Tag: Short Stories

The City of Ten Thousand Doors

The room has been thick with smoke, curling in lazy rings under the ceiling fans, the walls stained amber in the dim light. Tangiers has pulsed outside, the city flickering in neon, shadows shifting like restless ghosts. In the corner, beneath a cracked light, the boss has leaned back in his chair—Moroccan leather, worn with years, his fingers drumming on its arm. He has watched the young men across from him with a hard, steady gaze, reading them as if they’ve already confessed everything.

“You have thought I’m just another hustler,” he has said, a slow smirk pulling at his lips, “another man with hands in pockets, collecting my piece.” The men have been silent, their shoulders tight, but the boss has leaned forward, letting smoke drift from his cigarette. “You haven’t understood it yet, have you? What I do has gone far beyond money. Money has been only a shadow, an echo. What I have done here, it’s made something—call it order, call it peace, but it’s real.”

He has flicked his cigarette ash onto the floor, ignoring the tremor in the younger man’s hand. “If I hadn’t been here, things would have fallen to chaos. The souks, the ports, the whole rhythm of the Medina—everything would have unraveled. What I’ve built has kept this place together, ticked it forward like the gears in an old clock.” His voice has been quiet but sharp, cutting through the haze of the room like a blade.

“Now, maybe you’ve been thinking, if there’s no trouble, why would anyone need a man like me?” He has laughed, a low, rusty sound. “But that’s the trick, isn’t it? If I’m good at my job, then there’s nothing to see. No mess, no broken bones in the street, no blood on the walls. People start to believe there’s nothing wrong, that danger’s a myth.”

He has looked through the window, the lights of Tangiers spread below him like a map of possibilities. “But if something bad had happened? If I had let things slip even once?” His face has hardened, his jaw clenched. “Then they’d say I had failed, that I wasn’t worth the price. They’d forget the times I’ve stopped trouble before it had begun, the messes I’ve cleaned before they’ve spilled over.”

He has paused, smoke wreathing his face, an ancient calm in his eyes. “Do you understand the weight of that? To keep things balanced, never seen, never praised? To hold all the threads while people wonder if you’re even needed? That’s my trade. I’ve made sure that bad things haven’t happened. And that is my curse: the better I do my job, the less they see me, the less they understand what I’ve saved them from. But they come to me in the end, every time, because they have known—even if they forget in the daylight—how much worse it could be.”

The boss has shifted, leaning back as if to take in the whole room with one slow, sweeping look. The young men have sat tense, half-listening, half-staring at the haze of smoke. He has taken a deep breath, as though he’s about to let them in on some secret hidden in the foundations of the city itself.

“You see, people talk about technology as if it’s some kind of miracle, some guarantee of power,” he has murmured, voice like gravel rubbing against silk. “But I’ve seen the truth—no matter how powerful a technology becomes, it’s never more than an experiment. Always a test, always just a step out into the unknown. The fools in labs, the ones behind all those machines and wires, they don’t know what they’re playing with. They’re like children with matches, thinking they’ve mastered fire.”

He has laughed, cold and low, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Technologists think they’re gods, but they’re blind as anyone else. They can’t see the full picture, not until it’s too late. Every invention they’ve made, every so-called ‘solution’—it’s been nothing but a gamble. They’ve played with forces they haven’t understood, and by the time they’ve seen the consequences, it’s already out of their hands.”

He has looked each young man in the eye, holding them there as if weighing their souls. “Me? I’ve never had that luxury. I’ve had to see things for what they are, right from the start. Every move, every deal, every choice has had to be deliberate, no room for loose ends or blind experiments. The people out there,” he has gestured toward the city lights flickering through the window, “they think they’re safe because of some system, some clever design. But all of that, the order they take for granted—it’s only ever been real because I’ve made it so. Not machines, not technology, but flesh and blood, sweat and consequence.”

He has leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, but with the weight of iron. “The men in labs can afford to fail. They learn after the fact, let their failures fall on others, make their adjustments. But here in Tangiers, in the streets, I don’t have that luxury. If I fail, the city burns. That’s the difference. Their power’s experimental; mine’s real.”

The smoke has lingered thick around them, the shadows pooling deeper as his words settled over the room like a warning. “So remember this,” he has said, a dark gleam in his eye, “whatever new marvels or toys they come up with, whatever promises they make—their games will always end in uncertainty. But what I’ve built, what I protect… that’s no experiment. That’s the line between order and chaos. And as long as I’m here, I keep that line.”

The boss has drawn a long, slow drag from his cigarette, and his eyes have softened, gazing out toward the window where Tangiers sprawled like a living tapestry. “This city,” he has said, voice a mix of reverence and resignation, “it isn’t some neat system, like those technologists dream about. No, this place… it’s like the wave and the electron. Infinite, changing, an experiment that’s always in motion, never fixed.”

He has looked back at the young men, holding them in the weight of his stare. “They think they can measure it, control it, like it’s some Western machine. But here? Tangiers is like the wind that rolls off the Rif Mountains, like the markets shifting each dawn, like the sea brushing at the rocks and changing a little each time. Everything here, it’s relationship, it’s the balance of people who’ve known each other’s families for generations. It’s not rules and systems; it’s baraka—the blessings, the weight of lineage, of blood and debt, of favors traded over tea, beneath the palm trees.”

He’s flicked his cigarette ash again, as though brushing off the technologists’ schemes, their neat little theories. “You see, in the North, they have their systems, their grids, their determinations. But here? Here, we have tajriba—a kind of knowing, a trust in the way things unfold, always close, never certain. And like the electron, everything depends on how you look at it, how you’re connected to it. You can’t hold Tangiers in your hand; you can only walk through it, move with it, be part of its rhythm.”

He’s paused, tapping his fingers on the table. “This place is indeterminate, like you said. It’s like the wave. One minute it’s a pulse of energy moving through the souks, the alleys; next moment, it’s gone, disappeared into the Medina’s hidden paths. It slips through your fingers like sand. And every day, every deal I make, every person I touch, it changes. Not in some simple, linear way—they don’t understand that. It’s like trying to catch a river in a cup. You only get a trickle, but the rest flows on, uncontained.”

He’s leaned back, letting his words settle over the young men, filling the room with a silence that has felt thick and heavy. “So they think they can impose their systems here? Control it from the outside? They’ll only ever see a shadow, a surface reflection, because they don’t have the connection, the roots. They don’t have the real understanding. You can’t build a city with formulas, with charts. This city’s made of whispers and debts, of hands clasped over coffee, of promises that outlast lifetimes.”

He’s taken another drag, and his eyes have drifted back to the cityscape beyond the window. “They don’t know Tangiers. They see the city, but not the experiment within it—the push and pull, the pulse beneath the stone, the spirits and ancestors, the ways that cross each other like the wind. And that’s why, in the end, this city is ours. Because we understand that it’s not a problem to be solved. It’s alive, like the ocean, like the mountain, like us. A living, breathing, shifting wave.”

Pigfuck and the Sisters of Mercy #2: A Fable

Once upon a time, in a forest crawling with filth, corruption, and fat-cat lobbyists, there lived the three little piggies—known far and wide as the Sisters of Mercy. They were a fine-looking bunch, all dolled up in their little blue suits, tails neatly curled, ready for the cameras, always chattering on about justice and equality and the dire need to keep the Big Bad Pigfuck at bay.

Pigfuck was no ordinary wolf, mind you. He was a massive, hulking beast of a creature, slicked in corporate grease, his snout buried deep in the feeding troughs of industry. The kind of monster who could blow your house down without so much as a sneeze. Pigfuck didn’t just terrorize the forest; he owned it. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of stock options, tax breaks, and non-disclosure agreements. He was the ultimate power broker, a carnivorous Wall Street Frankenstein stitched together from military contracts, energy subsidies, and all the greed money could buy.

Now, the Sisters of Mercy had one job: keep Pigfuck from tearing the forest to pieces. But instead of fortifying their homes, they sat around their little house of straw, squawking about the horrors of Pigfuck, lamenting his tyrannical reign. “Oh, the wolf is such a terror! Just look at him slobbering over our resources, crushing the poor under his hooves!” they cried, as if naming the beast would somehow exorcize him. Their solution? Statements. Endless statements about the dangers of Pigfuck and the importance of standing up to him. Meanwhile, Pigfuck was doubling down on his rampage, buying up half the forest and lining his den with the hides of those who dared challenge him.

The Sisters built themselves a second house, this one out of sticks—committee meetings, town halls, press releases—but all it took was one blow from Pigfuck, and it went up in a cloud of PR dust. They just stood there, picking up the splinters, still yammering on about how someone had to do something. Because that’s the thing about the Sisters of Mercy—they loved to talk about saving the forest but didn’t have a spine between them when it came to actually keeping Pigfuck out. Oh, they’d cluck and they’d preen, and they’d wag their curly little tails, but when the beast came huffing and puffing, all they could do was watch him stomp through the rubble.

In the end, the Sisters built a third house, this one out of bricks. It was sturdy enough, built on lofty speeches and activist catchphrases, just enough to keep Pigfuck from blowing it down in one swoop. But inside those walls, the Sisters were up to the same old game—clinking wine glasses, swapping platitudes, and counting donations while Pigfuck prowled outside, still devouring every inch of the forest that wasn’t behind their pretty brick wall.

And so, Pigfuck continued his reign, growing fatter, meaner, more ruthless by the day, while the Sisters of Mercy held tight to their illusions of resistance. They’d throw parties to “raise awareness,” host soirées to “build morale,” all the while pretending their house of bricks was a fortress of change. But they knew, deep down, they weren’t doing a damn thing to stop him. They were just three little piggies, snug and self-righteous, too afraid to face the beast they’d rather just complain about.

In the end, the forest wasn’t lost because Pigfuck was powerful. It was lost because the Sisters of Mercy thought pointing at the monster was the same as fighting him.

The Long Runway

The colonel stood before the vast, sun-bleached expanse, squinting into the distance. The desert stretched on forever, flat as a dinner plate. In his hand, he held a rolled-up blueprint, its edges curling from the dry wind. Behind him, a gathering of officers waited—silent, sweating in their khaki uniforms. A half-mile away, the airstrip shimmered in the heat, a single runway cutting through the endless nothingness.

“More,” the colonel muttered. His voice was dry, too, like dust, but it carried. “We need more.”

The general, silver-haired and hard-eyed, approached. “More what?”

“Runway. It’s not long enough.” The colonel unrolled the blueprint, slapping it against his knee as he pointed to the sketched-out plans. “If we extend this strip another five miles, we could launch fighters further. Drop payloads deeper into the interior. It’s the difference between grazing the enemy’s beard and cleaving their throat.”

The general considered the horizon, his face carved in shadows. He wasn’t a man of quick words, but he understood what the colonel was getting at. It was a strategy, the kind of thinking he liked—distance was safety. Bomb them, break them, but don’t get close enough to see the white of their eyes. Hell, don’t even get close enough to hear the screams.

“More runway,” the colonel repeated, his voice gaining strength as the idea caught fire. “We can push the war further out, way beyond our borders. Beyond any borders.”

The general grunted. He folded his arms across his chest, the brass on his uniform catching the sunlight. “What’s the risk?”

“Risk?” The colonel almost laughed. “There is none. We’ll be so far out of range, they won’t even know who hit them. Brave new war, fought from the sky, miles above it all. All we need is more runway.”

The general turned, looking back at the men under his command. Some of them had been in combat, seen the blood and grit, but most were just like the colonel—clean, untouched by the realities of the battlefield. Safe in their towers, pushing the war further out into the horizon, where the people who lived in cities of smoke and rubble would never even see the faces of the men who ended them.

“Five miles more?” the general asked.

The colonel nodded eagerly. “Five, maybe ten. We could level half the continent before they even knew it was us. All without leaving the ground.”

The general took the blueprint, staring at the lines as if they were roads to glory. “Five more miles, huh?”

He folded the paper and handed it back. “Make it twenty.”

The colonel’s eyes lit up like the flare of jet fuel. “Yes, sir.”

Behind them, the desert was already swallowing the old world whole. It didn’t care how far the runway reached, or what lay beyond it. But the men cared. They cared because, as long as they were brave out of range, they were never really in the fight at all.

<>

The expansion of the runway began in earnest the next morning. Men worked tirelessly, sunburnt faces furrowed with focus, laying mile after mile of smooth concrete into the sand. The engineers marveled at the efficiency—this was progress, they said, and each additional foot of runway promised new power, new dominion.

But as the weeks passed, something peculiar occurred.

One afternoon, the spotters stationed on a nearby hill called in a report. It was brief, unassuming, yet troubling. South of the airfield, they saw construction—another runway, identical to the one stretching north. The colonel dismissed it at first, a mirage, or perhaps a trick of light. The desert played those games often. But the next day, more spotters confirmed the sighting. A second runway, mirroring theirs exactly.

By the end of the week, the reports grew impossible to ignore. The twin runway extended as far south as theirs did to the north, paralleling every twist, every turn. Engineers consulted their maps, their instruments, but found no discrepancy in the original plans. This second runway was not theirs. It did not belong to them.

“An enemy operation,” the general growled, pacing the command tent. His fists were clenched, the knuckles white against his tan skin. “They’re mocking us, building under our noses. Bomb them. Now.”

The colonel hesitated but gave the order.

Planes soared into the sky, cutting through the heat haze with the promise of swift destruction. They dropped their payloads on the shadowy runway below, explosions rippling across the sand. But as the smoke cleared, a strange silence descended over the base. Spotters began reporting back with stammering voices—confused, frantic.

“Sir, the bombs—there’s…there’s no impact. The runway is still there.”

More planes were launched, more bombs fell, each strike seemingly hitting its mark, but the reports were the same: no damage, no destruction. And then, another call came in—this time from the northern end of the airfield. Planes that had launched from the original runway had been hit. The very airstrip they had tried to protect was now pocked with craters, smoldering wreckage strewn across the tarmac. It was as if they had bombed themselves.

“Impossible,” the colonel muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “We’re bombing the enemy. We saw it.”

But the more they tried to strike the southern runway, the more damage appeared on their own. No matter how precise, how calculated the assault, the bombs always returned to them, as if caught in some invisible loop, some impossible trick of space.

The general, face ashen, stood at the edge of the runway, staring into the endless desert. The more they built, the longer the runway seemed to grow. Not just forward, but backward, inward, twisting into something beyond comprehension. The desert, it seemed, had swallowed their intentions and bent them back upon themselves.

It was then that the colonel, sleepless and stricken, recalled a phrase from a book he once read—a concept of geometry, of objects that defied ordinary understanding. A Klein bottle, he thought, the shape that turned in on itself, where inside and outside were indistinguishable. Had they been constructing not a runway, but a paradox? A loop that had no beginning, no end?

But the men knew nothing of this. The planes still flew. The bombs still fell. The war continued, fought from the sky, far from the men who gave the orders. Yet the destruction they sought to inflict circled back upon them, unseen, unheard, and unheeded.

Only we, the readers, could glimpse the truth. We could see the invisible lines, the twisted geometry of war. The colonel and the general, oblivious to their own entrapment, still believed they were the masters of the desert, while all along, the desert had been playing a much longer game.

A Load Off My Chest

They didn’t grow the pie, didn’t retire. They stayed. Sat on the nest, getting fatter, tighter. Locked their grips on whatever scraps were left, and called it progress. That’s what they told themselves—progress. Progress for who?

Not for us. Not for the ones who came after. The ones who had to scrounge for the crumbs, knowing we’d never even get close to the table. They made sure of that. They built the table for themselves and bolted it to the floor.

And now they want us to care. About the next election. About who’s up and who’s down, as if it matters. They want us to act like there’s something left to win, when the game’s been rigged for years. Decades. But here’s the thing: we already saw through it. We watched them smiling in their campaign photos, in their oversized suits and rehearsed sincerity. We watched them call it a new day every four years, watched them pretend to pass the torch while keeping both hands on the damn thing.

The Xers, we figured it out early. You play along for a while, maybe, make a show of it. But deep down, you know it doesn’t make a difference. Voting for what? A slower slide? A softer landing?

They tell us if we don’t vote, we don’t have a voice. But what voice did we ever have? They drowned us out long before we ever knew how to speak. They sold the future, left us with nothing but nostalgia for a dream we never even had. And now they want to sell us hope, too. Like it’s something we can afford to buy.

But we’re done buying. Done caring about elections, promises, progress. Maybe that’s what they don’t get, what they’ll never understand. We’re not angry—we’re just done. We’re ghosts in their machine, and the worst part for them is, we don’t even want revenge.

The boomer gave a tight smile, the kind that looked like it hurt. He stood up, dusted off his khakis like he’d been sitting in dirt, not in the power seat he’d carved out for himself all these years.

“Well,” he said, his voice a little too casual, “I guess that’s it then. Can’t change everyone’s mind.”

He turned, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he could just walk away, no consequences, no reckoning. It made Jim’s blood boil, the arrogance of it. The absolute certainty that he could slip out, avoid the mess, move on like nothing happened.

“Where you going, pops?” Jim said, his voice like gravel underfoot.

The boomer froze. He didn’t turn around right away. That was smart. It meant he’d heard something in Jim’s tone that didn’t sit right. But then, just as Jim expected, the guy’s ego kicked in. He couldn’t help himself. He turned around, smiling like a politician at a town hall, trying to stay in control. He even held up his hands, palms out, like it was all some misunderstanding.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not your enemy, son. We’re just—”

“I haven’t finished,” Jim cut in. His voice was low now, coiled tight like a spring about to snap. “You think you can just walk away? Like you always do? Leave us holding the bag, trying to clean up your mess? Not this time.”

The boomer’s smile slipped. He was sweating now, just a bead at the temple, but it was there. Jim took a step forward, slow, deliberate. The room felt small, airless.

“What do you want from me?” the boomer asked, voice cracking a little.

“I want to watch the lights go out behind your eyes,” Jim said, almost conversational, like he was talking about the weather.

The boomer backed up, a hand going to the chair like he thought it might save him, like it was a barrier. Jim could almost laugh at that. He moved in closer, close enough to see the panic, to smell it.

Jim reached into his coat and pulled out the knife. Not big, but sharp, curved just right for what he had in mind. He held it up so the old man could see it, could see what was coming. No rush. That was the key. Make him feel it, make him understand just how long the screws had been turning.

“Now, hold on a second,” the boomer said, voice high, pleading. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jim smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Sure I do.”

And then it happened fast, like it always did. The knife flashed, just once, sliding into the soft spot under the old man’s ribs. He gasped, eyes wide, grabbing at Jim’s arm, like he thought he could stop it. But Jim twisted the blade, felt it catch on something inside, felt the boomer sag against him, the life draining out in slow, wet breaths.

He lowered the old man to the floor, watching the light fade from his eyes just like he promised. It was quiet now, except for the faint gurgle from the dying man’s throat. Jim stood over him, feeling nothing, just a hollow calm.

He looked down at the body, wiped the blood off the knife with a handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Now we’re finished,” he said, and walked out into the night.

<>

Jim walked down the alley, the knife still warm in his pocket. He kept his pace steady, but his mind was racing, faster than his feet could carry him.

He made me do it. He was just standing there, acting like he was above it all. Like he hadn’t seen the world crumble under his own weight. His own doing. Telling me how powerful he was, like I hadn’t heard that my whole life. Every damn time they opened their mouths, it was the same thing. Power. Legacy. What’d I ever have? Not a legacy, not a stake in the game.

The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. I hadn’t made anything of myself? Jim scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Is that what he thought? Like I didn’t try? Like it was my fault the deck was stacked, like I was the one who folded the cards.

Power, he thought again. That word, it sat like acid on his tongue. The kind of word they toss around when they’ve got everything, when they can afford to sit back and watch the world burn while pretending they’re holding the matches. But he didn’t buy it. Never did.

I had a right, he thought. A right to take something back. To show him, to show all of them, that I wasn’t just another body drifting through their mess. I’ve always been right here. Watching. Waiting. But they never saw me, never cared to look.

Jim’s fists clenched in his coat pockets as he crossed the street, the city around him feeling distant, like it wasn’t even real anymore. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe nothing’s real except what you take for yourself. I took something tonight. Doesn’t matter how they spin it, how they try to twist it in their papers, their reports. I took it because it was mine to take. And if that makes me a monster, then what the hell were they?

He stopped in front of a diner, staring at the flashing neon sign through the window. The smell of stale coffee and grease seeped into the night air. For a second, he thought about going inside, sitting at the counter, ordering something like a regular person. Pretending. But that was over now. He wasn’t regular anymore, if he ever had been.

He was just there, wasn’t he? Saying it like it was the goddamn gospel, like he had any right. And me—what was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him keep talking? Keep smiling that fake smile like he knew better?

Jim’s breath hitched, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving a hollow in his chest. He was just there, he thought again, softer now. That’s all. He was just there. And maybe that was the worst part. Maybe it wasn’t the words, or the power, or the arrogance. Maybe it was just him being there, standing in the same space, breathing the same air, like they were equal. Like Jim hadn’t been left in the dirt, left to rot while they soared high above, telling themselves they’d earned it.

He started walking again, eyes forward but not really seeing.

It was me or him. That’s all there ever was to it. He had his time. His chance. And he pissed it away, like they always do. He thought he could walk away. Walk away from everything he did. Well, not tonight. Tonight he stayed. Tonight, he paid.

Jim’s thoughts slowed, settling into a grim calm. It had to be this way. It had to.

He turned a corner, his footsteps growing softer against the asphalt. The city stretched out ahead, dark and endless, and for the first time in a long time, Jim felt something close to peace.

I finished it.

-<>

The diner was dim and half-empty, just the way Jim liked it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the linoleum floor. The smell of burnt coffee and grease hung in the air, thick and clinging. He sat at the counter, stirring a cup of black coffee, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him something to do with his hands. Something to keep them from shaking.

That’s when she walked in.

She wasn’t dressed up, not like the dames you see in movies. No, she wore a leather jacket a little too tight, jeans clinging to her hips like they were the only thing keeping her from slipping away. But it wasn’t the clothes that got you—it was the way she moved. Like she was born to make trouble, with just the right mix of confidence and weariness to make you want to find out what side of the coin you were gonna get.

She slid onto the stool next to him, not asking if it was taken. Didn’t have to. She had a way of filling up space that made you feel like you were the one intruding.

“You got any money?” she asked, her voice low, like a threat wrapped in silk. She didn’t look at him when she said it, just stared straight ahead, fingers drumming lightly on the counter.

Jim took a breath, kept his eyes on his cup. He didn’t want to look at her too long. That was the first mistake, always was. Look too long, and next thing you know, you’re wrapped around their finger, doing things you swore you’d never do. “Depends who’s asking,” he said, voice steady, but there was a tightness in his throat he couldn’t quite shake.

She gave a short, bitter laugh, finally turning her head to him. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something tired behind them, like she’d seen too much already and wasn’t expecting to see anything better. “Don’t play coy with me, sugar. I’m not here for games. Just need to know if you’ve got any money or if you know someone who does. Or is this town just a piss-pot excuse for fentanyl overdoses and male fragility?”

That last part stung. He flinched, just a little, but enough for her to notice. She smirked, lips curling at the edges like she’d found his weakness. And maybe she had.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim said, finally looking up at her. “I’m just passing through.”

“Yeah?” she said, leaning in just enough that he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume, something cheap but trying real hard to smell expensive. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’s been passing through his whole life. Bet you don’t stick around anywhere too long, do you? Not long enough to make a real mess.”

Jim didn’t answer, just took another sip of his coffee, even though it had gone cold. He knew better than to get pulled into whatever game she was playing. But damn, if she didn’t make it hard. The way she looked at him, like she could see right through him, past all the bullshit, straight to the core of whatever was left inside.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softening a little, but not enough to fool him. There was a barb in every word she said.

“Jim,” he muttered. No use lying. She’d see through that too.

“Jim,” she repeated, like she was trying it out, seeing how it tasted. “Well, Jim, let me give it to you straight. This town’s circling the drain. Guys like you? You’re just along for the ride. So unless you’ve got something for me—money, connections, a way out—I’m wasting my time.”

Jim looked at her, really looked this time. There was a hardness in her face, but it wasn’t the kind you’re born with. No, this was the kind that got carved out over time, with every disappointment, every hustle, every man who thought he was in control until he wasn’t.

“You think I’ve got money?” he asked, his voice quiet now, almost amused.

She shrugged. “I think you might know where to find some. Or maybe you’ve got some other use.”

Jim smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lady, I’m a gentleman,” he said, leaning back a little, trying to put space between them. But she closed it again, quick as a snake.

“Gentleman,” she repeated, and there was a bitterness in her voice now, a sharp edge that cut deep. “Don’t tell me you still believe in that bullshit. No one’s a gentleman anymore, not in this world. Not when we’re all fighting for the same scraps.”

Jim didn’t say anything. What was there to say? She was right. He’d known it for a long time, longer than he cared to admit. But hearing it from her—he felt something twist inside him, like a knife. Because the truth was, he did believe it. Or he used to.

She stood up, tossing a crumpled bill on the counter to cover her coffee. “Thanks for nothing, Jim,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your stay in this piss pot.”

And with that, she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. Jim watched her walk out into the night, a part of him wanting to follow, wanting to see where it led. But he knew better. He knew dames like her didn’t leave trails you could follow. They left wreckage.

He turned back to his coffee, staring into the black, bitter liquid. It wasn’t the first time a woman had walked out on him, but it felt like the last.

Yeah, maybe this town was a piss pot, he thought, but what did that make him?

<>

Jim stared at the door for a long moment after she walked out, the air still carrying the scent of her cheap perfume, her words slicing at the corners of his thoughts. The diner felt emptier now, quieter, like she’d taken something with her, left him sitting there alone with nothing but his coffee and his regrets.

But then he smiled, just a small curve of the lips, like something had clicked into place.

He stood up, tossed a crumpled bill on the counter, and stepped out into the cool night air. The city hummed around him, the low rumble of traffic, a distant siren, the soft whispers of people just trying to survive the night. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He caught up with her just outside the diner. She was lighting a cigarette, her face bathed in the soft orange glow of the lighter. She didn’t even look surprised to see him. Maybe she expected it. Maybe she knew he couldn’t leave things like that.

“Got an idea for you,” he said, standing just far enough to give her space, but close enough to make sure she heard him.

She raised an eyebrow, the cigarette dangling from her lips, a curl of smoke drifting into the night air. “Oh yeah? You got money after all, Jim? Or are we still playing this gentleman game?”

Jim chuckled. “No, I don’t got money. But I know someone who does. Or might.”

That got her attention. She took a drag from her cigarette, eyes narrowing a little as she considered him. “Go on, then. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Sean,” Jim said, his voice steady. “Sean’s the son of the only guy in this town besides his stepfather that has any real money and hasn’t kicked the bucket from fentanyl. His old man’s some kind of big shot, but he’s holed up in his mansion, hiding from all this shit. Sean, though, he’s still around. Still looking for a good time, still acting like he’s invincible.”

She smirked, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Sean. I know him. Rich, dumb, and reckless, right? His stepdad’s even worse—shady as hell, always working some angle.” She paused, eyeing Jim with a sly smile. “So what, you think Sean’s our ticket to a payday? I’m listening.”

Jim shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. “Maybe. He’s got money. And from what I hear, he’s looking to blow it. Could be we show up, have a drink, see where the night takes us.”

She took another drag, her eyes searching his face for something. “You mean party the three of us?”

The words came out slow, deliberate, with just the right amount of danger laced behind them. Her lips curled around the word “party” like it was something forbidden, something you shouldn’t say out loud.

Jim didn’t flinch. He knew what she was playing at, knew the stakes now. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what I mean. You, me, and Sean. Could be a good time. Could be more than that.”

She exhaled slowly, smoke trailing from her lips as she considered him. For a second, he thought she’d laugh it off, tell him he was dreaming. But then she smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t warm, but sharp, like she was already two steps ahead of him.

“Alright, Jim,” she said, flicking the cigarette away. “Let’s see where this night takes us. You get us to Sean, and I’ll do the rest.”

Jim nodded, though there was a tightness in his chest now. He wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread, maybe both. But it didn’t matter. They were in motion now, and there was no turning back.

He started walking, and she fell in step beside him, her presence like a shadow he couldn’t shake. The night stretched out before them, a long, dark road, with Sean waiting somewhere at the other end. Rich, dumb, and ripe for the taking.

And Jim? Jim wasn’t sure if he was the gentleman tonight or something worse. But he knew one thing for sure—the game had started, and the stakes were higher than ever.

<>

They found Sean where Jim figured they would—at the dive bar on 3rd, the one that pretended to have a little class because it still had a pool table. The place was dim, all neon signs and cheap whiskey, with the faintest hint of sweat and cigarettes in the air. It wasn’t the kind of joint Sean was born to be in, but it was the kind of place he liked to play at. That’s what rich kids did—they played at being poor, slumming it for the thrill.

Sean stood by the pool table, a cue in one hand, leaning against it like he owned the place. He didn’t see Jim at first, not with his eyes locked on the girl he was talking to, some blonde half his age and twice as bored.

When Jim and the woman walked in, Sean’s eyes slid past Jim like he wasn’t even there. But when he caught sight of her—Jim’s femme fatale—he perked up, pushing the blonde aside like a discarded magazine.

Jim could see the flicker of recognition in Sean’s eyes, just for a second, before the contempt settled in. It was always like that with Sean—he’d see you, remember who you were, then decide you weren’t worth the breath it would take to acknowledge you.

“Well, look who it is,” Sean said, his voice smooth as whiskey. “Jim. Jimbo. Thought you crawled outta this dump a long time ago. Guess I was wrong.”

Jim smiled tightly, ignoring the jab. “Still around. Same as you.”

Sean chuckled, running his fingers through his perfectly styled hair. “Yeah, well, some of us have choices.” His eyes flicked back to the woman standing next to Jim. “And some of us have company.”

She smiled at Sean, a slow, dangerous smile that made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. “Mind if we join you?” she asked, her voice like honey dripping on broken glass.

Sean looked her up and down, licking his lips like she was the prize on display. “I don’t see why not. Grab a drink, sweetheart. The night’s young.”

Jim slid into a booth while she went to the bar. Sean followed her with his eyes, leaning on the pool cue like it was a crutch. When she returned, drinks in hand, Sean tossed Jim a pool cue without even glancing his way. “We playin’ or what?”

They started a game, the three of them. Sean was all cocky angles, showing off every shot like he was auditioning for something. The woman played along, laughing at his jokes, leaning in a little too close when he lined up his shots, her hand resting on his arm just long enough to make him feel like he had a chance.

Jim played it cool, keeping quiet, sipping his drink, but he knew how this game went. Sean wasn’t here to play pool. He was here to see how far he could push, how long it would take before Jim snapped. But Jim wasn’t snapping. Not yet.

They were halfway through the second game when Sean leaned against the table, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Jim, a smirk curling on his lips. “So what’s this, Jim? You pimping her?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, cutting through the noise of the bar like a knife. Jim felt the blood rush to his face, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just looked at Sean, his fingers tightening around the pool cue.

She didn’t flinch. She just laughed—low, throaty, the kind of laugh that made Sean lean in closer, thinking he had the upper hand.

“Sean,” she said, her voice smooth, dripping with venom and sweetness, “if Jim was pimping me, you couldn’t afford me.”

That wiped the smirk off Sean’s face for a split second, but then it twisted back into something uglier. He stood up straight, pretending the comment hadn’t stung, but Jim could see it had. Sean never could take a hit, not even a verbal one. Too used to getting everything handed to him.

Jim stepped forward, his voice calm, steady, even though he could feel the tension creeping up his spine. “She’s not for sale, Sean. Neither of us are.”

Sean snorted, taking a swig of his drink. “Yeah, sure, Jim. Whatever you say.” He turned back to the woman, ignoring Jim again, like he wasn’t even there. “So, sweetheart, how ‘bout we blow this joint? I got a place up the hill, a lot nicer than this dump. We could have ourselves a real party. Leave this loser behind.”

She glanced at Jim, just for a second, a quick flick of the eyes. He couldn’t read what she was thinking, but he didn’t like the way the night was turning. Things were unraveling fast, the way they always did when Sean got involved.

Before she could answer, Jim stepped in. “We’re sticking together, Sean. All three of us.”

Sean laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, Jim. If that’s how you want to play it. But if you’re smart, you’ll get out of my way. Otherwise, I’ll bury you. Again.”

Jim clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond. He wasn’t here to fight. Not yet. He wasn’t here to win, either. He was here to survive. He was here to finish what had already started the moment she walked into the diner. But looking at Sean now, all smug and careless, Jim knew it wasn’t going to end quietly. Not tonight.

He could feel it—the slow, inevitable slide toward something darker, something violent. And no matter how hard he tried to steer clear, he knew he was already too deep.

The girl leaned on the pool table, watching the two men, her eyes glinting like she was waiting for the spark that would light the whole damn place on fire.

“Maybe we could go party,” she said, her voice casual, like she hadn’t just set off a fuse. “The three of us.”

Jim swallowed hard, knowing damn well that “party” wasn’t just about drinks and pool anymore. It was about power. It was about who’d be left standing when the dust settled.

Sean grinned, tossing his cue onto the table. “Now you’re talking, sweetheart. Let’s get outta here.”

Jim didn’t move, just watched as Sean swaggered toward the door, thinking he’d won, thinking he had the night in his pocket. But Jim knew better.

Because this night? It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

<>

The apartment was everything Jim expected—expensive but tasteless. Sean had led the way, stumbling through the door, barely able to hold his liquor, while the woman floated in behind him, eyes scanning the place like she was already thinking about what she could take. Jim followed them in, slower, more cautious, feeling like a spectator at his own funeral.

The night was spiraling. Drinks were poured, shots thrown back, and soon the music was cranked up loud enough to shake the walls. It started innocent enough, Sean cracking crude jokes, the woman laughing, her hand trailing up and down his arm like a promise. They danced a little, swaying to music that none of them could hear. But the heat in the room shifted, went from fun to something darker, more dangerous.

At some point, the three of them had fallen onto the couch, Sean in the middle, her legs draped over his lap, Jim off to the side with his drink. Sean leaned in close to her, sloppy, whispering in her ear, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. But Jim could see it wasn’t working—Sean was too drunk, too far gone. He was trying to be the guy, trying to show off, but he wasn’t pulling it off. The booze had him stumbling through the motions.

Jim stayed in his corner, sipping his drink, watching like he wasn’t part of the scene. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe that’s all he’d been this whole time—a guy on the outside, watching the rich kid make a fool of himself.

The woman’s eyes flicked over to Jim once, then twice, like she was measuring him. She whispered something into Sean’s ear, soft and sweet, and Jim saw Sean nod. They got up, Sean dragging her by the hand, and disappeared behind a closed door, leaving Jim alone in the living room, with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the whiskey burning in his chest.

The minutes stretched out, the silence creeping in behind the muffled thump of music from the other side of the wall. Jim poured himself another drink, letting the numbness settle in, but something gnawed at him, something cold and sharp. He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy, anger, or the sense that he was the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.

Then the door creaked open.

Sean stumbled out first, shirt half undone, eyes glazed over. He looked rough, more disheveled than Jim had ever seen him, like a man who couldn’t hold his liquor or his pride.

“She… uh… she wants to talk to you,” Sean slurred, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t know why, but… yeah, she’s asking for you.”

Jim’s stomach twisted. He set his glass down and stood, walking toward the bedroom door, feeling the weight of Sean’s drunken gaze on his back. He didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about Sean anymore.

The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, the scent of perfume hanging in the air like smoke. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking completely composed, like the whole thing had been planned from the start. The sheets were rumpled, and there was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, but she looked cool, in control.

“Jim,” she said softly, her voice low, beckoning. “Come here.”

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Sean was still outside, but it felt like he was a million miles away now. Jim could feel her eyes on him, like she was seeing him for the first time. Really seeing him.

“So what’s this about?” Jim asked, leaning against the doorframe, keeping his distance. “Sean not doing it for you?”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was a knowing one, the kind that said she’d already figured out how the rest of the night would go. “Sean… well, let’s just say he’s not in the best shape for a party right now.”

Jim nodded, not sure where this was going, but feeling like he was walking into a trap.

“I didn’t call you in here for him,” she continued, her voice smooth as velvet. “I wanted to talk to you, Jim. About Sean’s dad.”

That caught him off guard. He stiffened, the mention of Sean’s old man sending a chill through him. “What about him?”

She uncrossed her legs and stood up, moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps, her eyes locked on his. “You knew Sean’s dad, didn’t you? I mean, you went to school with Sean, but you knew more than that. You knew his family.”

Jim swallowed hard. “What are you getting at?”

She was standing in front of him now, so close he could feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of her skin. “Sean’s dad has money, real money. And power. He’s not like these other junkies in town, Jim. He’s the kind of man who can get things done. Or make people disappear if he wants to.”

Jim felt the tension coiling tighter in his gut. “I don’t know anything about his old man.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jim,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her lips just inches from his ear. “I’m not interested in Sean. I’m interested in what his father can do for me. For us. You want to be part of that, don’t you?”

Jim’s mind raced. He could feel her trying to cut Sean out of the picture, trying to pull him into something bigger, something darker. He didn’t know where this was going, but he knew it wasn’t good. She was cutting the middleman, and now he had to decide if he was going to play along—or find a way out before things spiraled even further out of control.

Jim stood frozen as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He knew the look in her eyes, the kind of look that could set a man on fire, burn him down to nothing, and leave him craving more. His mind told him to walk away, to leave now before he got pulled under, but his body was already betraying him.

Her fingers slid down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one by one, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. She knew she had him—had him the moment she’d asked him into this room—and Jim knew it too. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not now.

“Why me?” Jim asked again, his voice a little more breathless this time, the question more of a delay than a real inquiry.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pressed herself against him, her body soft, warm, intoxicating. Her hands slid down his sides, over his belt, and lower, until she could feel the tension building in him. “Because, Jim,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear, “I think you want this just as much as I do.”

Jim’s mind screamed at him to stop, to think, but his hands were already moving—gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She kissed him then, hard and deep, and any last shred of doubt dissolved into the heat of it. They stumbled toward the bed, her fingers tugging at his clothes, his hands roaming her body as if the consequence no longer mattered.

The sex was frantic, fueled by lust and something darker—an undercurrent of power, control, desperation. Every movement, every touch felt charged with something that went beyond just the physical, as if they both knew this wasn’t just about bodies but about roles, about who held the cards. Jim felt himself sinking deeper into it, every kiss, every gasp pulling him further from reason, further from whatever scraps of self-respect he had left.

But just as it reached a fever pitch, she stopped. Pulled back. Her eyes locked onto his, glinting with something cold and calculating. She wasn’t just here for this. She was here for something more.

“Pretend to be him,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed, like a secret. “Pretend to be Sean’s dad.”

Jim blinked, his body still buzzing, his mind slow to catch up with what she was asking. “What?”

She slid on top of him, her hands pressing down on his chest, her eyes boring into his. “Just for a moment. I want you to pretend you’re him.”

Jim felt a chill crawl up his spine. “Why would I do that?”

Her smile returned, but it wasn’t the playful one from before. It was darker, sharper. “Because, Jim, I think you know how to survive in this world. And I think you know that to survive, sometimes you have to be someone else.”

The request hung between them, strange and unnerving, but Jim couldn’t look away from her. She was still pressed against him, her body, her scent, everything about her keeping him tethered to this moment. He knew this was wrong, twisted even, but he could feel the pull. Could feel the power in it.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and let the words slip from his mouth, low and rough. “Alright.”

She leaned down, kissing him softly, her lips brushing against his as she whispered in his ear. “Good. Now, Jim… be him.”

Jim let himself slip into the role, into the character she wanted, and as he did, he could feel the line between who he was and who she wanted him to be blurring. She moaned softly in his ear, guiding him, telling him what to say, what to do, and Jim followed, even though it made his skin crawl.

He wasn’t Jim anymore. He wasn’t even Sean’s friend. He was someone else entirely. Someone darker. Someone who could give her what she wanted, even if it meant losing a part of himself in the process.

When it was over, they lay in silence, the weight of what had just happened hanging between them like smoke. She didn’t say anything, and neither did Jim. There wasn’t anything left to say. They’d both gotten what they wanted—or maybe, what they needed. And now, all that was left was the fallout.

Jim lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell he’d let himself get pulled into this. Wondering how much further he was willing to go before he couldn’t come back.

The woman stirred beside him, pulling the sheet around her, her eyes still sharp, still calculating. “You did good, Jim,” she said, her voice low, almost a purr. “You really did.”

Jim didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew she was cutting Sean out, cutting the middleman, and that he was next in line. He’d played along tonight, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending.

And he wasn’t sure what would be left of him when it was all over.

<>

Riddles

1. What am I? I am the shadow of regret cast by two cruel suns, but I burn less bright. I am the bitter fruit that is eaten, but with fewer seeds. I am the choice that stings, yet I sting less. I am the poisoned apple, but with a sweeter bite.

2. What am I? I am the whisper in the storm, the smaller crack in the glass, the wound that bleeds slower. I am the road you dread to walk, but at least it’s not on fire. I am the wolf with duller fangs, the snake with softened venom.

3. What am I? I am the cracked mask worn by fate, not as terrifying as the other. I am the rain that falls in darkness, yet lighter than the deluge behind me. I am the spear that wounds, but I miss the heart.

4. What am I? I am the storm cloud with a sliver of light, the icy wind that chills but does not freeze. I am the thief in the night who takes only a coin when the other robs the soul. I am the devil you know, but his claws are dull.

5. What am I? I am the lesser scar, the bruise that fades faster, the quiet scream between two horrors. I am the dagger that cuts, but with less blood. I am the door that creaks, but doesn’t slam shut.

6. What am I? I am the bridge over fire, weak but still standing. I am the slow sinking ship, not the one that shatters in the storm. I am the beast whose roar shakes the night but does not chase you down.

7. What am I? I am the flame that flickers but doesn’t consume. I am the ghost who whispers rather than screams. I am the sour wine you drink because the other is poison. I am the lesser shadow in the valley of darkness.

Now for something different

1. What am I? I am the fire that needs no water, the rift that widens with every breath. I am the cauldron that boils over when stirred too much. I am the edge of the cliff, where balance teeters and the wind screams, ‘Jump.’ I am the match that meets gasoline, the wedge driven deep into a cracking wall.

2. What am I? I am the heat that rises until no one can breathe. I am the rope tightening as the clock ticks, a fuse lit and racing toward a powder keg. I am the flame that consumes when too much fuel is thrown, the storm that grows fiercer with every wind. I am the lever that pushes the world, the fault line under too much strain.

3. What am I? I am the spark that knows no peace, the pressure that builds until walls crumble. I am the hand that turns the wheel faster, the rope you pull until it snaps. I am the crack in the dam, the growing flood that washes away calm. I am the knife that cuts both ways, sharper with every push.

4. What am I? I am the rising storm that splits the sky. I am the blade that digs deeper when it meets resistance. I am the ground quaking from pressure too long ignored, the divide that yawns wider with every step. I am the fire fanned into an inferno, the smallest shove that starts an avalanche.

5. What am I? I am the shout that echoes louder each time, the knot tightening in the cord. I am the divide that begs to be crossed, the line drawn only to be erased. I am the fuel poured into a simmering conflict, the pot stirred until nothing is still. I am the question with no easy answer, the game where the stakes only rise.

6. What am I? I am the contradiction that cannot rest. I am the boiling point, the fault line shaking underfoot. I am the push when a nudge will no longer do, the fuse waiting for a spark. I am the tension you cannot unwind, the choice that escalates with every turn.

The Astrologer

In the annals of forgotten kingdoms, there lived an astrologer whose name has slipped from the tongues of men, but whose arrogance remains etched in the memory of history’s most peculiar fables. He was not an astrologer in the traditional sense, for his craft did not concern the mere movements of planets or the transient whims of stars. No, his calculations went deeper, weaving through the fabric of time itself, mapping its end. He had once foretold the cessation of history, that the grand machinery of events, battles, revolutions, births, and deaths would grind to a halt, not in some distant apocalypse, but in a quiet and final act of cosmic exhaustion. The world, he claimed, had already reached its denouement, though few had yet noticed. His words were a balm to the ears of the king, who, weary of the vicissitudes of power, welcomed the notion that no more threats or upheavals would challenge his reign. Thus, the astrologer was elevated, not merely as a soothsayer, but as a confidant, a man whose vision of stasis resonated with the king’s deepest desires.

The astrologer’s rise to power was not marked by ambition or guile—those were the tools of lesser men, trapped in the cycles of time he had so effortlessly transcended. Instead, he moved through the court with a serene complacency, as if his very presence was a manifestation of the immutable truth he had divined. The king, charmed by the astrologer’s certainty, showered him with titles, lands, and favor, believing that the man had already seen the last page of the kingdom’s history, and found it blank. For years, the astrologer basked in the luxury of his position, wandering the palace gardens, sipping wine at royal banquets, all the while nursing a quiet satisfaction, smug in the belief that nothing more could ever happen. His prophecy had set the world in a perpetual stillness, and he, the harbinger of this eternal calm, reveled in the illusion that he had mastered time itself.

But time, like a serpent that slumbers before striking, was not so easily tamed. As the astrologer wandered the court in his velvet robes and heavy medallions, the world outside the palace walls continued its restless churn. Faint tremors of history—small rebellions, whispered betrayals, sudden plagues—began to creep back into the kingdom, though at first they were no more than rumors, barely enough to stir the king from his lethargy. The astrologer, however, was not immune to these tremors. They gnawed at the edges of his certainty, threatening the delicate fiction he had woven. Unwilling to acknowledge the possibility of error, he devised a solution both ingenious and absurd: he would conceal these new events, tuck them away from sight, and thus prevent them from ever entering the official record of history. With a needle and thread, he began sewing new pockets into the elaborate robes he wore, and into these pockets he stuffed every stray fragment of history he could not explain. A skirmish on the border, a plot against the queen, a comet that defied his calculations—into the pockets they went, hidden away from the gaze of the king and the court.

Soon, the astrologer’s once elegant robes became grotesque with their bulging cargo. The fabric sagged under the weight of hidden rebellions, untold famines, and unspoken conspiracies, but still, no one in the court dared question the increasingly monstrous appearance of the king’s favored soothsayer. His silhouette, once sleek and composed, now ballooned into a distorted caricature, the fabric of his robes groaning under the pressure of events he could no longer contain. The courtiers, long accustomed to his cryptic brilliance, averted their eyes, unwilling to confront the unraveling spectacle before them. And so, the astrologer continued to walk through the palace halls, a man burdened by the unbearable weight of denied history, yet still clinging to the hope that by hiding these events from view, he might still hold the key to stopping time itself.

Then came the night of the great royal reception, a celebration held in honor of a treaty whose details the astrologer had long since forgotten, though he had likely stuffed them into one of his many pockets. The ballroom glittered with light, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the murmur of diplomatic pleasantries. The astrologer, now hunched under the weight of his robes, approached the king to offer his customary bow. But the gesture, simple as it was, proved to be his undoing. His overloaded garments—stitched together from a thousand patches, each concealing an unspeakable event—could take no more. As he bent at the waist, the seams split with a violent snap, and in an instant, his robes erupted in a whirlwind of catastrophe. Hidden wars, plagues, revolts, and dynasties long erased from memory exploded into the ballroom, swirling in a maelstrom of chaos that tore through the court. History, long suppressed, unleashed itself with a vengeance, consuming everything in its path.

The kingdom, once so serene in its belief that time had ended, was swallowed whole by the storm. The king, the courtiers, even the astrologer himself were swept into the vortex, as events long buried sought their rightful place in the annals of the world. And so, in the end, the astrologer was proven correct, though not in the way he had imagined. History did end, but only because it devoured everything that once stood. His final act of vanity, his futile attempt to contain time within his own robes, left behind a kingdom erased, a silence so deep it seemed that history had never existed at all. The palace, the people, and the astrologer were swallowed by time’s rebirth, leaving only the faintest whisper in the forgotten annals of a kingdom where history had once, and only briefly, dared to stop.

The House of Shifting Sands

In this whodunit, Detective Harlan is called to a lavish mansion to solve the mysterious murder of the eccentric Lord Fitzroy. The mansion is filled with guests, each with their own secrets and motives. However, what makes this investigation bizarre is the presence of a relentless moving crew hired to clear the house. As Detective Harlan begins his inquiries, the movers constantly demand that everyone, including the detective and suspects, relocate to another room.

At first, this seems like a minor inconvenience, but as the investigation drags on, the rooms grow progressively smaller and more claustrophobic. Yet, no one, including the detective, questions the absurdity of this, as though they’ve become blind to the movers’ influence. The crew remains silent and efficient, mechanically emptying one space after another, oblivious to the tension building in the ever-shrinking spaces where the investigation is conducted.

The detective juggles trying to untangle the clues amidst a shifting environment while people are squeezed tighter, psychologically adding pressure to the suspects. Eventually, they find themselves crammed into a tiny closet, where the final piece of the puzzle is revealed, but by then, the absurdity of the situation adds a layer of surrealism—why did no one ever resist? And are the movers part of the crime or something stranger altogether?

The story ends with a twist, where the true culprit isn’t just the person who committed the murder but the unseen manipulation driving everyone to comply, reflecting on how easy it is to be moved by forces we don’t understand.

Act 1: The Call to the Mansion

The play opens with the introduction of Detective Harlan, called to investigate the murder of Lord Fitzroy in an opulent mansion. He arrives to find the guests already assembled, each one a potential suspect. The audience is introduced to key figures, such as the scheming widow, the estranged daughter, a disgruntled business partner, and a mysterious servant. The detective begins his investigation, questioning the guests, but almost immediately, a team of movers interrupts, telling everyone to move to another room. The movers’ presence is noted but not questioned, as the guests and detective comply, seemingly eager to resolve the case.

Act 2: The Shrinking Space

As Detective Harlan continues to probe, the movers return, once again forcing the group to relocate to another room, this one smaller than the last. Despite the oddity, no one protests, as if it’s a normal part of the process. Tensions between the guests start to rise in the more confined space, and suspicions mount as Harlan digs deeper into their alibis and secrets. The movers’ rhythm becomes a strange, unnoticed background force, as the space around the investigation continues to shrink.

Act 3: The Frustration Builds

Now in a much smaller room, nearly a cramped parlor, the detective finds his investigation hindered by both the space and the emotional stress on the suspects. Accusations fly, and it becomes clear that every guest had a reason to want Lord Fitzroy dead. The shifting spaces have begun to work on the minds of the guests, creating an atmosphere of increasing discomfort and paranoia. Yet, no one questions the movers, who continue to silently move furniture and demand relocations, even as the room grows unbearably small.

Act 4: The Confinement

The guests and detective are pushed into an impossibly small room—barely enough for them to fit. The situation becomes surreal, as the claustrophobia drives emotions to the edge. Tempers flare, and the detective finds himself in a psychological battle with the suspects. However, in this final moment of confinement, a new piece of evidence emerges, pointing to an unexpected suspect. But just as Harlan thinks he’s about to crack the case, the movers arrive once again, demanding they move into the last, smallest space of all: a small closet. The tension climaxes as everyone reluctantly squeezes in, suffocated by the absurdity.

Act 5: The Reveal

Trapped in the cramped closet, the final revelation comes. The true murderer confesses in the most confined, intimate space imaginable, where no one can hide. Yet, the resolution feels hollow. As the killer is revealed, so is the unnerving realization that no one ever questioned the constant moving, the loss of space, or the silent presence of the movers. The detective, who prides himself on solving mysteries, is left with a haunting sense that there was something far greater and more disturbing at play—an unseen force that had manipulated them all into compliance. The play ends with an unsettling ambiguity about the nature of the movers and their role in the crime, leaving the audience to ponder who or what was really in control.

All the way Down

Imagine a small, unremarkable town called Nered. The residents of Nered had a peculiar habit that became the stuff of local legend: they insisted on “marrying down” intellectually. It was a tradition as old as the town itself, rooted in a philosophy that prized mediocrity as the true mark of contentment.

The townsfolk believed that if a person of great intellect married someone of lesser wit, they could avoid the pitfalls of intellectual exhaustion, which, as they saw it, plagued the rest of the world. The smart ones would anchor themselves to simpler, more concrete thoughts, while the less sharp would be elevated just enough to keep the whole affair balanced. Nered was, in a way, the epicenter of intellectual harmony, or so they thought.

In the early days of this peculiar tradition, Nered’s inhabitants felt quite clever about their approach to marriage. They avoided the burnout, the existential dread, and the crises of meaning that seemed to afflict other places where people married their intellectual equals. As they saw it, they were dodging the emotional and cognitive turbulence that came with living in a world where thoughts moved too fast, and ideas collided like particles in a supercollider.

So, the people of Nered lived in a kind of intellectual detente, a truce with their own brains. They avoided challenging conversations and stuck to topics that required only a superficial grasp. The town meetings were efficient, if uninspired, with debates rarely venturing beyond whether the annual Nered Picnic should serve potato salad or coleslaw.

But as time went on, something curious happened. The younger generations of Nered, having been raised on a diet of intellectual downshifting, began to lose their taste for even the mildest of mental exercises. Marrying down became less of a strategy and more of an inevitability, as the collective IQ of the town began to drift downward, generation by generation.

The town’s intellectual decay went unnoticed for quite some time. After all, who in Nered had the brainpower left to notice? But eventually, even the simplest tasks became Herculean efforts. The local newspaper had to reduce its pages, as no one could be bothered to read more than a paragraph. The Nered Public Library, once a modest repository of knowledge, was converted into a storage facility for lawn chairs and garden gnomes.

By the time the last of the original Neredites passed away, the town had fully embraced its fate. They no longer aspired to anything beyond the immediate, the obvious, and the utterly mundane. The marriage tradition continued, but now it was no longer about avoiding intellectual burnout. It was simply all they knew how to do.

In the end, Nered became a cautionary tale for those who might consider taking the easy way out, avoiding the struggle of intellect for the comfort of simplicity. The town still exists, but it’s no longer on any map. Nered is a place that exists only in the minds of those who understand that, sometimes, the struggle is the point.

And so, in the great cosmic joke that is life, Nered stands as a reminder: you can marry down, but sooner or later, you’ll find yourself all the way down.

Confessions of a Neo-Reactionary

Scrolling through the neon-lit circus of digital fluff, where puppies prance in pixelated perfection and saccharine smiles drip like honey from the screen, I wasn’t prepared. I was lulled into complacency, eyes glazed, heart softened by the ceaseless parade of cuteness. They knew this. They all knew this.

In between the fur and the fuzz, it started—innocent enough. A meme here, a quote there, something about order, about strength. They slipped in like viruses, feeding on the complacency, burrowing deep. My mind, drenched in dopamine, didn’t see it coming. Who could resist the soft purr of a kitten, the warm fuzzies of nostalgia? It was the perfect breeding ground for something darker.

And then, the message started to mutate, taking on a life of its own. The cute gave way to the caustic, the comforting to the conspiratorial. The feed twisted, contorted, wrapped around my thoughts like a snake, tightening its grip with every scroll. The posts became more insistent, whispering of lost glories, of civilization teetering on the brink, of the need for a new order—a stronger order.

They were clever, those architects of the algorithm. They knew the game, knew how to push the buttons, pull the strings. I was a marionette in their hands, dancing to a tune I didn’t recognize, but somehow, couldn’t resist. The transformation was gradual, almost imperceptible, like a drop of ink in water spreading until the whole thing is black.

I became what they wanted me to be, a convert to the cause, a true believer in the shadows cast by their carefully curated content. The puppies were gone, replaced by the grim faces of the new idols, the prophets of decay and rebirth. The cuddly facade had been stripped away, revealing the cold, hard truth beneath: that I had been led, inch by inch, into the heart of the machine, and now, I was part of it.

Confession? There’s nothing to confess. The truth was always there, hidden beneath the fluff, waiting to be uncovered. I just needed the right push, the right trigger, and the soft glow of the screen to guide me to my new reality.

And so, I sunk deeper into the digital abyss, where the lines between light and shadow blurred, where every click, every tap, fed the beast within. I was no longer just an observer, a passive consumer of content. I was complicit, a cog in the sprawling, invisible machinery that churned out the gospel of the neo-reactionary.

They didn’t need to convince me outright. Subtlety was their weapon. The transformation was a slow burn, a long con, where ideas were planted like seeds in fertile soil, watered by my own fears and anxieties. The world outside seemed to mirror the growing unrest in my mind—the chaos, the disorder, the sense that something had to give, that something had to change.

It was all so calculated, so precise. The posts that once seemed innocuous now carried a weight, a hidden meaning that clicked into place as if they had always been there, waiting for me to see the light—or the dark. I started to see the signs everywhere, in the news, in the faces of strangers on the street, in the very fabric of society unraveling before my eyes. The algorithms knew what I wanted before I did, feeding me the images, the words, the ideas that would push me further down the rabbit hole.

The world outside was a reflection of the digital war inside my head. I could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. I felt a thrill—a sick, twisted satisfaction in the unraveling, in the destruction of the old order, the one that had promised so much and delivered so little. I began to speak the language of the new faith, to echo the rhetoric that had once seemed so alien. It felt natural, like it had always been a part of me, waiting to be awakened.

There were others, of course. I saw them in the comments, in the shared posts, in the private groups where the masks came off and the true believers revealed themselves. They were like me, or perhaps I was like them—drawn in, converted, radicalized by the same forces that had sculpted my new reality. We were a brotherhood of the disillusioned, bound by the same twisted vision, the same sense that we had found the truth hidden in plain sight.

But the truth? The truth was a weapon, wielded by those who knew how to manipulate, how to twist perception, how to turn the harmless into the harmful, the benign into the malignant. I could see it now—the grand design, the way the pieces fit together, how every like, every share, every comment was a step deeper into the abyss.

Confessions? No, this was a revelation, an unveiling of the mind’s dark corners, where the puppies and kittens had been replaced by wolves in sheep’s clothing. The world was no longer what it seemed. It was a battlefield, and I was just another soldier in the digital war—a war I hadn’t known I was fighting until it was too late to turn back.

In the end, there was no going back. The algorithms had done their job, the transformation complete. I had become what they wanted me to be—a creature of the digital age, a neo-reactionary in a world where the lines between reality and fiction had dissolved, leaving only the cold, hard truth of the screen and the endless scroll.

The Baron Commissar

The Baron Commissar, his face a map of scars etched by shadows of power and betrayal, leaned in, eyes burning through the young officer. The room, a dank subterranean abyss, was lit by the flicker of a single, bare bulb, casting obscene, writhing shadows on the walls.

“You see, my young acolyte,” the Baron intoned, voice a sinister whisper, in our mindless simplicity, yearn for a world both ancient and newborn. Bread and circuses, the eternal opiates. We crave the dominion of a feudal master, a strong hand to guide them, shield them from life’s brutal truths.”

His words hung in the air, a toxic vapor. The young officer, lost in a maze of confusion, nodded numbly.

“The old ways,” the Baron continued, “draped in the shimmering veil of equality. A paradox, a monstrous chimera.”

He paused, the silence throbbing. The young officer’s nod was slower, a puppet’s hesitant twitch.

“We are haunted by a demon, the specter of equality. We believe, in our hopeless naivety, that all men are created equal. A preposterous delusion, yet it is this very mirage that propels us, fuels our insurrection.”

The Baron leaned back, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “We must feed our delusions, my boy. Forge a world where we are both serfs and sovereigns. A world where we toil by day and dream of revolt by night.”

The young officer, face a mask of bewilderment, nodded again.

“We grant ourselves the illusion of ownership—a patch of land, a meager cottage. A simulacrum of independence. A necessary deceit. We must believe we are building something, something for our progeny. A fairy tale, but it keeps us docile. The carrot on the stick.”

The Baron’s smile turned sardonic. “And the stick? The communal spirit, the shared struggle. We tell ourselves we are part of something greater, sacrificing for the future. A heady brew, a potent elixir.”

He paused, eyes boring into the young officer. “Bread, just enough to survive. Circuses, circuses of despair. A new aristocracy, an aristocracy of brutality. And in this twisted theater, we, the elite, will reign supreme.”

The Baron fell silent, gaze lost in the flickering shadows. The young officer, mind spiraling, could only nod in mute submission.

“We are puppeteers, you and I,” the Baron whispered, eyes filled with a strange, melancholic wisdom. “Pulling the strings of a grotesque marionette show. Remember, even the most skilled puppeteer must know his audience. And our audience craves spectacle, a grand narrative. We must provide it, or they will rise and obliterate us.”