cocked slightly to the side with a look of genuine concern. The cafe was mostly empty, minus us, and the baristas. One person, presumably a student, sat in the corner with textbooks and papers that were strewn about in a big mess. An elderly man sat by the window with a newspaper draped across his lap and his head drooped forward. The occasional snore escaped his mouth.

            I met her eyes. Deep pools of dark blue, like the ocean at night. Too deep. I look away. Behind her, rain splattered the windows in a steady, monotonous tone that sounded like countless bubble wrap being popped simultaneously. The world seemed stuck in a groggy, lethargic haze. I rubbed my eyes, watched strange colors pulse and splash behind their lids.

            “I’m sorry, I--”

            “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she interjected. “You seem so...distant.” She said it without any trace of malice or indignation, as if she was simply stating a scientific observation. “Are you even here in front of me now? Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She considered it for a moment, glanced down at her hands like she was looking for something that wasn’t there as she organized her words exactly how she wanted them. “It’s like I’m talking to a fragment of you. A shadow. Like I simply think I’m speaking to you when in reality you’re in another world entirely, and this is just the residue that got left behind.”

            Lush keys and a subtle beat droned over the speakers like a gentle wave ebbing and flowing through the room. I swirled my cup of coffee again out of nervous habit and stared down and through its murky colors.

            “I’m pretty sure I’m still here,” I said half-smiling. “More than residue. Flesh and blood, right? Drinking a mediocre and overpriced cup of coffee and enjoying a rainy day.”

            She didn’t smile back. In fact, she didn’t do anything but patiently wait in hopes that I’d say something more substantial. At the bottom of those deep pools of dark blue I could see her grasping for something. Something to hold on to, something she could take away from this talk. Noiseless walls closed in our conversation, walls I couldn’t very well push away.

            “Look,” I said, filling the palpable silence. “I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m just tired. This happens sometimes. You’ve known for me for, what, how long? A long, long while. It’s like a cycle that comes and goes. You’ve seen it. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Sometimes I just have to thaw out, so to speak, the same way the branches do after winter so they can sprout leaves again. No need to worry.”

            Something told me she wasn’t convinced. Maybe she was still waiting for me to say more. Perhaps she was trying to get a read on me and see if I was convinced of what I’d said. The student in the corner was rapidly flipping through the pages in their textbook, evidently searching for an answer they missed. The old man by the window was still sound asleep, his newspaper having slipped off his lap and onto the floor. Another song similar to the last one played on, like one continuous blend of sonic waves. Noiseless walls, closer.

            “Really, I mean it,” I added.

She cupped her hands around her mug of tea, absorbing its warmth. She looked like she was formulating a response but simply, finally settled on “Okay” and took a sip of her hot tea. Was that all? Should I be relieved or worried by how quickly that ended? And why couldn’t I tell?

“Want to try it?” she asked, scooting her mug across the table towards me. The tea smelled like earth and flowers and tasted similar.

“It’s not bad,” I said.

“You ought to be a professional critic.”

“Maybe I will.”

We chatted for the duration of several more songs, catching up for the first time in a while. The conversation was much more relaxed and casual from here on out. This was her last semester before leaving for Europe to study abroad. I’d known for some time, but she didn’t talk about it much. When I asked her about it, she offered up only surface-level details and tried to sound modest. Underneath, though, I could tell she was about to burst with excitement. Maybe she found it the polite thing to do.

“Anyway, I have to get going,” she said after some time. “Closing shift tonight.”

“I hope you make tons of tips,” I said.

“Not likely. But thank you anyway.” She grabbed her umbrella, put on her coat, and stood up to leave.

“You know, even if you’re not here, it was good to catch up from a distance,” she said. Then, she was gone.

I stayed for a while longer. The rain continued to fall, warding off any more potential customers. The student left soon thereafter, leaving just me and the sleepy man by the window. I imagined he’d be there all night until the staff had to awkwardly wake him up and ask him to leave.

            I turned in a couple assignments online and tried to do some pleasure reading, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d reread a page several times, but none of it was being absorbed. Her words lolled around in my head, knocking into any other thoughts that tried to pass through.

            “...you’re in another world entirely, and this is just the residue that got left behind.”

            Residue. Was it true? If I wasn’t here, where was I?

            The groggy, lethargic haze the world seemed to be stuck in was lulling me into a tired staleness, like I could pass out any moment without even realizing it. I decided it was time to leave. I was no longer being productive, and trying to read was about as successful as trying to water a plant through concrete. Nothing was getting through. I still had barely touched my coffee or pastry and felt bad about throwing them away. To alleviate my guilty conscience I took another bite of the pastry so I wasn’t wasting quite as much, and I asked for a to-go cup for the coffee even though I probably wouldn’t finish it anyway. I packed up my things and left.

            The moment I stepped outside, it stopped raining. Or, to be more accurately, it hadn’t been raining in the first place. Not here.

            Instead of stepping out onto the gloomy, rainy sidewalk…

            ...I found myself in a vibrant, thriving forest.

Endless trees loomed like giants with outstretched limbs, splashed in heaping doses of glossy green. I watched leaves bud and spring to life before my eyes, like time was passing through them and speeding up the process. As real and unreal as anything I’d ever seen. I plucked a leaf off a branch--I had to see if it was real--and no sooner had another leaf sprout in its place. The wind made the forest appear as if it were taking in large gulps of air and letting them out slowly. A living, breathing haven. Almost as if it were sentient. I let the leaf go and watched it float off, carried away by the gale.

            Above was cloudless twilight, the sky perfect nightfallen blue. I looked behind me--the door I passed through in the cafe was replaced with an old, worn-out one the color of dead leaves. It stood there, detached from anything else, as if it had blossomed from the ground as a natural part of the woods. If I turned the handle and went back through that door, would I find myself back in the other world? Something held me back. Perhaps I didn’t want to leave the tranquility, or maybe felt that it wasn’t time to leave. Not yet. I turned and left the strange door where it was, guided by nothing so concrete as consciousness, but something deeper. A sleepwalker in a waking dream.

            If this is a dream, I thought. I’m not so sure. Why does it feel so strangely familiar?

I waded through this strange and peaceful forest, unsure of where I was heading, only knowing that I was supposed to be heading somewhere. How did I know this? Logically it made no sense, which, for some reason, didn’t alarm me. The illogical seemed to flow smoother here, and I was swept away in its current.

A gradual change started to take place, like a mask slowly being peeled off. The comfort of here started to drain. Something churned inside me. Worry? As I progressed further and further in, the vibrancy of the forest seemed to dwindle as if it were dying right before my eyes. Gradually, at first, as leaves changed from greens to reds, before plummeting into lifelessness and barren branches. This is when I realized--

            “This is where you’ve been going, isn’t it?”

            She was sitting on a tree stump as if she’d been waiting for me. The color had been completely sapped from every particle now, a black-and-white lens placed over the vibrant one. The trees looked were inky silhouettes, like shadows I could put my hand right through. The air had a cold greyness, and the moon above was crumbling concrete.

            “I get why,” she continued. “Why you’ve been coming here. Why you’ve been so distant, slipping off somewhere else. This place is really far away. It’s nice at first. Peaceful.Tranquil. A haven...”

A black leaf fluttered off a branch, but disappeared before it touched the ground.

“...but there’s nothing here for you.”

            Behind her a tree started to disintegrate, wisping away like ashes in the wind. The particles fluttered for a moment, and then were gone. It left an emptiness in its stead, like someone had rigorously erased reality.

            “I’ve been here many times,” I said, more to myself as a sudden realization. “I’ve never seen this happen before, though.”

            “That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been happening. You just haven’t noticed it. Maybe you haven’t wanted to.” Behind her the erasing picked up speed, an encroaching wave of emptiness that made a noise like crackling fire as it removed everything in its path.

            “Why wouldn’t I want to notice this? It’s all going to be swallowed up. Then what will happen? Where will I go?”

            “I don’t know,” she said as the next line of trees disappeared behind her. “That’s not for me to say. I’m just glad I found you here. Like you’d finally let me find this place. And find you.”

            The erasing was louder, closer, right behind her. An invisible inferno eating everything in sight.

            “It seems like I was too late,” I said.

            The tendril-like roots of the stump she sat on started to fade. “I don’t think it’s too late,” she said as the erasing grabbed the base of the stump. “But you can’t stay here anymore.”

            I tried to respond, to say anything at all, but before I could she was gone, just as everything else was going, and I was hurtling back through what remained of this place like I’d been tethered by a long string and violently yanked backwards, the trees turning to comets of light trailing beside me and the crackling invisible inferno swallowing everything up just as I reached the door I arrived through that was already open and waiting and I fell through into a shimmering glow--

            --and groggily churned to life like an obsolete machine, rubbing my eyes and seeing more strange colors pulse and throb and then wash away as everything clicked back into focus. I felt like I was coming out of a dark tunnel and seeing light for the first time in days.

            “Ah, there you are. Welcome back,” said a voice. It belonged to one of the baristas. He was wiping down a table a few feet away. It was dark out, and the rain had stopped. There were no other customers, not even the old man who had passed out earlier in the middle of his newspaper. My book lay open, exactly where I’d left off, the same page I’d tried reading over and over to no avail.

            “We’re just about to close,” the barista said. I must have looked very disoriented, because he was holding back an amused smile. “You want a to-go cup for your coffee?” he asked. Some sort of vaguely-human noise must have lazily spilled out of my mouth because he returned a second later with my drink swapped from a mug into a paper cup. I thanked him (I’m fairly certain), and stumbled out onto the wet, grimy sidewalk. The jarring, cold night air swept away the lingering grogginess as I felt myself return to concrete, flesh-and-blood personhood again.

            Hazy images drifted in and out of my mind that night. Images of a strange door and a familiar face, of green being eaten up by emptiness. A place I’d been slipping away to too often without even knowing. That dream (if it was a dream--it felt more like a place I had actually traveled to while my body remained here) had jostled something loose in this world; a cause and effect that stirred something up inside me. Residue or not, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was changing. As I drifted off to sleep I thought of doors closing, of distances disappearing, of leaving empty places behind.

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

---

02. Theme
–

Almost

---

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Dinosaur Jr.:
Over Your Shoulder

---

04. WRITING
–

Almost out. A few minutes more, probably. I try not to stare at the clock too much, especially towards the end of my shift, lest it freeze out of shyness. That’s what I’d do, anyway. The mountains of dishes had been chiseled away, scrubbed and placed back properly. Plates, utensils, bowls, too many to count. My hands were dried out, like they’d shrivel and crack and turn to dust if I kept it up any longer. A quick glance at the clock--one split-second look wouldn’t freeze it, right?--told me enough time had passed that I could leave. Almost. Close enough, anyway. I didn’t want to keep Viv waiting. Not today. I figured it was fine rounding up just this once.

“I’m out,” I called back to the chefs on duty, two mammoth figures on the same roguish wavelength. They weren’t twins, but Clint and Cliff might as well have been. Two thundering, awful, lovable dumbasses with a tendency to talk trash. Like those two old guys from The Muppets, if they were four beers deep. “You guys have fun.”
“More fun now that you’re gone,” Clint called out without missing a beat.
“Yeah, would you leave already? I’m trying to enjoy my dead-end job here!” echoed Cliff. Exaggerated and devilish laughter from their own one-two punch. Their own biggest fans.
“My pleasure,” I said, flipping them off with both hands as mightily as I could as I began to leave.
Cliff put both hands over his heart in mock pride. “There you go, little man. We’ve taught you well. A classic and reliable response, always.”
“You know this is just how we pass the time,” said Cliff. “The day we stop being insufferable towards you is the day you know we’ve stopped caring about you altogether.”
I threw my jacket on, struggled my arms through the sleeves. “Makes perfect sense.”
“We’ve all got our own ways how we cope with this strange world. Speaking of which, you see all that weird stuff happening downtown?”
I froze with my hand on the door. “No,” I said. “What stuff?”
Cliff already had his phone out. Apparently they’d been following whatever this was all day. It was a miracle anyone ever received their orders here with these two helming the station. Cliff found what he was looking for and excitedly planted his phone directly onto my face. “Look,” he said excitedly, as if it were possible to not. I snatched the phone from his catcher’s-mitt hand and held it at a visible distance. A social media feed all posting about the same thing. “Wtf is that?” “How’d that just...appear?” “Weird shit!!!!!” “COOL-ADMIN” “yo this blew up, check my soundcloud at…” “should i be worried???” Pictures accompanying short bursts of consciousness.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. Or, couldn’t tell if it was real. A giant bubble had encapsulated an entire block of the city. Stretched to the skies, engulfing tall buildings whole. The color and texture of dreams. Difficult to see through from all angles, but this much was easy to tell: everything inside the fluid-like dome was frozen. Unmoving. Those encapsulated looked like statues of shadows through the filter of the strange bubble. Cars stuck mid intersection. A bird suspended on an invisible string. Like fossils stuck in amber.
I gathered up all my thoughts and spat them out in one scholarly glob. “The hell?” I asked.
“I know, right? Wonder what it’s all about.”
“A giant bubble froze a city block in time and you didn’t tell me all day?”
Clint shrugged. “You looked busy.”
“We can’t be expected to tell you every little thing that happens,” Cliff added. This, coming from the same person who once called me in the middle of the night to tell me his dog, Bastard, had taken a shit so big “I wouldn’t believe it and needed to come over right away.”
I kept scrolling through the newsfeed. Looks like nobody knew why this bubble had appeared. Not fair, I thought, that the world could be such a strange place and we were all expected to just roll with it. I scrolled more. Finger flicks up, blurr of words flies up, more take take its place. Something was stirring in the back of my head. What was it? The gears turned, slowly, rusted and aching. It all clicked at once--how did I not notice before?
“That’s Viv’s block,” I muttered, barely audible. A second later I was outside on my bike, speeding downhill, tunnel vision to the bottom, the world blurring away beside me.

It’s actually pretty beautiful, up close, I thought. Like a glimmering accessory on the ground to match the sky above. Dusklight reflected off the surface of the bubble in purples and oranges and blues. Swirling and strange in design. Had it grown since I left work, or did it just seem bigger now that I was up close? A smattering of people had gathered around the bubble, eyes glued, pointing and talking amongst themselves and asking questions nobody knew answers to. Others walked by as if they didn’t even notice, or didn’t have the time and energy to care anymore about every little thing that happened. Just another strange occurance in a world with no short supply.
“Just what I need,” barked a gruff-looking man leaning on a street lamp. Gruff wore dirty overalls and was more mustache than face. “This thing’s keepin’ me from getting back home. Game’s on.”
“Uh, I’m sorry,” I managed to squeak. “Here, watch this.” I leaned my bike on the lamp post and took off.
“Ha! Good luck gettin’ in there,” Gruff spat from behind me. I imagined his mustache started flapping and flew him to the nearest dive bar to watch whatever game he spoke of.
I got right up to the surface. Close enough to seem like the bubble was the entire world, and there was nothing else. Slowly, I lifted my hand to touch the edge. A sort of distorted frequency emitted. A pushback. Like two magnets repelling each other. Like it was trying to keep me from getting through. I applied some pressure, felt like my hand was pushing through a wall of jello, then said screw it, and lunged.
Crossing over was easier than I expected. After the initial resistance I passed right through. Inside time stood still, yet I was still able to move. The people inside had all been painted over in one solid color by a light that wasn’t quite light. They looked like the colors you seen when you rub your eyes vigorously, but brighter. The sky above was still beautiful, filtered through the bubble. Inside was quiet, but something could be heard emanating from the heart of the psychic-dome. A song? Apparently music was one of the few things that didn’t freeze up, piercing through the otherwise silent dome.
I felt like I was walking through a painting. Was any of this real? Maybe the reality of the situation didn’t matter as much as the situation itself. It didn’t take me long to figure out the song bore a connection to Viv, either. Using the sound as a compass, it was leading me to her apartment building. I walked past figures bathed in bizarre light and still tried not to make eye contact with them, past taxis and bikes and busses, all stopped dead in their tracks, until I found myself at the base of Viv’s apartment.
I went inside and started up the stairwell. The song grew louder, drawing me in. A number of agonizing stories to the top and I had arrived. Her door was wide open, which initially alarmed me, but I guess it didn’t matter if the rest of the world had stopped moving. The TV was stuck on un-moving white noise. A number of DVDs laid out on the table next to empty cans and a box of cereal. Boxes packed up, an empty kitchen, floors swept clean. A place about to belong to nobody, soon. I ignored the empty spaces and went outside to her go-to spot on the shoddy balcony where Viv was leaning on the railing, cigarette in hand, staring out into the lavender dusk.
She hadn’t noticed my arrival. A gloomy glaze settled over her, like she was staring right through the sky itself into nothing. I walked up next to her, mimicking her pose on the railing. She turned and sort-of smiled, pushed strands of dark hair out of her eyes.
“Oh, hey,” she offered up. Next to her the cassette player song on, “Hey, look over your shoulder. Hey, it’s me getting older.” Viv turned it down.
“I love this song,” I said.
“How’d you get inside here?” she asked.
“I dunno, I just sort of did.”
“Huh,” she said, took another drag. “Guess I must have wanted to let you in.” She held out a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but made an exception. Seemed like I was supposed to, anyway.
“So you’re saying this was all you?” I said, struggling to get the lighter to flick. The cassette player continued singing. “You came cause I told you...” Viv let out a long grey cloud. “It’s almost time for me to leave, you know.”
“I know.”
“I think I just wanted to stay here, just for a while, and accidentally let out of a blast of subconscious psychic energy and it did all this. So scared of time moving forward I stopped it all together. I think it drained me pretty bad. Like my batteries need to recharge. Just one of those things, you know?”
I didn’t know the feeling, didn’t know what to say. “I know the feeling,” I finally settled on. Shit. Viv continued. “I’m excited for this next chapter of my life. The last couple chapters were rough. Like someone else took over the writing in the middle of a book and it went off the rails. I’m finally ready to get things back under control. So why am I so sad right now?”
I let a billow escape from my cheeks and snubbed out my cigarette. “Endings are always sad. Even the good ones are sad, because it means something is over. But this next chapter is going to be a good one. I promise.”
“I know it will, but…” Viv trailed off, exhaled, her cloud dissipating just as quickly.
“Hey, look. Your subconscious field of energy or whatever probably won’t pop for while, right? Forget everyone out there, forget everyone in here. Why don’t we just enjoy it for now, and let your batteries recharge?”
Viv paused. The cassette player filled the void. “You’re gone, but it can’t be wrong.”
“You sure?” she finally asked.
“It’s pretty cool in here. Besides, you’ve always had my back.”
“Ha.” A laugh, almost. “Damn right.”
Viv lit another cigarette, and handed me another as well. Each breath existed for a moment, a hovering cloud of smoke that danced and twirled and then disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, like it burnt itself out and needed to escape, the song in the background droning on, “You’re gone, but it can’t be wrong,” while we waited for the bubble to burst and the ending to come so the next chapter could start and have an ending of its own.

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

---

02. Theme
–

Junk

---

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Smeyeul:
Bedroom

---

04. WRITING
–

The first few nights it happened, I ignored the noise, passed it off as the creakings of our old house, or something else just as ordinary and mundane. This particular night, however, was different. I laid in bed, sprawled on the mattress that rested directly upon the floor, all the junk of my bedroom scattered around me in a mess. Pale moonlight poured in, passing through my curtained windows as easily as water seeping through a net. The light always fell directly onto my bed, onto me. Sometimes it was beautiful, other times it kept me awake. Tonight it was the latter, which meant I was conscious to hear that same noise again.

It was like a metal creaking. Like a hatch being opened, gratingly, then closed. My room was just on the other side of our porch outside, and the noise sounded as if it were happening right outside my room. This time I got up, rose from my messy room, and went to the door. I peered through the window at the top. A blob of shadow had formed at the base of the porch, but the night made it impossible to make out. I flipped on the porch light and the blob of shadow took visible form.

Someone was delivering mail to me in the middle of the night.

They looked like a postman from a hundred years prior, complete with a cap (with some sort of insignia on it), dark button-up uniform, and satchel. It looked as if he had just wandered from a different age to be here, in the present, at my house in the dead of night. He was ghostly pale and had a 5 o’clock shadow with a sagging, worn face, like he had just been woken in the middle of the night and asked to do this bizarre job against his will. When I flipped on the light he sluggishly looked up for a moment, hanging his gaze on me. He obviously knew I was there, but this didn’t phase him at all. To him, whether I watched him work or not made no difference at all. He reached into his bag, pulled out a letter, and placed it in the mailbox. Then he closed the lid, which made that same creaking noise I had heard for several nights in a row, and left.

What do I do? I wondered. The image of this man wandering the night, delivering mail in the dark, felt too strange for me to form a cohesive decision. Mail isn’t delivered at night. This makes no sense. Perhaps I’m still dreaming?

I certainly felt awake, though. This world was solid and concrete, unlike the dreamworld. I could flip on the lights and feel the switch, could touch the door and feel the handle, could feel that glob of muscle beating against the inside of my chest as if it were impatiently beating on a locked door.

The postman sluggishly sauntered off into the night. I sheepishly opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The night air was cold and pricked my skin, and quickly washed away any leftover thoughts of “this is just a dream” that still lingered. I glanced down the street and saw no sign of the postman. Not even a blob of shadow trudging its way into the dark.

I didn’t want to open the creaking metal mailbox and retrieve whatever that man had left. The whole experience had altered how I perceived the thing, like I’d be prying open the mouth of some strange beast and reaching inside.

I did it quickly, slammed it up, and went inside. The letters got thrown on the kitchen table in a pile of other junk, and I went back to bed.

Maybe I’ll walk up tomorrow and find that none of this really happened, I thought. But I knew that wouldn’t be the case.

As I expected, the letter was still there in the morning.

I looked down at the table covered in junk--papers, ads, a wadded up cardigan, more unopened letters, and that bizarre letter delivered by night. It had no address listed, nor a return address. Not even a stamp. The only thing present on the envelope was the inky black seal holding it together--an open eye in front of a black crescent moon. The rest of the envelope was empty and barren. I lifted the letter from the stack of junk on the table and stared at it. The seal--the eye--stared back.

“An eye and a moon,” I mumbled out loud into a mug of coffee. “The moon makes sense. You were delivered by night, after all. But what’s this eye?” Something about the eye made my insides churn and swirl, as if the eye was watching me back, waiting for me to open it.

“Well, there’s no writing on you. No address listed, or a place I could send you back. That means there’s no way for me to know that you were intended for me. Were you supposed to be delivered to someone else?” I asked the letter hopefully.

The letter did not respond, but it did blink.

I smacked the letter face down on the table. “Now you’ve got nothing to look at except this table. How about that?” I muttered. Then I went about my day, trying to put the whole ordeal out of my mind, telling myself I had only imagined it, that I was just groggy and seeing things.

My co-worker rambled on while we stood in the back, working our line stations, preparing the food as it came through for our meger little restaurant. He did this--his rambling-- non-stop, every shift.

“I’m just saying,” he began, waving around his tools as he spoke, “think about it. If we, as human beings, never had to sleep, wouldn’t that be incredible? I get that sleep is like, mentally beneficial too, but I think I’d be fine. I could handle it. I know I could. Think of all the stuff you could get done with all that time.” The orders kept coming through, but we’d done these tasks over and over countless times. We could zone out and work on auto-pilot by now no problem.

“You know what I’d do?” he continued. “I’d catch up on all the entertainment I’ve been putting off. Lotta good TV shows and movies out there I’ve been sleeping on. It’s hard to keep up with it all. Know what I mean?”

More orders came through. The head chef yelled some orders. My coworker and I continued chopping and prepping vegetables.

“Anyway, what would you do? You know, if we never had to sleep. You got anything you’ve been ignoring? Anything you’ve been putting off?”

His words were only partially reaching me, like some far-off transmission that was coming through crackling and broken.

“Hey--did you get any of that?” He waved a hand (which held a prep knife) back and forth, trying to get my attention.

I snapped out of it and looked up. “Did I what?”

My coworker laughed one firm syllable of laughter that sounded like half joy, half coughing up a rock, and shook his head. “You didn’t get a single word I said, did you?”

“Of course I did. You were saying…”

He held up a hand. “Save it. I’m just bullshitting anyway, trying to pass time. Are you alright, though? You seem kind of out of it.”

I was thinking of that man appearing at night to deliver letters, thinking of the letter with the mysterious seal, thinking whether it blinked at me or if I’d imagined it, thinking of which would be worse if one of those had to be true, thinking of...

“I’m not out of it. I’m--I’m totally in it. Just tired.”

“Totally in it. Sure.”

After a month, I had a box full of letters all delivered by the same postman at night. He had continued to appear every few nights, leaving more and more letters each time, all bearing the same seal with the eye in front of the moon. I heard the grating metal creak of the mailbox every time he appeared. I still hadn’t opened a single one, but I also couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I’m not sure why. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind I assumed they’d just find their way back anyway.

One night I decided to approach the issue directly. The buildup of letters, the creaking mailbox every few nights, the seals all wanting to stare at me, it all became too much to ignore any longer. I stayed up and sat on the porch with the light on, sipping a mug of coffee and waiting.

The night was cloudy and cold. Crunchy leaves skitted down the street in the wind. The branches of trees bobbed up and down like waves. A crescent moon hung in the sky, partially obscured by puffs of cloud.

What am I doing? I began to wonder after some time had passed. I’m out here freezing, waiting for some stranger in the night to appear so I can do what, exactly? What if they never show up, and I waste all this time waiting around? I feel like a fool, sitting here in the middle of the night in the cold. What’s the point?

As these thoughts came flooding to my mind, something happened: the streetlights, one by one flickered out, like a wave of darkness sweeping down my street. The cloudy sky offered little visibility. It was now just me and my little porch light in a sea of black.

A glob of shadow stepped into view at the end of the street. It didn’t look like anything in particular at first, but took the form of a man the closer it got, passing under the now-dark streetlights. It reached the end of my driveway, and when the glob of shadow had reached my porch, it became the postman from before. He wore the same uniform and cap (which I now saw had the same seal as the letters on it), and had his satchel of letters slung over his back. He trudged slowly as if he was an old, crude machine running on fumes.

“I knew you’d show up eventually,” I said.

The glum, exhausted-looking postman grumbled a low noise, not quite a laugh. He said, “Is that right.” It was a deep, flat statement, barely a question. Then he reached into his bag and removed a stack of letters.

“Guess I don’t need to use the mailbox, since you’re right here,” he said. He took one step up without actually stepping onto the porch and held out the stack of letters for me to take.

I sat there without saying anything. The man lowered his arm and stood at the base of the porch, giving me a look that said are you really going to keep me waiting?”

“Who are you?” I finally said.

The man groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t got time for all this,” he said. “You’re not my only stop, you know.” The man took a thermos from his side, emptying the last few droplets of its contents. He tipped it upside down, saw that nothing came out, and said, “Just great,” under his breath.

I stood up. “If I invite you in, will you answer some questions for me? I’ll give you a refill for your troubles.”

The postman walked past me, opening the door himself and leading the way in.

“Better make it quick,” he said.

The man guzzled his piping hot thermos without pause as we sat inside. He took a loveseat in the corner. I sat on a couch in front of a coffee table. The man finished his entire scalding drink in seconds and let out a long sigh as he lounged back in his chair. He looked as if this was the most comfortable he’d been in a lifetime.

“Hot as hell and black as death. Just the way I like it,” he said. “I’ll take another.”

Is this really such a good idea? I wondered as I got up to refill his thermos. Here I am with this odd stranger of the night in my house, sipping drinks and acting like this is completely normal. This could go south very quickly.

As soon as I had refilled his thermos again, he slugged down a good chunk of it in one go. “Traveling at night, the way I do--it takes a lot of energy. Gotta stay fueled up,” he said. His eyes still rested above layers of exhausted shadow, his cheeks still drooping like raindrops running down glass, but this had at least perked him up a tiny degree.

“Listen,” I said. “I know you’re not…”

“Like you? Yeah, you’re not wrong. Guess delivering mail in the middle of the night was a dead give away, huh? I’m somethin’ else.”

“Then what are you? Who are you? Why are you delivering these strange letters to me in the middle of the night?”

“Me? I’m just doing a job. Some things can only be delivered at night, so it falls on me to make sure they reach their owner. Even you should be able to understand that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said defensively.

The man took a long sip from his thermos and exhaled a loud, tired sigh once more. “Maybe you oughta actually read one of those letters. Ever think of that?”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“I’d know,” he said instantly, not missing a beat, staring right at me without blinking. “I’d know if one of the seals cracked. Just one of the things I can do. I tried getting your attention with them--see if you’d notice they aren’t just your usual junk mail you can ignore. But right now, all those eyes on the seal are seeing is black. Can’t see nothin’ at all, which makes me think you’ve stashed them away in a box somewhere.” Another long sip, and then, “Am I wrong?”

I paused before answering. A long, icy pause. “These didn’t seem like the type of letters that I’d look forward to reading.”

The man chuckled a cynic’s laugh.“‘Course not. But what are you gonna do? Let them stack up to the heavens? Let their numbers grow until you can’t count them anymore? You can throw them in a box and stuff the box in a corner, but it’ll still be there.” As he was speaking, his face changed.

“Ignoring them don’t make them disappear,” he said through voices and mouths and rows of broken teeth and empty eyes.

“They’re still gonna be there each day you wake up.” Two horns, one chipped in half, burst through his cap.

“They can’t just rest in a box, like a pile of junk. So you gotta do something about it.” Wings that covered the walls and windows like ripped, black curtains sprouted from his back. The room--the house--shrunk, as if it was a single small room with just this thing and I.

“Then what--what do I do?” I asked earnestly.

“Well, open one up for starters,” he said plainly. The man was back to normal. He adjusted in the chair as if it’d suddenly grown uncomfortable, then rested easily again. “Then, you gotta write it back. You can use the same envelope it came in. The seal will reseal itself. Don’t even gotta write nothin’ on the envelope. No need for a stamp. Just leave it in the mailbox at night and I’ll take it where it oughta go. Even you can handle that much, right?”

I leaned back on the couch, sighing in relief that this strange man, and the room, had gone back to normal. I stared up at the ceiling, letting my mind catch up for a moment. “I don’t know whether you’re...good, or bad, or what,” out loud, unsure whether I was asking him personally or just letting my thoughts slip out.

“I’m not nothin’. Don’t know anything about that stuff. I’m just doing a job, remember? What you do is none of my business. All I gotta do is get the letters here. After that, it’s on you. I’m just telling you what to do with those letters, if you so choose, since you haven’t figured out yet that you actually have to open the things. Now, refill me for the road.”

I did as he asked and saw him out. The postman stood up slowly, like a pile of bones trying to come back to life, and trudged out the door. He glugged down a huge portion of blazing coffee, exhaling a cloudy breath visible in the night. “Still got a lot of stops left tonight,” he grumbled. “But this oughta get me pretty far.” He lifted the thermos like he was toasting--probably the closest thing to “thanks” I’d get out of him--then stepped out of the porch light and into the dark, reverting back to a glob of shadow as he did so before disappearing completely, as if he were never here at all.

I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep just yet, so I went upstairs and took out the box of letters. I picked one at random, and opened the seal.

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

---

02. Theme
–

Balance

---

03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Uyama Hiroto:
Yin and Yang

---

04. WRITING
–

At some point, the night had stopped arriving as it ought to over our town. Most days were blanketed in daytime and sunlight, and the night would only arrive in fits and spurts. It would appear at random, sometimes only for a few moments and, at best, maybe half an hour, as if were nothing more than a large cloud that had passed in front of the sun and billowed away shortly thereafter. Then the night would fade away like a heavy fog at dawn, and the world would be coated in an orange glow once again.

            A couple times a week I would work at a small restaurant in town, washing dishes after school. Walking home late at “night”, the sun only ever got as low as dusk. I had taken for granted just how soothing the night could be after a long days work. A deep blue sky, a slight breeze, a crescent moon hanging like an ornament. It seemed right. The natural flow of things. When I got home I put on a sweatshirt, heated up a cup of tea, grabbed a book, and set up comfortably on the porch. The grasshopper that keeps me company showed up right on time as usual, flittering his way onto the porch. He had started showing up right about the same time the night had stopped doing so. He perched himself on the railing in front of me.

            “Is that tea I smell?” he asked, bouncing up and down the railing. “Judging by the looks of you, I’m betting we both had long days. Why don’t you spare me a few drops of that tea and we’ll talk it over?”

            I could always count on him to show up with his hands out, asking for a sip of tea or nibble of fruit. But it’s not like I couldn’t spare such tiny portions anyway. The trade-off was some much needed company to an otherwise lonely house. After school, I would usually spend time at the library and keep to myself when I got home. I smiled a tired smile and stood up, snatching a leaf off of the tree growing by the porch. After coiling up its edges to keep it from spilling, I poured a few drops of hot tea into the leaf and set it down for the grasshopper. The grasshopper sipped up a droplet out of the leaf and let out a deep sigh of relief.

            “Jasmine green, is it? A good choice. You know, not many people would assume it but I’ve got quite the refined palate when it comes to tea. You live as long as me, you pick up on these things. I’m quite proud of it, actually. Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

            “It’s the night. Or rather the lack thereof. Ever since it stopped appearing normally, it feels like everything is—”

“—Out of balance,” the grasshopper finished. “Right you are. Many had taken the night for granted and assumed it would always be there for us. Who’s to stop it from disappearing if it feels underappreciated?” The grasshopper paused to take another drink, then continued. “And now the balance—daytime and nighttime—are off. You can see its effects in the world around you. Just as the world needs sunlight to stay alive, so too does it need moonlight. The trees are withering and turning pale. So are the grass and fields. Even this leaf you poured my tea into is slightly pallid. The world—all of us—need to breathe in the night air if it has any hope of getting better. Big, deep gulps of night air in our lungs. You and I, I can tell we both need it. Otherwise, I fear things will only get worse.”

“But how can we convince the night to come back? The only time lately I ever witness it for long stretches of time are while I’m asleep, in my dreams.”

At this, the grasshopper’s antennae perked up. “In your dreams, you say?”

“I never remember much,” I said, digging around in my mental drawers, trying to find any useful details. “It’s always night. Clear and tranquil. That much I know. I think I’m moving through a forest, like I’m trying to get somewhere. Or maybe find someone. But I never get far before I wake up. I feel like I’m wandering in circles. The rest is too hazy, too foggy, to recall.”

“I don’t think this is any coincidence,” said the grasshopper, scratching his chin with a long appendage. “The dreamworld and the night world are similar, both strange and full of magic. Sometimes they overlap, making it difficult to tell which one you’re really in. I believe the key to fixing the balance lies somewhere in your dreams.”

The town grew ever restless, literally, as the night continued to hide its face except for its brief appearances once every few days and at worst, once a week.

            “I can’t seem to sleep normally,” an older woman had told me at work. “Sleep only comes in fragments, just the same as the night.”

            “How come this only happens in our town?” said a classmate. “Nothing amazing ever happens here. Nothing, except for this. Our town is the worst.”

            “Business is bad,” my boss had said at work. “My employees are exhausted, sales are down, and I don’t know what to do. Somebody needs to do something. But how do you make the night come back like it’s supposed to? It’s like it’s been stolen away.”

            The world itself seemed to be losing steam as well. The sky had begun draining of its color, its normal vibrant blue seeping away into a colorless hue. The bark of trees was turning the color of dirty snow, its leaves doing the same and growing too weak to hold onto the branches. It was like approaching the end of autumn, but sapped of any beauty.

            Someone did need to do something. Luckily, the grasshopper and I had been working on a plan.

“Here’s what you’ll do,” the grasshopper had said. “Every time you have a dream that takes place at night, I want you to treat it like it’s real. Remember that the dreamworld and the night world can overlap, the same way the sun is sometimes out during the rain. So each time you have that same dream where you’re trying to navigate that strange forest, I want you to immediately write down what you remember from the dream the second you wake up. Where you went, what you did, what directions you took.”

            “We’re making a map?”

            “Precisely.”

            After several weeks of writing and plotting, we had a functioning map. The forest in my dream was always the same one, and we wanted to find out what was in the heart of it. Hopefully something to bring the night back in its proper form. By jotting down what I remembered after each dream, we had begun honing in on the center of the forest.

            “Left, then right, over the small brook…”

            “Past the owl perched on the sad-looking tree—”

            “—but not too far past, or you’ll wind up back at the beginning.”

            “Right. The rules of the dreamworld are strange like that. By the way, why don’t you refill my leaf with more of that tea? I’m no help without it, you know.”

            Looking over my tattered notebook full of scribbles, directions, a map and key with symbols, I could tell we were close. I knew where to turn, which places to avoid, what to look for. Each dream I got a bit further in, scribbled down more notes, and got closer to something. What it was, I couldn’t be sure yet but I knew it was within reach. Hopefully it was the key to restoring some much-needed balance.

            In the meantime, the town was getting worse. The vibrancy of our little world was all but gone. Without the night to keep things in balance, the world was growing weary. What once resembled a colorful painting now looked like a crudely sketched image done with a dull pencil.

            “I really hope I figure out what’s at the center of the forest in my dreams soon,” I had told the grasshopper one “night”, which was much closer to dusk. “I know I’m close. I bet the next time this dream occurs I’ll make it there. And I hope you’re right about it being the key to fixing things.”

            The grasshopper didn’t seem worried at all. He languidly nibbled a small piece of melon I set on the porch and took his time responding. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he finally said. “It either is or it isn’t. One or the other. Nothing you can do about the outcome, right? All you can do is try and find a solution. Look high and low, overturn every rock, see what turns up. After that, it’s out of your hands, isn’t it?”

Sure enough, the same dream returned several days later.

            The night is beautiful in my dream. The moon is full and beaming and stars blanket the sky. A couple tuffs of clouds billow by lazily, enjoying the deep blue sky like they’re floating on a peaceful lake. The forest is thick, but patchy enough that the moonlight shines through the trees and branches and leaves and brings enough visibility to get around. It isn’t so much dark as it dipped in a mellow, deep blue.

            I always begin in the same spot, a tiny meadow with a chopped down tree stump in the center that looks like a lonely chair in an empty room. From there, through trial and error, I could make my way in closer to the heart of the forest. There are vague, subtle paths in this forest if you know where to look. I’ve been here enough and studied its clues enough to get a sense of direction. Sometimes it’s in the way the grass clears at certain points, forming a path. Or the trees line both sides of small clearing like they’re creating a hallway. Lucky for me, this knowledge always stuck with me even from the real world into the dreamworld. It seemed the grasshopper was right—the dreamworld and the nightworld do overlap.

 As I crept further in, I had passed a small brook and was approaching the deepest point I had reached thus far. There was a large tree—the largest I’d seen in this forest thus far. It stood like a wooden giant guarding some sort of treasure. I had gotten tripped up here a number of times, taken a wrong turn, and found myself back at the start. The last time I made it here I had woken up before getting the chance to test my hypothesis on what the clue was, telling me where to go next. I stared at this wooden giant, sizing it up and down. A long, craggly branch stuck straight out in the front of the large tree as if it were an accusatory finger pointing back at me. But on second thought...

“I think I’ve finally figured you out,” I thought, and then turned directly around. My hypothesis was correct—it wasn’t pointing at me, it was just pointing back the way I came. And sure enough, when I turned around I didn’t see the small brook I had recently passed. I had cracked the code—I was somewhere else.

The forest had switched over, very abruptly, and taken me into a new section of its woods I hadn’t seen yet. I was in a circular clearing with such thick trees hanging overhead that the moonlight struggled to find its way through. In this circular clearing were four different paths—four perfectly clear, visible clearings I could take between the thickest set of trees in the forest.

I looked around. This had to be the final bit before I reached the heart of the woods. Just one problem—which of these paths was the right one? There was only a one-in-four chance I’d choose correctly.

I soaked in my surroundings, trying to grasp any subtle hints the woods were leaving for me. Then, without hesitation, I chose.

I was walking through what seemed like a tunnel of trees, their trunks forming walls on my side and their branches blotting out the moonlight above. This had to be it—the last stretch before I had reached the heart of the forest. Just a bit further and I’d be there. But would I find a key to restoring balance to the town? Or was this still nothing but a dream, and nothing would be waiting for me once I got there?

            After some time, the “tunnel” ended. The trees cleared, forming what felt like a large room in the middle of the woods. The sky came into full view, deep and blue and starry, as if a giant lid had been removed overhead. The full moon shone down, coating the world in a watercolor blue. In the middle was a lake, serene and still as glass, with a tree stump at the edge of the water. The stump looked like a chair positioned in front of a large desk. I sat down and waited: I had arrived at the heart of the woods. Now what?

            Suddenly there was a stirring in the water, a tiny splash that began zipping back and forth. The stirring grew, picked up speed, then abruptly stopped. All was quiet and still. I waited. Then, a fish the size of a van surfaced before me, splashing water onto the dry land and sending waves pulsating from around itself as if a meteor had just crashed into the lake.

            The fish’s seafoam scales looked like armor, the whiskers hanging off the sides of its face making it appear kingly and wise. A long stem drooped from the top of its head down in front of its face with a glowing lure at the end in the shape of a crescent moon. The crescent moon lure dangled like a fancy ornament. The fish spoke:

            “You must be awfully clever to have made is this far,” he said. His voice was deep, firm, but not harsh. He sounded genuinely surprised, if not impressed, at me being here. The fish swam back and forth several meters, eyeing me up with skepticism, then continued. “You picked up on the clues in this forest and solved its riddles even though it took you a number of tries getting lost. That is no easy feat. Tell me, how did you solve the final riddle? There were four different paths you could have taken and you chose correctly. What was the key?”

            Sitting in front of this giant fish, seated on the tree stump at the edge of the water, I felt like I was being interviewed by an intimidating boss for an important job. “The key was the wind,” I finally said. “I chose the path where the leaves were pointing in the wind.”

            The fish let out a single deep, kingly chortle. “Clever, clever. You are the first person to arrive here, you know. After I had stolen the night away from over you and your town, I had dropped this specific dream you are currently having into the heads of many. Like scattering seeds over a field to see which ones would grow, I waited patiently to see if anyone would figure it out. Follow the breadcrumbs, so to speak. I must admit my faith was running low.”

            “So this is nothing but a dream?” I asked.

            “Of course it’s a dream,” said the fish. “But it seems awful real, wouldn’t you say? In any case, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to ask me if this was a dream. What drove you to come here?”

            “The night. Without it, our town is withering away. The balance is off. You said you stole it away—could you return it?”

            The fish jumped up and fell backwards as if it were plopping into bed after a long day, resulting in another explosion of water and waves. It resurfaced after a moment, and stared up at the night sky.

            “The night. Of course I could return it, if I wished. I’m sure your town is withering and upset, but thus far nobody had wanted to do anything about it. Can you really say you miss a thing if you never go looking for it once it’s lost? You didn’t deserve the night and the balance it brought. Or perhaps you never wanted it much in the first place. In my kindness, I even spared bits and pieces of it here and there over your town. This, too, made no difference. Even after I scattered this dream over your town, none given it a second thought. Look about you: the night is strange and wonderful, is it not? I could keep it all here for myself, where it would go to better use. If I returned the gift of night back to you, could you honestly tell me that it wouldn’t go to waste?”

            I tried to think of a response, anything to counter his argument. I had ventured though these strange woods, solved its puzzles, and made it all the way here. But now I had no way to answer this final question. Insects chirped behind me like gossipy witnesses to a court trial, awaiting the judge’s decision.

            “I don’t know,” I said, finally. “All I know is that I had to make it this far, and I had to try to convince you to return that which you took. We need it. Without it, there’s no balance. But maybe you’re right. We squandered away a gift and took it for granted. If nothing can be done, then I will leave now.”

            The fish stroked one of its whiskers and let out a deep, grumbling sigh. It blew the stem and crescent moon lure that hung from its head up into the air as if it were a strand of hair it was trying to get out of its eyes. “You are right. It was a gift, and you all had ignored what it meant,” the fish said. “Still, you made it all the way here. You kept trying, even though you got lost many times, never giving up. You proved me wrong when I thought nobody would bother with doing so. Perhaps I was too swift in my judgement, my fins too grubby in their taking. I did steal away the night, but I think it is time I returned it.”

            “I am glad you came here,” the fish added before diving back underwater, creating another explosion of splashes and waves, and then dream was over.

Slowly, the night returned in full over our little town. Like a flower in bloom, the color and vibrancy returned and the withering came to a halt. The day and night were balanced again.

            “So he really did return it,” the grasshopper said one night after I explained to him all that had happened. “Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if he would.”

            “You sound like you know of him personally,” I said.

            “Do I? Well, if you live as long as I have you run into all sorts of characters along the way. It’s possible we’ve crossed paths, but my memory is a bit foggy these days. Who knows?” Then, he added under his breath, so soft I doubt he knew I heard him, “Perhaps he and I ought to catch up over tea soon to make sure the night is never stolen again.”

After that night I never saw the grasshopper again, nor did I ever again dream of strange forests and giant fish. The night has, to this day, not been stolen from our little town since then.

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

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02. Theme
–

Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

They Might Be Giants:
Cells

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04. WRITING
–

I was heating up a cup of ramen noodles when another version of myself popped out of a wormhole in the trash can of my kitchen. The trash can had started shaking as if a small critter had stumbled into it and was rifling through for scraps. More curious than scared, I removed the lid and looked inside. There was no trash bag full of trash, just a layer of undulating space/time that had filled it like liquid. It was bright and swirling, a celestial bucket of weird soup. The portal glowed and lit up the kitchen in a strange, green light. Then, a hand reached out from beneath the layer of swirling mass and out climbed myself.

“Oh, hey. What’s up?” Other Self said after tearing through the fabric of reality and climbing out of my garbage. Other Self looked a lot like me, except his skin was a pallid blue and his eyes lacked pupils. Other than those minor differences, it was pretty close. He wore a black shirt with a skull on it like a real badass.

“Not much,” I said. “Just making some ramen. You’re me, right? Are you from another reality or something?”

Other Self scratched his chin in contemplation. “No, that’s not exactly right. You’re not far off, though. I am you, in a sense. In order to accurately explain what’s going on here, I will have to ask you two questions. One, are you familiar with the concept of cellular death and regeneration? And two, can I scoop a bite of them noodles?”

The microwave beeped and I removed my 39 cent cup of noodles. Steam was rising out of the paper cup. I blew on it to cool it down and considered Other Self’s question. It was kind of a weird thing to ask me after showing up out of nowhere. I handed over the paper cup of cheap noodles to Other Self, which he graciously accepted.

“No, I can’t say I know too much about cells. What does that have to do with anything, though?”

Other Self swirled up a chunk of noodles onto his fork. He took a bite before they had properly cooled, burning the hell out of his mouth. The noodles dribbled out of his scalding mouth and down his chin back into the cup like a cascading waterfall of worms. He yelled “shit” very loudly several times before answering my question.

“It’s like this,” Other Self finally said after letting his tongue cool down. “The idea is that every seven years, all of your cells gradually die and are subsequently replaced by new ones. In theory, this would mean that the you you are now isn’t the you you were in the past. Cell for cell, strand for strand, a different creation altogether. At least, that’s the common belief. It’s sort of an urban legend. It’s not exactly true, but it’s close. Not all of your cells die and get replaced every seven years. Most of them do, but never all, and not in seven years. Still, the idea is pretty interesting, don’t you think? You’re basically an entirely new being every several years.”

I leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a good look at Other Self. “I think I follow. But what does this have to do with you popping out of a wormhole in my trash?”

Other Self blew on a forkful of cheap-ass noodles and shoveled them, successfully this time, into his mouth. “Cause that’s what I am,” he said with his cheeks full, pointing the fork back at himself. “I’m a version of you that is made up of old, dead, replaceable cells. All of those cells die and go to a realm where we form into Other Self’s of You. I’m an amalgamation of a bunch of your Past Self. A blended up, mix-matched, schmorgesborg of old cells that took this form.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.

“Dumb stuff is cool,” Other Self said with a straight face. “But you’re missing the point. I teleported through your garbage to deliver a message to you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

“Alright. If it’s so important, and you traveled all this way, I will hear you out.”

Other Self opened our fridge and stuck his head in. He certainly liked to make himself at home. I heard some items being shuffled around recklessly as he searched for whatever it was he needed so badly. Other Self emerged with a can of beer in each hand. He cracked one open, letting it fizzle loudly before taking a large, slow glug. He emptied the first can in one go and let out an exaggerated sigh like the cheap piss-water he just downed was the most refreshing cup of life-giving nectar he had ever tasted. Then he moved onto the second can.

“You’ve forgotten something important,” he said, leaning against the fridge. “You remember me very well, actually. You remember all the little, stupid, embarrassing things I’ve done. You remember the mistakes. Those random memories of wholly insignificant moments that drive you nuts when they wash up on your cognitive shore like trash. You remember the confusion, and trying to figure out who you were. Who you are. But you’ve forgotten this: you’re not me. You can learn from me, from those mistakes, but you’re not me. You’re literally a different being altogether, remember? And if I have to show up every now and then to remind you of this, I will.”

I stared back blankly, my mind scavenging around for the appropriate response. Other Self waited patiently while I processed everything that had happened in these past few minutes, trying to find the right words.

“Give me that beer” is what I landed on.

Other Self handed it over and I took a swig, letting its icy coldness burn my throat. It tasted like acid rain that traveled through city gutters directly into a metal can.

“Why do we even drink this?” I asked Other Self.

“Because a 30-rack costs like five bucks and we’re broke,” he responded, burying his head back into the fridge to grab more. He was right.

“I’m glad you showed up,” I said. “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Of course you did. That’s why I showed up. You know, like I already explained.”

I downed the rest of the alcoholic gutter water and put the empty can next to growing collection on the kitchen counter. “So what are you gonna do now? Just head back to whatever dimension of Past Selves you came from?”

Other Self shrugged. “Nah, I think I’m gonna stick around for a while. You wanna get drunk and play video games?”

“Obviously,” I said.

01. Writer
–

Sam Moore

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02. Theme
–

Disappear

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
–

Mogwai:
Take Me Somewhere Nice

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04. WRITING
–

“So, when was the last time you disappeared?”

I slouched back in the chair, one leg hanging over the side. Her office had a very homey feel about it, the furniture slightly dated in a charming sort of way and the lighting kept to a relaxing, dimmed amount. I felt comfortable here, at ease to disclose things that don’t make sense outside these walls.

“Disappearing” is like abruptly waking up from a dream...or maybe it’s closer to rapidly falling into one. Either way, one minute I’m here and the next I’m there. I’ve slipped from this world and into another one.

“It is another world, this is true,” she had told me in our first session. “But we must remember that the world you enter when you disappear is a byproduct of cognitive distortion. It’s a place very similar to our own, but it’s been altered by your own thoughts. Disappearing and reappearing are like switching between two different lenses through which we see and interpret the world around us. When you disappear, you’re looking at a world that’s been clouded by those distorted thoughts. If our world is a mirror, the one you go to when you disappear is that same mirror--but shattered. What you’re seeing in the mirror is the same, but it’s been skewed.”

She ended that first session with a goal: keep disappearing to a minimum, and reappear quickly when it happens.

“It’s been a few weeks,” I said.

“A few weeks? This is progress. Last session you told me you were disappearing most days. Where were you the last time you disappeared?”

“Home,” I said. It’s easy to disappear while at home. Something about it makes me especially vulnerable to those distorted thoughts that she had mentioned. It’s almost like a gravitational pull slowly swallows them up and then amplifies their energy.

“Tell me again what disappearing at home is like,” she said.

“It takes me somewhere that’s like my house but...different. There’s never anyone there but me. I can’t see anything outside of the windows--not the porch, not the streetlights, not the neighbors houses, nothing. It’s as if they were all painted over with thick, black paint. Like nothing else is out there.”

“Disappearing can be a very isolating experience.” Her pen scrawled swiftly across her notes as she jotted down this information. “And the layout? I believe you mentioned it’s always changing?”

“Yeah. It’s never the same twice. The pieces are there—the rooms, hallways, and those sort of things, but they’re rearranged. Like someone held up the entire house and shook it around. It never feels right and I’m always disoriented. I know that isn’t actually how my house is, but I can’t figure out what’s off about it until I reappear. It’s like in being in a strange dream. You don’t question any of it until you’re awake. But when I’m back, I immediately notice that everything was wrong.”

“Of course,” she said. “Home doesn’t quite feel like home, does it? Can you describe the layout in this most recent instance?”

“Some of the hallways seemed to go on indefinitely. Oh, and all the doors led to my bedroom. No matter what I did or where I went, I would end up there.”

“This is a very common phenomenon,” she said matter-of-factly. “Disappearing takes a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t seem like it would. Many individuals feel exhausted once it happens. It’s quite possible that your mind just wanted rest, and it kept leading you somewhere it could shut off for a while.”

She’s right-I do feel exhausted every time I disappear. It’s like my body and mind are running on empty. The smallest things take a great deal of effort, like each movement is wading through thick, muddy water. Though I often disappear at home, it can really happen anytime and anywhere for that matter. I was reminded of an instance when I disappeared in the middle of a session, here in her office. That window was painted over black, too, and her words seemed to quietly float away until they were unable to reach my ears. I tried to remember them when the session ended, but it seemed I was too bleary to properly file them away. Her words got stored in the wrong place in my mind, or more likely, were tossed out.

“So all the doors led to your bedroom,” she continued. “Was this like your normal bedroom?”

“Everything except for the ceiling.”

She paused a moment to think, clicking her pen and anticipating the answer to her question. She must have already known, but asked anyway. “Was it the eye again?”

I slouched even further into the chair, deflating my posture as much as possible. Often times when I disappear and try to go to sleep I’ll lie awake staring at the ceiling, and hear a noise that sounds like crackling and crumbing. A tear forms in the ceiling that spreads and grows into a hole and a single large, yellow eye rolls into it and stares back at me all night. It rests comfortably in the tear in the ceiling, just large enough to not slide through, gazing back at me and making wet mushy noises when it blinks. It’s presence makes me uneasy, which makes it nearly impossible to get any rest with it lingering over me.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was the eye.”

“This, too, is common for many individuals who disappear. The other world makes rest very difficult. Rest comes at random--either in frequent, giant handfuls, or in tiny bits that slip through your fingers. But, the important thing is that you reappeared. Judging by your progress, I am willing to bet you reappeared more quickly than normal, too, didn’t you?”

Her words held truths I hadn’t considered. Maybe I was making progress after all. I considered this before answering.

“I think so. When this first started I would be in the other world for long stretches of time, often unable to track how long I was gone. The last time was much quicker, though. It didn’t seem so long.”

“Slipping back into this world more easily is a good indicator that the distorted thoughts are dampening. The other world should stop appearing as often, but when it does, you’ll find that you are able to handle it better. Continue doing what you’re doing,” she said, clearly pleased with these results.

It seemed as though all the work I had put into these sessions was actually starting to pay off. I allowed myself a fraction of a smile and nodded before getting up to leave.

“And one last thing,” she said, pausing to make sure I understood. “Don’t beat yourself up when it happens again.”