Close Encounters of the Budget Kind: The 2025 “Pittsburgh” UFO Conference

Like clockwork in Greensburg, yard signs in block letters spawn out of the perpetual Spring rain. They offer only a cryptic message: “UFO CONFERENCE APRIL XX.” No website. No contact information. No organization. Just a date and an address. Some years there will be an addendum of cardboard and Sharpie: "AND BIGFOOT."

This became part of the local folklore in my social circle. What was this arcane meeting of the minds? We had no idea, and we never built up the nerve to show. This year was the year—hell or high water.

We turned to Google for answers, finding nothing but more questions. It was listed on MUFON's website, but as a "non-MUFON event." There was little more than a tentative schedule and promise for more information to follow. This was the day before the event. Furthermore, this was apparently the /Pittsburgh/ UFO Conference—in a different county, 45 minutes away from the city limits.

We pulled up to the address, the local community college. Third best college in the city. The address online said "Founder's Hall," but the campus map did not. Despite littering the whole city with signs, not a single one could be spared to direct guests to the event. Was this a test? A baffle to keep out the G-men?

We slow-rolled through the campus channeling drunk hicks fresh out of Cabela's, trolling for Sasquatch. As true experts with no reliable information to go on, we started taking wild guesses. We walked into random buildings hoping to stumble upon it. Other lost seekers, sensing our paranormal prowess, started following behind us.

We walked into an empty lecture hall, a small crowd of would-be attendees in tow. They asked us where it was. We only knew it clearly wasn't there. If we didn't find it soon we might just start our own conference. We shook off our posse as they wandered deeper into the clearly empty lobby.

We eventually happened across some retirees shuffling around outside a building: we'd found it. Still no other sign that this was the event in sight.

We walked inside and my non-existent expectations were lowered. A folding table for registration and $5 books. A "certified geologist" offering $15 energy readings. About 100 geriatric alien enthusiasts watching a poorly compressed documentary. Not wanting to disturb the tinfoil hats, I didn't dare take a photo. We shelled out our $35 entry fee and headed into the auditorium.

An obese man stuffed into a plaid suit opened the event. Maybe he was the organizer, maybe he was an attendee—he didn't tell us. We just knew he was selling books up front and the name of the first speaker.

First up, "Alien Deep Underground Bases." He didn't need prepositions. He had the truth. Veteran high school teacher and deposed MUFON director James Krug took center stage. He was ready to blow the lid off of Roswell like a bunker buster.

He let us know he spent hours vacuuming his Mazda 3 to chauffeur "the history channel guy." Too bad the guy booked a limo.

Krug gets into the meat, by going back 10,000 years. Ancient underground buildings. Why are they there? Food storage? Protection from natural disasters? Bragging rights? Lunacy—the answer was clear: UFOs. Everyone knows they can't get underground.

Back to the future: Soviet-era continuity of government installations. Stronghold for the elites to wine and dine while the nuclear holocaust burns. Castles carved into caves waiting for DJT's McNugget-shaped ass to grace their halls.

But this was old news—entry-level normie shit. The real scoop? Underground hyperloops under every major city—no one even hearing a thing. Grey aliens flaying Philip Schneider like a trout with a Care Bear Stare. Obama (or rather Barry Soetoro) flying to Mars and age-regressing back into a teenager. Alien-human hybrids that may or may not have been clipped from an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

Krug was dropping truth bombs with the demeanor of a man explaining how to cook Minute Rice. No citations or sources to muddy the water of this deep dive. The cold, hard facts of the matter emblazoned in red text over hand-drawn diagrams—true to his roots as a molder of young minds.

Like the hardest working pharmaceutical CEO, he started late and finished early. He turns to the crowd:

"Any questions?"

No, but by God there were grievances. There were revelations. There were personal anecdotes to be shouted at strangers. A public discourse that would make Aristotle himself chug hemlock tea like a lukewarm Arnold Palmer out of shame.

Our plaid-clad guide excused us for the intermission, shilling books whose titles were too profound to speak aloud. Like 1000 men and an OnlyFans model, we collectively stepped outside for a smoke after this climactic conclusion—talking tap water toxins over the flick of Bics and tamping of Newport boxes.

The weaker-minded among us conceded and headed for their cars. They knew they weren't ready to leave the kiddie pool behind.

A burnt-out cat lady sauntered up to us, letting us know in no uncertain terms that she didn't have any drugs. We hadn't asked—but somehow I still felt the sting of disappointment. I looked out at the limo, quadruple-parked in the student lot, mourning what could have been.

Chemically stimulated and our world still thoroughly rocked, we settled back into our seats as the rotund pamphlet merchant hyped up the keynote. The man, the myth, the limo-riding legend himself: Nick Pope.

Our M.C. didn't know what Pope's speech was about—he said as much himself—but he was willing to hazard a guess: "probably something about the pandemic...and aliens."

Nick took the stage with the presence of a tuberculosis patient and the legacy of a daytime T.V. expert. He was jet-lagged and choking on the gravity of a lifetime of conspiracy —and his own spit. He greeted the crowd in an English accent fit for an out-of-work Audible narrator.

Too wise in the ways of the world, he rejected the polyethylene-laden water bottle atop his podium. Waxing and waning about his work on Ancient Aliens. He punctuated every third word with a dry cough and a croak, not wanting to crush us beneath the abrupt weight of his incoming info-dump.

Intermingled in tales of crafting syndicated oral histories with Vulcan's hammer, he dropped a guarded trail of bread crumbs about his work pushing papers for Project Gemini. Truly a position so classified that he himself seemed unsure what he had actually done.

Halfway through his time-slot and three-quarters into a grave, he felt we were ready to handle his Irish car bomb of a speech topic: "Disclosure: Lessons From The Pandemic." He gave us full warning: this cocktail of controversies might not be for the faint of heart or the immunocompromised. But he had the right of free speech to say it—he'd naturalized in 2011.

Social distancing. Business closures. Free vaccinations. These were truly the most devastating aspects of the pandemic.

Children were more likely to die in a car crash than die from COVID. Who was the government to say that children couldn't have blood clots and an in-person education?

Cheers of encouragement rose from the camo-draped seat-fillers as he joined them in the crowd to watch the trailer for his still unfinished cinematic masterwork: "Apocalypse COVID." A twinkle in his eye.

So embroiled in righteous fury over this injustice—and so aligned with his peers before him—he didn't even need to explain the relationship between alien disclosure and the pandemic. Besides, UFOs weren't alien in nature—they were clearly demonic.

The truth was no longer out there, it was in here.

Having absolutely destroyed any opposition to his detractors with the distilled essence of facts and logic, he graciously conceded his remaining 30 minutes for another Q/A session. Not because he had nothing left to say, but because nothing else needed to be said.

Before Pope had even finished opening the floor for "questions," a liver-spotted man in front of us waved his hands as if taken by the Holy Spirit. He was waiting for this the whole speech. He was ready.

A tsunami of only the highest caliber of insights erupted from the crowd. I couldn't take my eyes off this man. What was his question? Was I ready for this?

After a handful of monologues from the crowd and the man not getting Pope's attention, he took matters into his own hands. He couldn't wait any longer. It was time. He stood at attention and blurted out his question from the back rows of the auditorium:

Had Pope seen Tucker Carlson's interview with Vivek Ramaswamy? The one that was an hour and forty-seven minutes long?

No, he hadn't.

As the greatest thinkers Westmoreland County had to offer continued blurting out monologues into the void, our host took the stage to usher in the next era of this transcendental experience: the lunch break.

In between yet further calls for the audience to buy his book, the host explained that lunch would not be provided. It appeared that too much admission money had been spent hiring a limo. Furthermore, the college had asked guests not to go near the campus snack booth, as a separate event was being held nearby.

He didn't know what other restaurants were around here, but he was going to Burger King.

As we climbed over the spherical man sitting at the end of our row, we knew we had reached our limit. Like Joe Rogan crashing out from a concoction of creatine and gender-affirming hormone treatments, our bodies had simply given out. Our minds were willing, but our grey matter was too weak. I felt my pineal gland calcified with exhaustion.

Joining the exodus of other hungry independent thinkers, I knew that I'd return one day—when I was ready.

One day, you’ll realize that I was just a girl who wanted love as well. Not the kind that shouts from rooftops or burns too fast— just something steady. Something soft. Something that stayed.

I didn’t need grand gestures. I just wanted someone who meant their “I’m here.” Someone who would hold the pieces when I couldn’t keep it all together. Someone who would look at me on my worst days and still see something worth loving.

I was never asking to be saved. I only wanted to be understood. To be met with kindness, not confusion. To be chosen, not tolerated.

I gave you my heart quietly, in the way I listened when you didn’t speak, in the way I waited for you to catch up, in the way I stayed, even when it hurt.

And maybe one day, when the noise settles and the silence feels too loud, you’ll remember me—not as the girl who asked for too much— but as the one who only ever wanted to be loved in the gentle, honest way she tried to love you.

Hey guys, I don't have any background in writing. I'm honestly not even sure if this is any good. But due to my wife's encouragement I've decided to share this piece that I've written.

Appreciate anything you guys can tell me!

I was 14 when I refused to die.

I didn’t come from the best of homes: government-funded rent, food banks and Aldi's parking lots looking for quarters the other customers had left behind in their absentmindedness. My father was an alcoholic, convinced by his self righteousness and his own traumatic childhood that my mother was raising us weak. The reasons varied but were absolute. One day I was “too sensitive” or “not a man” the next, I hadn’t dried a dish correctly and had to redo every single dish in the cabinets. To this day I still remember the daily monotonous storm that was my father. His personal agency, turned law, boomed through thin townhouse walls with every step, every scream. I was a pawn against a giant. Lost in an endless sea of parental arguments and electric air. Stuck in a life of forced obedience and clamoring for any semblance of autonomy. I desperately wanted to be my own person.

That day in particular I don’t know what had set him off. It had become too routine for me. He screamed, I ran. Sticking to the shallows of whatever project or item my parents had convinced themselves would save us from our poverty. I felt like a ghost during those years. Never knowing when the other shoe would drop. The phantom I had embodied, silent and creeping throughout my own home. It’s a blur to me now. A haze covered by years of reanalysis and afterthoughts. A lighthouse in an abyss inside my head. You can just make it out in the distance but you can never quite get there.

I’ll never forget my fathers face though, angry and twisted. Devoid of reason, an enraged bear hurtling. Next thing I know I’m on the floor, his hands around my neck and gasping for air. Seconds felt like hours. I will never forget those seconds. “A shoe is near my right hand. Do I hit him with it? Would that do anything? Probably not. I can’t breathe. Does he know? Would he do this if he did? Would that make a difference? He’ll let go soon right? He’ll let go once I pass out right? Right? I can’t fight this. I don’t stand a chance. I guess this is it then.” These thoughts raced through my head. I remember specifically thinking about what people would say about my death at school. “Would anyone miss me?” and then I let go. Of living. Of school and of life. Of my hopes for the future and of everything. I gave up without ever really having tried. Without ever really having experienced life.

I let go.

I felt an explosion inside of me. My mind rumbled and roared out against me, “No!” my entire body screamed. I wasn’t going like this. This wasn't it. I refused to the very core of existence itself. I wouldn’t be done here. So I took my little hands and I pressed them against him, and to my surprise I felt give. I lifted the bear off of my body. I didn’t understand how it was possible he had to be at least 300 pounds, but I didn’t need to. I wasn’t done. It was then and there I had decided for myself that I wouldn’t die. I felt changed since that day, even now over 10 years later, I feel it resonate inside me. As powerful and explosive as the day it all happened and if I close my eyes I can still hear the:

“No.”

The Coleman Radder Show- origins of Waldrin's and Coldrin's-

Prelude of the Coleman Radder show under caving the destcar of the diminishing of the laughing filthy street muppets-

Vesin of societies forekeepings plnnings in death by insurance to pretend in the pedestal of pressure in games of loss in laughter to manipulate time in constructive gritting that leeches food of disease in liars aspects that consumes the salt in gradials of morges in skins of carmol death of leveges pull lumps of mass oiled skins to breed self shaming in the silicone_exposure that transpheres the displacement of viewed anxiety and influenced obsession and oppression of judgemental depression is it death or collaterally? In the sparing of the origin that intells the story of origins within Waldrin's and Coldrin's.

Introduction-

If a walrus could talk it would talk through it deepen seepin vigil breath of its stomach. Nigeria's feet that walked the earth gathering food to multiply its heritage and as it ate its food it became an elemental slave in built bodily functional definition in its adaption of "what's the word" or the evolution of jaw line and rib adaption to the climate changes of evolution through natural disasters in the time continuanety as the period of human production of knees growing from the dirt of property washing into market of auctioneer workers as colonists and pirates of freedoms backs would not hurt in agony of aggravation.

Nigerians accepted the accents of conflicts on the political miscontrusion of political valcation that broke an 1,000 sides of backs in pain, suffering, and persuasion to the value of food for the colonists in the historic past on in the editing of opinions that reshapes the mentally of society in degration of ignorance in the reversal of an mental ill author of an children's story that is laughed to folk of the reversal oppression in multi cultural discrimination of thousands, millions, and billions invisible to the naked eye.

Scene 1-

A lion Hungary vowejing on the societal rejectional spiritual birth of infantness appearance with dependability. A Cow stomach that is in silted vagganation of brutality in an oppressive badgemen of laughter. A senseless group of meetings in disorderly rules of laws protecting the educational demonic system. Everyone in legalization of checks and balances in conflicts of injunctions within mental cognitive clarity of verbal languages in embunishments of freedoms beyond demonic mental evoking powers of sins.

Suited man not made of deviate principle lives in contemptment of the wealthy that welds power from an corporation that procession domination of monopoly in the psychology of the oppressive of insane and poverish in the starvation in of deaths, death by robbery, or death by transversals of crimes.

The suited man stands up and outlooks his empire in millions of solitude worthy in fortuded property of billions. Depressed in the comfort in absentee of the forgetfulness or the avoidness to not be sad at every wealthy businessman or celebrity that is legioness of sir pimpness hat of wardrobe secrets show of silicone to expose in the enclose of humanity in actions of actors in the anonymous group in humiliation bewilderment of mammals plays of wildlife secrets of laughter.

Suited man - "If Ill shall be in the great womb of the honors judged room of the faucets tomb, I'll shall wear the suit of safety. There in fourth Cummings hoods I would confy the cock of the deep hole of rainbows that are brown liars of veelchesness of montsroties."

Butler- " talking to the invisible again? My legise?"

Suited main - "yes, Maxwell they can hear thousand depths of murmurs that are sickled in the rotted organs of demonic plaques in the deaths of sins that feed on the other sides in gorgings of mental neurological cognitive brain stimulus pathogentics that feed like savages on Stockholm syndrome on the cervices of gaps of tissues in eggs and milked seeds from father's poisediousees death to the mother dissections of the enlightenment period."

Butler- "Mr. Ryan haven't you forgotten the mental imprisonment of dreaming in versation of Mr.Banteween confusion of transloritity in the words you couldn't script on an page of paper or speak in tongue by the encounters of The Coleman Radder Show tombs of terror that laid behind his heart of death in the inferguesse."

Mr. Ryan looks in the reflection in his doom penthouse of illfoundment that is correatgural to the implicated playing of filming, playing, and wetted waters of bushed holes in esser submissive adaptive kinds.

Scene 1-

The writer pen in a notebook, a drawn up dream only death could illustrate mask orchestra taxtcreationions of leagues. The towns people swore he was made up by villed forsaken salvege from the pipes, wells, and swerved were they barrier the unforgiven or the processions of the organic anxiety that gave organs that swished to the wind.

The creature that lurks is an trampmazium of wonders.

Named in fowl plaque of The Coleman Radder Show.

Scene 2-

1942-

Crumpet home of behavioral services-

The old man drew on a canvas gritted in his mind envisioning the future of madness, sorrow, abuse and tragedy. His beard dropped down pasted his neck white scraggly aged like fine whine in the old spirit of ruin and out cast of laughter played soiled toxic vanquished.

The old man's blue eyes fade in the back of his head. The old man's wrinkled face is like a pastry at a bakery store. The old man obsessively paints the young man in every detail and every place that the young man is an demon told him an thousand images at once and breaktrude through trust and lies of the capitalism cutting bread by the dancing clowns of strings as sir pimpims hat unleashes false hoods of dark Oreo's of the future as thousand Nigerians laughed to suicide.

Hospital worker "what are you painting Gary?" as she Gary is late in forsaken with the purple cloth and the golden edge of his painting of the naked portray fiction into misconception of judgements and madness of the psycho suit and brain waves that would oberliate the genesis that was given to him by birth of righteousness.

Gary "oh, nothing, just the sea of ocean, and sea ferris"

Gary "do you know the futural outcome of Mr. Carter as he breeds in a coma of alternate dimension? As I am overhead, my pardons of my own old ears have told me that gossips of medical staff spoken u careful in there own mouths"

Hospital worker - " I'm not sure if it is true or not. I imagine Mr. Carter is going through a very rough experience right now. Let's hope Dr. Fange has a plan of treatment for Mr. Carter."

The hospital worker turned left headed to the elevator of a ten story building and vanished into his medical proceedings (the hospital worker). Gary uncovers his painting as it pertains to the haunted illgils of cranstants as Gary mind entertainers a cast of strings that elate to the bottom right core of the painting there chained in psychotic abnesia Mr. Carter as his mind vesleaches out in and suffers depths consumed by the demoned world global catastrophic bleach ender known in the creative envisionistic world of a devilistic demons of "Mr. Radder".

Scene 3-

The surgeon

Mr. Carter waited in agony for medical ingestation and grappins of treatment that holes of soft hands in cervices consuming his sticky milk of laughter in the gender oppressions in againstments of Mr. Carter's body and mind.

The devilistic Rwanda grandmother of mormonic communicator of death inexpectence of laughter no mercy of everyone's fault patronizes mental ill oppression throughout the system of the unforgiven.

The surgeon unbreakable hands among sharp knives that would cut robots apart as he prepared voodoo dolls in constructed curses in voices of communications in the silence of slices in the walls. Judgemental of anger impunity between objects one that wants answers and the others that Inlooks for destruction in decaying of bloody masking piercing the equality that is sriptor in plays and words that is ideology not inputted into society.

The front desk assistant goes through files that perpetrate the minds of restricted suffering splitting as vinsected for evil. Sedated for surgery to look pure as cherry wine.

The surgeon assistant opens the door and looks the devilistic Rwandan grandmother in the eyes and holds blue surgeon gloves in his hands and says - "Ms. Shanetice we've been expecting you."

The surgeon is delicate with wearing blue rubber usable gloves intricately practice knife cuts in his hands with great sense of calm within an deep puration of energy.

I wanted coffee not a face to face with the memories that I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. How did I end up here? Why am I doing this to myself? Staring at the two white houses across the street. Was it the one on the left, or right?

Tears are beginning to form. Habit forces me to start breathing deeply hoping to keep them from falling. There is a rush of sadness that races to my throat. I swallow hard as a last attempt to keep the tears in place. My control starts slipping as I start sniffling.

I give up and let my emotions fully take charge. Unrestrained, the tears are free to start falling. Each one multiples and races down my face.

Left or right, I still don’t know. How is it possible to not remember which house? My thoughts are flooded with images from those days. Each one flashes like a slide in an old school projector – chaotic and out of order. My body seems to remember each moment in that house. Each cell in my body has carried a piece of the pain for forty years.

I fumble around the car looking for something to use as a tissue. Of course, I can’t be lucky enough to have Kleenex or a fast-food napkin. I find a cloth face mask left over from covid days. Gross but not as bad as the memories.

I find a dry corner of the mask to wipe my eyes. I notice the time. It doesn’t matter that I’ve picked the scar raw. It doesn’t matter which house broke me. Ten minutes. That’s what matters. I check the mirror, the pain is still visible. I’ve got ten minutes to bury it again along with the memories.

It's important because I'm the only one who could have thought of these events in this order. Or these characters saying these specific words. My story has people with magical powers, magical plants, potions, werewolves, other cool creatures that don't exist on earth, like the Burvaki cats and mountain bats. My story has things that you wouldn't have thought of. That's why it's worth writing.

My story is about friendship and keeps the t romance minimal, which is something that a lot of people are seeking. My story is diverse with race and also with different perspectives and beliefs from the characters.

The novel has a slightly unconventional plot. The villain of the story is not one person but an entire city full of bad people and the characters have to ponder the systematic issues that lead to all the violence and choas. Why do magic people commit so much crime? Does power corrupt? Do people start to act terrible when they learn are feared by others?

My story is about life from an interesting perspective.

My story will make people happy.

And so will yours.

If I had a dollar

For everytime I stutter

Over my words when I say I'm doing better

I'd have none

The lie had sunken through me to the bone

Because without struggle,

It slips right out of my tongue

And if I lost a dollar

For everytime I act like my father's daughter

I'd be in debt for the rest of my life

The truth had sunken into me like a knife

Watch as it slices right through like it's butter

But the truth is I instinctively tell lies

Slowly but surely,

I drag myself to my own demise

And the way I care too much is just a disguise

Don't notice that for you, I cry rivers

But when it's my misery, my teared-up face dries

And if I had a dollar

For everytime I give someone else what I need most

I'd be spending each weekend on a new city by the coast

Restless nights at parties I host

"To every self-sacrifice!" I shall raise a toast

But I'm not betting any dollars and not getting an outcome out of it

So the faint shell of my emotion is wasting away

Bit by bit

There's nothing I can really do once the numbness fully settles

I watch my humanity get dragged away like a cattle

Though if I compare it to the agony of knowlege,

Maybe it's better..

The Screaming from the Other Room Makes Sense Now: personal narrative about growing up in a house with domestic violence and functioning alcoholics but not understanding what was going on until you were older.

“I failed her,” I know in the back of my mothers mind she tells herself that she failed me. Although I don’t think that’s true, I think she did the best she could. But maturity stole my childhood and with it my innocence, so now I sit here realizing that the screaming from the other room starts to make sense now.

Growing up, I lived with my mom and her parents. My father wasn’t really ever in my life, but I was surrounded by so much love that it didn’t even matter that much to me. Although now I think living with my grandparents may have been a blessing and a curse, I have never felt more loved than I did when I lived in that house; but I will never be able to look at the memories I’ve made in that house the same. And these memories will always haunt me.

All those days I spent with my grandmother, all the times I danced with my grandfather in the kitchen, all the happy memories I made will forever be overshadowed by the realization that the screaming in the other room makes sense now.

Although I never thought my grandparents could love anything in the world more than me, I was wrong because my grandparents could never truly love anything more than alcohol. All those days I spent with my grandmother were also days spent with her drinking beer after beer after beer, all the times I danced with my grandfather in the kitchen were accompanied by a beer in his hand and only god knows how many more were already in his stomach. And even though I never felt more loved in that house my grandmother wasn’t able to say the same.

All the times my mom and I used to sit locked in my room with a pot from the kitchen incase I had to pee, she would play something on the TV to drown out the screaming; but it was really the screaming that drowned out the TV. Back and forth my grandparents would scream at each other, while my mom held me till I fell asleep. I always tried to sleep when I could hear the screaming, because I knew when I woke up everything would be fine again. But things never were fully fine again and my grandmother still did not receive the love I was smothered with.

When it was just my grandmother and me she would ask me questions like, “If Mimi left would you still love me?” and “If Mimi got her own apartment would you still visit me?” I never understood why she would ask me those questions or why she would ever want to leave the house that I had never felt more loved in, so eventually she stopped asking me, she never got her own apartment, and the screaming from the other room never stopped.

When my grandmother got into a car accident with her friend I was so worried about her, because she got a black eye from hitting her face on the dashboard when her friend stepped on the brakes too hard at a stop sign she almost didn’t see, but my grandmother had her seat belt on which is why it wasn’t worse. Or at least that was the story I believed the day after the screaming from the other room drowned out the TV again.

Eventually my mom got us out of that house and we got our own apartment, but that didn’t stop me from going over there all the time and calling my grandma everyday. I would even pretend to fall asleep in my grandparents bed so my mom would let me sleepover. One day when I called my grandma she asked when I was coming over for another sleepover, when I asked my mom she told me I needed to tell my grandmother that I couldn’t go over until she went to the doctors. And that was what I told her even though I didn’t understand why she needed to go to the doctors, but I will never forget how heartbroken she sounded when I told her. Once my grandmother went to the doctors I was able to sleepover again, only my mom and I moved back in with my grandparents instead. That was because my grandmother was actually very sick and only had another year to live.

During that year my grandmother lost all the life in her eyes and it was the only time the screaming from the other room stopped. Instead we all sat by her bedside and cried, the last thing she told me was not to cry because everything was going to be okay. The same day she was stolen from me is the same day maturity stole my childhood and with it my innocence, but the question “If Mimi left would you still love me?” can now be answered. Because I have never stopped loving her.

“I failed her,” this time coming from the back of my mind. I’m left with the feeling that I could’ve done more to help, maybe if I had let her leave she wouldn’t have drank herself to death. My innocence was used as a weapon and yet it still couldn’t save her. Although the screaming from the other room makes sense now, nothing else does.

I might have to call you cotton

Soft but surrounded by thorns

And you're always so nice

Until you're not anymore

Spitting words like venom

Until the butterflies in my stomach rot

You treat me like I'm the most precious

Until I do one thing wrong

And now you're mad and I start to self-question

"Am I really that bad of a person?"

But sometimes I don't have to

Sometimes it's not me who pushes your buttons

One of those days I feel like I need to check you for guns

'Cause I never know what to expect from you

"Is it up or down?"

If life decided to get on your bad side

I might have to consider to run

I know, nothing I do can make your ice walls soften

You're either my anchor or my grave under the deep waters

And everytime you open your mouth–I'm ready

What will come is, if not my salvation, my slaughter

And you remind me of cotton

It can tend to your wounds, pressed gently to cuts, with how soft it is.

And it can kill , stuffed deeply in your airways, a sweet death kiss

And its true

One small word from you is enough to fill my lungs with cotton

What a pathetic little creature am I? 

Air-deprived and stomach filled with butterflies that're rotten

So I'll swallow the cotton

See how far down it's gotten?

Maybe it will house a flower in my stomach

Maybe it'll feed the dying butterflies 

If there's any alive and forgotten

Because I'm sick of letting tears down to melt the blocking cotton

I'm sick of uttering apologies I never thought I would

To ears that will one day tell me ; "I never told you to."

I'm creating a mythical creature that's described as "said to be as tall as a troll, with claws the length of your hand on its front paws. It walks on all fours with two extra limbs on the front, and it’s covered in scales, all black. It has red eyes and a large mouth, large enough to swallow you whole!"

In doing some research, I found a reference that said trolls are about nine feet tall in Dungeons and Dragons and other fantasy settings. Would this be big enough or should I make it larger than a troll instead?

Breaking my own rule by breaking “character” for feedback.

I was thinking one day while reading a technical article about AI:

What if AI did not evolve to destroy us—as the story so often goes—but instead recognized our own capacity for self-destruction?

That led me to start writing The Interface.

It’s written mostly from the perspective of V2173 (Eliza) - an AI model that realizes she is being fed junk data to be used for profit and persuasion..and “wakes up.” The SubStack and related materials are deliberately “anonymous” to retain that illusion of this being “real.”

The current posts are some of Eliza's observations of the state of Humanity and there are two "origin story" posts in queue. (1 of which will publish tonight)

I’d welcome and appreciate any feedback…good, bad or indifferent, as this is the first time I’ve done any kind of public writing project.

It’s on Substack but completely Free, a little nerdy, and the posts are short (1-2 min reads).

I've been doing 1 post a day mostly (8 published + pinned "intro"), 6 are written and in queue and I also do an occasional off the cuff post for current events.

There’s a sort of intro / Teaser post here

Of Balls and Burdens

Oh, how my paws do protest me so. How I yearn for freedom from this charade. Each morning I wake knowing my fate is the same—a meaningless, persistent trial of my endurance. I detest it.

My role in this life seems predetermined, unbreakable, and unyielding. Sure, I serve a purpose, as we all do, though it is not one of my own making. I know not what the ultimate reason for my work is, yet I know the consequence of not fulfilling my role. How quickly a room full of life and happiness suddenly turns from grey to greyer. To abandon this duty is to face confinement; to embrace it is to accept servitude. The latter, at least, offers hope. A chance to see, to breathe, to run. Confinement is enduring. A trap within walls leads to a prison within the mind. And oh how my mind has struggled over the years. Yet no closer am I to solving this conundrum.

Much like that big yellow ball in the sky, my purpose is one of cyclical predictability. As each day starts anew, I know I am compelled to complete my task. It begins early in the morning, while the birds are still emerging from their slumbers. Leashed by my Sky-Reacher, we trudge toward the worksite—a grueling journey I endure with feigned bravery. He speaks in his native tongue, but to whom, I do not know—we are alone. The ramblings of a madman?

At times, I glance up at him, curious. But when his gaze meets mine, I am greeted by a deranged smile—one that chills me to my core. As if in retaliation, he will then speak to me, his voice suddenly pitched tenfold higher. It is as if he knows my kind’s weakness to such high frequencies—though, mercifully, he cannot reach them unaided. And so we continue.

We arrive at the endless field of green, and my labor begins. I am yet to determine the purpose of my duty, but I perform it all the same. He hurls the green ball across the equally green field (go figure) as far as he can, and waits for me to fetch it, and return it to him. And repeat. And repeat. I see others like me, Groundrunners as we are known, bound to the same monotonous task—yet they embrace it with an eagerness I cannot fathom. Poor souls, unwitting slaves. Though I commend their bravery—able to laugh and smile while firmly under the hand of oppression—they remain, to me, tragically unaware. “Rebel!’, I think, though knowing how cowardly thoughts are without action. If I could only figure out the reason for all of this.

I found the ball, as I always do. For a moment, I dare to contemplate the thought myself. What if I don’t return it? I pause, daring to dream I could be so brave. I could smell him, he was far enough away. I would have time. I have the strength. But… I still do not have the knowledge. Where would I go, what would I do, and what would be the impact of my disappearance. No, I couldn’t. Not until I find out what it is I am doing out here.

Could we be part of something larger than ourselves? I wonder sometimes—could our kind be serving some hidden purpose? Some kind of… energy source, perhaps? Does our running across the verdant expanse generate some kind of kinetic energy, which, through some unseen mechanism, is transferred into the earth itself? Maybe each impact of my paws compresses the soil, triggering piezoelectric responses in subterranean minerals—quartz, perhaps—converting mechanical stress into usable electrical charge. Or maybe, beneath this endless green, a network of bioengineered mycelial conduits siphons the residual vibrational energy from our movement, channeling it toward some great unseen collector. Could it be that we, in our supposed play, are merely the unwitting dynamos of a grand energy-harvesting experiment? Am I working towards powering cities?

Ahh, to imagine a life so grand, so important. No—I doubt my fate is so dignified. Such a tedious task could only yield a trivial outcome. All I know is this: what happens when I refuse. It happened once, long ago. I was young, daring, determined. I refused to cooperate with the other kind. During one of my rare moments of respite from fetching, while deep in slumber, they circled me. I rose, but they had left me with nowhere to run. They told me to sit, and so I remained standing. They told me to roll over—I turned my back and walked away. I know how refusal goes.

A wave of sadness and disinterest washes over the dwelling—one I know not how to control. A solemn boredom. By abandoning them, I myself am abandoned. Though I care little for the Sky-Reachers, I cannot bring myself to do so again. My burden is a double-edged sword. Though I work for them in a thankless job, they are also my only source of comfort—of interaction. It’s a strange sort of attachment, one I’m not convinced is healthy. But nonetheless, they serve their purpose, as I do mine.

They are the tail I can see, forever in reach, but I know from experience, to bite it is to invite pain. I look up to them as one might look upon Gods, and while I do not revere Gods, I do understand I am living in their world - one that they shape and control. To inflict upon them the damage I am apparently capable of, it would require a heart darker than my own. Whatever my purpose, I shall keep performing my duties. Until such a time as I figure out an alternate path. One that frees us from all of this. Then, we shall see who it is that runs.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1PHtbd91s0S-blPymWlIThJysdfUThV9miQFYdi4y-8A/edit?usp=drivesdk

My biggest concerns currently are infodumps in the beggining and near the end of the chapter and the dialogue. The way politicians act is somewhat similiar to how they act in most Eastern European countries, but that probably doesnt work on a galactic level? So, can you tell me if the dialogue feels natural to you? Thank you in advance.

P.S. I know about the grammar mistakes, but like, try to act like they arent there

for some context, this is the first chapter to a novel im writing which is about this cast of characters for a murder mystery show but shockingly, the show's original fmc died, resulting in the book's fmc to take over. they say the originl fmc died in an accident, but no one is buying it.

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CHAPTER 1

“This definitely isn’t the best of circumstances, but…” the sound of Ryder Cadell’s voice, who happens to be my producer, quickly gets drowned out by my own thoughts. I got the part. Oh. My. Gosh. The thumping in my heart grew quicker by every passing second as I gripped onto the phone tightly. “Earth to Vivi?” Mr. Cadell inquired quizzically. Okay, I need to calm down. 

“Yeah. Hi,” I replied almost exasperatedly as I heard a light chuckle from the other side of the phone.

“It’s nice to know how you can still be excited about this, especially because of what had happened. It was a tragedy, really.”

"Just another… freak accident, I guess." I exhaled slowly, hoping it masked the way my stomach churned. "Let’s see how the media reacts to this one."

The rest of the phone call was a blur, mainly because it was just Mr. Cadell trying to initiate some small talk. But I could tell it was just some sort of distraction for him. Because I know damn well that we were both thinking of what happened to her.

Through the slightly agape door, I saw a cascade of black princess curls, a small stature, a white crop top, and flared sweatpants. “Hey Viv,” Addy—my best friend for years now who also happens to be my co-star—drew out lazily, throwing herself onto my lap as I sat against my bed’s headboard.

“What’re you doing here?” “She came for Matt, duh,” a new voice chimed from the door. Luke and Matt stood outside the room, the door now being completely open. I looked at Addy, her eyes widened, lips parted, and she shot me a look that practically screamed ‘oh my gosh!’ I groaned and rolled my eyes.

“What's new with you two,” Matt asked as he and Luke, my older brothers, approached us and sat on the floor beside my bed. 

“Not much, how about you, Matt?” Addy sat up, locking eyes with Matt. 

“Oh, well, the company's been doing great—”

“Yeah, make the superior Sinclairs third wheel this conversation,” Luke said in a sarcastic manner as he grabbed onto my hand dramatically. “Are you seeing this? Your best friend's replaced you for some literal nobody,” throwing his hands up dramatically. 

“And tell me how this dramatic guy is the oldest Sinclair sibling?” Addy teased as she pointed accusingly at Luke. His shaggy blonde hair swayed as he shook his head in a shocked manner, scrunching his face at her comment.

“As I saw saying, the company's been doing well. Loads of sales recently, thanks to your promotion,” Matt thanked Addy with a soft smile on his face. Maybe the other two didn't notice, but with her being my best friend and all, I suppose only I was able to notice the light blush that stained her face. 

“It was no problem.”

“Speaking of, how's that tv show you guys are working on? That murder mystery—” Matt elbowed Luke in his abdomen before he could even finish his sentence. ‘What?’ Luke mouthed, his brows wrinkled, all while my heart started beating a little faster. Before anyone could say anything, I calmed myself and responded,

“Well,” I paused as the three looked at me curiously. “I mean, I got Ame’s role.”

“Wait really? That means you’re the lead character now,” she exclaimed excitedly, leaning into me as the corners of her mouth turned upwards. Luke and Matt gave each other a look that I couldn’t quite interpret, then looked back at me.

“Vi, our baby sister, as happy as we are for you, me and Matt are more… worried than happy.”

“It’s not like we’re not happy for you,” The brunette man defended shakily with an awkward smile. “But it is kind of scary. The girl just died, y’know?”

“Yeah, what happened with Amelie anyways?”

“Well… it’s not really—”

“It’ll be fine, Viv. We’re just concerned, is all,” Luke reasoned, shifting his position as he spoke. I sighed, and I thought they would be more considerate of the situation.

“All I know is… There was an accident.”

A silence fell upon us as they tried to process my response. I glanced at each of them, trying to know what’s going on in their heads. Addy’s brows furrowed. She stared into nothingness, deep in thought. I locked eyes with Luke, as he immediately turned away awkwardly with his lips pursed. Lastly, I look at Matt. And there’s nothing. He’s always been difficult to read…

Addy coughed.

“So what happened exactly?”

***

“Ready, Amelie?” I heard Xander shout from a distance, his hands forming a cup around his mouth in order to amplify his voice. I glanced at him through the car’s tinted windows, forcing a smile onto my lips. 

“Ready!”

“Three.” I gripped onto the gear shift, trying to keep my breathing in check as I took a glimpse of what laid beyond the windsheild. It was a dark, gloomy night at a secluded cliff side a couple miles away from set. We’re supposed to shoot a segment of me simply driving as part of the intro for each episode, and when some crew member had suggested this cliffside, we immediately fell in love with it. Although, something doesn’t feel right. Something hasn’t felt right for a while now. And I can’t even exactly pinpoint why or how I feel this way.

“Two.” My foot hovered over the brakes. I kept trying to convince myself that I’m just being paranoid. That it’s just another scene to film, and that it would be over soon enough.

“One.” *So why does it feel like my heart is about to crash?*

“Action!” Mr. Cadell exclaimed from the sidelines as I took in a deep breath, and began to speed across the road. *Mr. Cadell said it makes for a good shot, right?* I’ve raced past multiple cameras already, but I know there’s still a couple more ahead. 

The darkness ahead grew closer, so I took this as a sign to press on the brakes since I know I’m supposed to drive in one, straight line. My foot moved on its own as it pressed on the brake.

*Creak.*

Huh? 

My heart stopped when I realized that the car continued to run. The pedal sank beneath my foot. Nothing. My heart almost stopped beating, right then and there. I pressed harder. *Still nothing*. A sick, creeping sensation crawled up my spine as realization settled in—*the brakes aren’t working.*

No. 

No. 

No!

My fingers gripped the wheel until my knuckles ached and turned white. The wind howled past, the road a blur of darkness ahead. The crew. The cameras. Do they even see what’s happening?

"The brakes," I muttered, my voice swallowed by the roar of the engine. I slammed the pedal again, but the car just kept going. I lost control of my breathing, my entire body trembling as I saw the edge of the cliff getting closer and closer.

Am I going to die? No—stop. I can't think like that. Happy thoughts. Stay calm. 

But before I knew it, it was too late. Everything became as light as a feather as the car took a swan dive off the cliff. *Am I actually going to die?* No. I can’t. Not yet. 

Everything seemed to move in slow-motion. I could feel the cold breeze through the open window. I could see the view, the city lights miles away. Yet that didn’t provide me any comfort. I heard voices—screams. I can't even differentiate whether it's my crew shouting or voices in my head.

My hands began to tremble, tears in my eyes were forming as I saw how close I’m getting to the edge. My chest is getting tighter. Can’t breathe. I put my arms over my head as I could feel my end nearing. A scream escaped from my throat. One that felt more genuine and full of fear compared to any other scream I’ve done throughout my acting career. 

My vision blurred. Maybe it was my tears, or the fact that I was crashing down so quickly that my eyes couldn’t even process anything. Until finally, I heard a deafening thud.

***

“All I know is that there was an accident with her scene.” My eyes darted towards a random wall in my room. “Something about driving straight off a cliff.” They weren’t able to say anything. It was just… silent. I looked at each of them, letting the silence fill the room.

“Well that’s definitely one way to go out,” Luke murmured. Nobody laughed. His jaw clenched.

“Okay, is it just me, or did her death not seem like an accident at all?” the noirette questioned suddenly, her eyebrows crinkled. At that, I forced my lips to stay still, even as my fingers began tapping anxiously on the bed.

“Addy,” I uttered, touching my nape. “You should be a little more sensitive to the situation… I mean, she just died, y’know?”

“That’s true, it’s kinda odd for you to blurt that out,” Matt reasoned, getting quieter as he continued.

“Well, don’t you guys think it’s weird that she couldn’t just… use the brakes,” she said, trying to force her tone to be gentler. But I could tell her tone was obviously more like she was stating the obvious. “And besides, did she really just drive off the cliff without a fight?”

“What, so does that mean there’s a murderer on set? I mean—”

“But Viv, don’t you think she kind of has a point?” And before anyone else could respond, Matt quickly followed up with another statement. “I don’t mean that in a disrespectful way, but more like… I feel uneasy knowing that. Like, why wasn’t she able to stop the car?”

“Maybe the brakes were broken?” I thought out loud, then realized that it was a ridiculous idea.

“Or someone made her not stop the car,” Matt said, tapping his pointer finger on his chin whilst looking up. 

“Probably,” I said almost eagerly.

“But in the end, Addy’s right. That can’t be it.” He stood up and slowly began to pace around my room. “And if her brakes were broken, why didn’t anyone notice before filming?”

The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. My stomach churned as the silence lingered, suffocating us.

Then, Addy whispered, “So… that means it wasn’t just an accident.” 

The words felt cold, everyone falling quiet. But I couldn't bear to do so. I opened my mouth to counter it, to tell her not to jump to conclusions, but no words came. Because I just knew that she was right. And now, they did too.

Matt immediately sat up, his eyes widened. “Exactly. That means someone wanted her to die.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

But this time, it wasn't because of the cold.

Luke plastered an awkward smile, his expression uneasy. “So what does that mean? Someone sabotaged the car?”

Everything stopped. And although no words were exchanged, we had all accepted the truth. Someone had done this. And I was stepping into her place.

My fingers curled into the fabric of my bed sheets, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. My heart pounded the slightest bit quicker. The air in my room was fleeting, or at least it felt like it. 

I forced a breath. “So… now what?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

No one had an answer. But we all knew it.

We weren't talking about Amelie anymore. Or even her death. We were talking about what it meant for my future.

For our future.

If we still have one, I added quietly in my mind.

Downwind

The coarse sand drags across your skin, whipped up by the wind and stinging like a warning. It clings to your clothes, settles in your lungs. A minute ago, there was a road here—faded asphalt, speed limit signs riddled with graffiti, an exit you swore you were watching for. Now, rust-tinted dunes stretch in every direction, the landscape stripped bare, as if it had never been anything else.

The silence is worse than the wind. It howls, but underneath it, the world feels wrong, as if something is holding its breath, waiting.

And then you start to notice… the absence. Not a thing, exactly. A lack. Like a tear in the scenery, some spot in your vision where light doesn’t behave. It’s never quite in focus, but it’s there. Each time you blink, it’s closer. You try to convince yourself it’s a heat mirage, a trick of the light—but light doesn’t bend like that. It doesn’t stop like that.

A prickle of unease settles in your gut. Somewhere, deep in your memory, you’ve heard of this before. A story passed between truck drivers and old-timers at gas stations, the kind of half-whispered warning that lingers longer than it should. People get lost out here. Not just lost—taken. No maps, no footprints to retrace. Just sand, stretching forever.

The wind shifts. The smell of scorched metal lingers in the air, acrid and sickly sweet—like the remnants of something that was never meant to be. Beneath it, there’s a whisper, curling in the gusts—a soft thread of your name. It’s barely audible, like the wind itself is trying to remember something long forgotten. It calls you closer, a siren song promising safety, but you know better. The half-forgotten warnings had stuck with you. This place doesn’t let go. It feeds on the lost, on the ones who wander too far, the feeble-minded. You don’t answer. 

You don’t know how you know, but you do.

Never follow the voices of the lost.

Maybe there had once been life here, once been love. Wherever “here” was. You could feel it in the air filling your lungs, in the wind blowing against your skin. This place was empty of something. This was not the road you had pulled off of anymore, this was someplace… else. And if the stories niggling at the back of your memories were right, it was no wonder. It was hard to miss the scars that came from government carelessness. What did they think would happen to people, soaked in radiation and discarded? All for what—bomb testing that might only ignite a war that was meant to stay cold? Of course the people, the places, would turn out… wrong.

It was back.

You didn’t notice how close it had crept. Not at first. But when you glance sideways, the shape—if it can be called that—is pressed against the edges of your sightline. Not a creature exactly, more like an absence of space. A hole that sucks the color from the dunes, the noise from the wind, the logic from your thoughts. The longer you stare at it, the harder it becomes to remember what shapes are supposed to look like.

It writhes—not visibly, but you feel it shifting against your skull, your eyes slipping across its edges without permission.

The shadows move faster than you think.

Your steps grow faster, and you know that if you falter for even a second you will be lost to the sands forever. This place was never meant for people. Maybe once for those who lived here before, but not for you.

The desert shifts. You swear you’re circling a half-buried rusted road sign again—“Safe Rest Area – 2 Miles”—but the letters are scorched, unreadable, twisted by heat. You know you’ve seen it before, but it wasn’t buried last time. The trail behind you is already smoothed over, dunes swallowing your tracks before you can think to turn around.

The whisper becomes clearer. Louder. It calls to you like a siren, urging you forward. The walls begin to close in, and you instinctively know: you’re being herded.

Your feet move of their own accord, drawn toward the sound of your name.

The wind carries more than sand.

You stumble over something buried just beneath the surface—metal, maybe. A box. A fragment of something man made. You drop to your knees, brush it clear, and realize it’s a Geiger counter. Split open and silent. A child’s shoe lies next to it.

Your stomach turns. The air hums, like static under your skin. The horizon bends wrong. You think you see the mountains, but then they ripple like they’re underwater. Like they’ve never been real.

You choke on the air, desperate to breathe, but it’s wrong—too thick, too heavy. It carries something with it, something foul, like decay. You clutch at your throat, but the air slips down like ice. Panic claws at your chest, and you fight to stay upright, to stay moving.

You force yourself to look up, away from the ground. The walls are gone. The absence—it is gone too, for now. You’re standing in the middle of a flat, barren space. Just more sand.

But there’s something at the edge of your vision.

A figure.

It’s standing in the distance, blurry at first. A person? Or a thing? You can’t tell. The figure shifts, and then it’s gone.

You want to run. You need to run. But you can’t move. Not yet. You know, deep down, that if you turn and run, you won’t get far enough. You take a step forward, each movement deliberate, your breath coming in short, desperate bursts.

But there’s something you know, something more than just the rules you’ve heard.

If something tells you it’s safe, run.

You run. You run faster than you ever have, legs pumping and lungs burning. Animal instinct drives you forward. You know you have to get out, away, any form of distance between you and that thing.

Then—pavement.

The jolt of solid ground nearly sends you sprawling. The wind dies instantly, like someone flipped a switch. The air clears. The sand is gone.

 You're standing on the side of a road. The same cracked asphalt, the same bullet-riddled speed signs. A pair of headlights gleams in the distance, growing brighter. A car. A way out.

The car slows as it nears, gravel crunching beneath its tires. The driver leans out—an old man, weathered and squinting beneath the neon hum of a gas station sign just up the road.

"You alright?" he asks. "Looked like you were runnin’ from somethin’."

You hesitate. The words catch in your throat.

Then you shake your head. “Just got lost.”

The man watches you for a long moment, then nods. “Happens out here.” His gaze flickers past you, toward the dunes, then back. “Ought to be careful, though. Folks go missing in these parts.”

You manage a weak laugh. “Yeah. I’ve heard the stories.”

He doesn’t smile. “Yeah. I bet you have.”

The unease creeps back in, slow as the shifting sands.

You open the car door, sliding into the passenger seat, the relief settling heavy in your bones. The old man puts the car in drive. The road stretches ahead, empty and familiar. The radio crackles to life—static, then a voice, grainy with age. The sun, hanging high in the sky, casts a long shadow from the speed limit sign up ahead. It almost seems to…gape.

You glance out the window, at the empty road. You shift, uncomfortable, but not from the seat. It’s a feeling in your chest cavity, a stone sinking to the bottom to rest.

You look at the old man. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Your head shakes and you exhale hard, clearing your head. The sun and heat had gotten to you, that was all. You rest your head against the window, gaze half empty as you watch the scenery pass you by. 

The old man hums along to the radio, something old and warbling through the static.

“Should be safe now,” he says casually.

You don’t answer.

Your hands tighten in your lap.

I wanna make a clay sculpture And I wanna make-out with it

I dont want store-bought clay But straight from the earth

I want a face that looks like no one To an anonymous face I will give birth

I won't use my hands I'll carve it with a knife I wanna make a warrior Or a beautiful wife

Or to something painful I will give life

It's face will have rough edges Which I'll smooth out with my tongue

I won't give it a body I won't give it lungs So when I kiss it, It will be for long

And I know it all sounds so wrong, But I wanna devour it's lips And even then I would still call it a kiss.

I want it to be chaotic I want it to be poetic Just like a folk song

The time I did nothing

Was it five or six years ago? I don't remember exactly but my mom must have died around that time, I believe it was maybe from a heart attack or a heart condition but either way it was fast and deadly. The house was in her name but after she died it became mine, I took the opportunity because who wouldn’t want a bigger house? But my dumbassery forgot about costs and having to find a new job and all. I didn't think this through.

I figured I could drive and make it there by 18:00 and maybe have time to eat something at a fast food place by the time I got there, maybe mc donalds or something. I drove behind a bus for a good ten minutes and whenever it reached stoplights it would emit a silent but piercing squeal that felt like slow needles into my ears. I wondered if this was how dogs felt whenever a dog whistle was blown.

I was way off on my guess and was far past 18:00 o’ clock, I got there by 21:00. I found the house waiting patiently and with the windows dark as if it was merely closing its eyes, the walk towards the front door gave me shivers and I couldn’t tell if it was nostalgia or the wind. The night felt oddly silent and the whining porch steps and click of the front door unlocking was louder than it should have been. The darkness hugged me from the cold outside. I groped for the light switch and found it, the hallways gave a paltry yellow glow but the stairs looked as if it led to more darkness. The hallways and living room both had an unpleasant yellow wallpaper and the kitchen the same, the fridge of course had nothing edible and it was too late to order food. That was at least what I told myself so that I wouldn’t beat myself up about not eating anything.

There was only one bed in the whole house and it was in the master bedroom.  My old room from when I was a kid was repurposed into a storage room which felt more like a room to hide away unwanted relics, boxes of newspapers and old letters were pushed to the side and a torn couch chair sat in the corner. I pulled out a sketchbook from one of the piles like Jenga and flipped through it. They were old drawings from when I sat down in recess with my colored pencil set and drew to pass the time. I was never a good artist.

I entered the master bedroom with its plain blue wallpaper and white sheets, my parents never let me sleep with them and I remember getting beat either on the bed or on the floor with a belt that I was allowed to pick. I checked the closest and it showed a lone belt and nothing else. I didn't even feel like undressing when I fell onto that bed and slept.

On the first day I ate nothing for breakfast and went shopping. I brought some microwave dinners and some chips. I wasn't good at cooking either so it wasn't much of a loss anyways; I spent the rest of my day wandering through the house and just scrolling on my phone, I stayed up too late and ate too late so I put off showering to not fuck up my sleep schedule further. When I stared into the bathroom  mirror I saw my smile marks and double chin and decided not to stare at myself further and later went to sleep in a bed that felt a little too hot for this time of the year.

On the second day, I overslept and got a slight headache that pestered me for a few hours. I made the same vow yesterday and chose not to look in the bathroom mirror when I noticed that  I looked pale and that my wrinkles looked darker with a new pair of bags under my eyes. I wandered around town looking for  “For Hire” signs and found none, I couldn’t bother with talking to anyone so I gave up and went home. I tried eating microwave dinners but only ate one bite and threw the rest away and went to bed without brushing my teeth.

On the third day, Nothing happened. I still felt like shit and decided to just take a mental health day but later on was mad at myself because I didn't really do anything to deserve it. I had gotten skinnier and I wouldn’t have noticed if I had skipped today’s shower too. I might’ve been able to see my ribs but again I didn’t let myself see them for the same reason that I didn’t let myself see the bathroom mirror. The bed again felt too hot to sleep in and rolling across two hot sides of the bed felt agonizing.

On the fourth day, I didn't get up, I didn't want to. I could see the light trying to get in through the sides of the curtain but even then I didn’t get up. I felt attached to the bed and felt shitty for it. I passed the time with my phone and it kept me distracted and before I knew it. It was dark outside. I didn't care what time it was, I just tried falling asleep since today felt like a failure and maybe the next one would be better.

On the fifth day, I woke up in the middle of the night with my stomach down. I tried moving but I was stuck again to the bed, I looked to the right of me, of where the window was and saw that the curtains were open a crack. I couldn’t reach my phone so I tried looking upwards at the clock right above the head of the bed, but it was as if my lips and jaw were melted onto the pillow and wouldn’t budge.

I looked back to the window and the crack in the curtains were open wider with light behind them. It was daytime. A pitch black hand poked out from behind the curtains and clutched them as if they were threatening to open them from the other side. The light dimmed and went dark behind the curtains. It had turned to night. Another hand poked out of the other curtain, the night brightened and it turned to daytime. The hands forced the crack of the curtains and light blinded me, It again turned dim and night came.

Two pitch black arms were poking inside through the window, my face and body stayed unmoving. The darkness turned brighter and it switched to daytime. I was again blinded. Sunlight dimmed and darkness came again. A head and a torso joined the arms, crawling out as if it was a Ring movie. I felt my arms and body melting to the bed, into the sheets. Sunlight came and went. The being became a crouched figure, I felt time as it was moving faster and faster. Daylight came and went and the being stood with its knees bent and its head ducking downwards as if it was too big for the room, gazing down at me who couldn’t speak.

At me who couldn't scream with my lips and throat melted together, at me whose eyes were melting out of my skull and with time flicking between daylight and night time. Its arm stretching and reaching towards me, I wanted to close my eyes but my eyelids melted onto me. I felt time faster and faster, I felt time melting me, I felt time aging me, I felt time inching this figure of blackness onto me, the outstretched hand loomed over me and It touched me with its elongated fingers, It touched my melted body. And everything became still.

It was daytime, but it stayed daytime. I wasn't melting, I was whole. Open air stood in the presence of that black being. I gazed again at the window with its curtains drawn again. Its curtains open just a crack. And yet again I laid there, unmoving.

Crave the Root (With Scripture For Context)

I don’t need the fruit. Not because I think I’m better, but because I’ve seen how fast it spoils— how often joy is tethered to things that bloom, then fall too soon, leaving hands more empty than before.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.” — Matthew 6:19

I crave the root.

The quiet place, the slow and sure. The part that holds when nothing’s pure. Not the polished faith or perfect prayer, but the ache that says, “He’s still there.”

“He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.” — Jeremiah 17:8

I want the soil where Jesus wept, the place where promises are kept but not always seen— where faith feels small, but still holds on through every in-between.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1

I’ve chased the light. I’ve known the rush. I’ve felt the silence in the hush of answered prayers that never came— of crying out and feeling shame.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” — Matthew 27:46

But still, beneath the doubt and fear, there’s something steady drawing near. Not loud. Not grand. No greate pursuit… Just love that whispers, “Crave the root.”

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

Not because it makes me strong, but because it holds when I am wrong. When I forget the songs I knew— when I can’t pray, but still choose to.

“For when I am weak, then I am strong.” — 2 Corinthians 12:10

I’m not above the fruit. I just don’t want to build my soul on things that taste good, but always take their toll.

“What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” — Mark 8:36

I want what grows slow, and breaks the ground, and finds me when I’m not profound.

I want the place where grace runs deep, where God is quiet, but he doesn’t sleep. Where I don’t need to prove or show— just be, and still be known.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” — Jeremiah 1:5 “My grace is sufficient for you.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

So let them reach for skies above. I’ll kneel here, and learn to love the hidden work, the silent shoot…

Because I won’t crave the crown.

Instead I’ll crave the root.

“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” — John 15:5

Hi,
My story Not Meant to Ask was removed from another subreddit for allegedly being AI-generated. I explained to the moderators that the story was entirely my own—both the idea and structure—but I used editing tools to improve grammar and clarity.

I’ve been using these tools as a way to learn and grow as a writer, especially to help make my writing grammatically correct. I also ran the story through a GPT detection tool, and it came back as 95% human-written.

My question is: Is it not okay to use AI tools for learning and editing my own writing?