Shane didn’t realize he was being recruited into a cult until at least the third compliment.
“Hello, friend. My name is Grant. What’s your name?”
“Shane.”
“Nice to meet you, Shane. May I tell you something?”
Shane paused. This was usually the part where strangers tried to sell him something—religion, phone plans, their mixtape. “Is it bad news?”
“No.”
“Are you proselytizing?”
“No.”
“Then sure.”
Grant leaned in, eyes gleaming with the fervor of someone who had either seen the light or was about to start a pyramid scheme. “You’re amazing.”
Shane blinked. “I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well… thanks, I guess.”
“Do you have anything you want to tell me?”
Shane shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his grip on his grocery basket. “I said thank you.”
“Yes, indeed you did. Anything else?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I told you that you were amazing, so…”
“You want me to tell you that you’re amazing?”
“Exactly!”
Shane sighed. “Okay… you’re amazing.”
“You might find it a little odd, but I feel empowered when you say that.”
“Then I guess I’m warmed by your positive karma.”
“Your warmth threatens my karma.”
“Oh yeah? Well, the absurdity of your sudden unease is as laughable as your ‘You’re Amazing’ new age philosophy.”
Grant’s expression darkened. “Now you’ve succeeded in angering me with your ignorant labeling of my doctrine and guiding philosophy.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you have a doctrine? Does that make it a cult? If so, is it exclusionary? And do I fit into the negative stereotyping of the masses, or would I be permitted to join such a worthy cause for a small fee to the exalted grand high mystic great one?”
“As an unbeliever, which you are, don’t think your sarcasm has gone unnoticed. We’re entitled to 51% of your soul.”
“Not a horrible percentage, as cults go,” Shane admitted. “But I still have a nagging question. Will joining fill me with a false sense of superiority over non-believers, or will I be conditioned to happily go about my business, spreading the ‘You’re Amazing’ spiel to others?”
Grant sighed. “Look, stop with the questions and just go kill your family already. It’s for the best, okay?”
There was a long silence.
Shane finally took a slow breath. “Unanswered questions and hostile commands to boot! Wow, you guys really are legit. Alright, sign me up.”
The next steps were straightforward.
There was paperwork. There was a multi-level reward system. There was a video, which played on a slightly warped VHS cassette, in which a nameless figure in a turtleneck explained that the Cult of Subtextuality was not a cult but a “reality reframing initiative.”
Grant, now Shane’s assigned mentor, nodded along.
“We believe in the power of subtext,” the video explained. “We believe that the true meaning of all things is never what is said, but what is felt.”
It then cut to an infomercial montage: smiling people, hands clasped, gazing lovingly into a flickering television screen. A man in a suit discussing politics on a news panel. A group of cult members gathered around a cash register, nodding solemnly as a cashier asked if they wanted to “round up their purchase for charity.”
“The world is coded in messages you cannot see,” the narrator continued. “But we see them for you.”
Shane watched. He wasn’t sure if it was ironic or sincere. Maybe that was the point.
“By the way,” he said. “I took care of the family. What am I supposed to do now to advance to the next level of… cultiness?”
Grant beamed. “Oh, fantastic! Give us your firstborn. And tattoo your whole body. But good job! My superiors are so impressed. They love your feeble-minded allegiance to any pretension of authority.”
Shane stared. “Tattoo? Tattoo? Hold on a second. No one ever said anything about tattoos. That’s it, I want out. I’ve had enough of your ‘tattoo your body to show your inferiority to the high sacred master overlord’ mumbo-jumbo.”
Grant’s face fell. “That’s it. You’re cut. No everlasting peace, no tranquility, no blissful bounding through the fields of heaven. You can just sit outside St. Peter’s gates forever, you disbeliever, you.”
“Fine then, you infidel,” Shane snapped. “I don’t need your pseudo-utopic, hallucinogenic-induced dream. I have Disneyland to fill the soon-to-be gaping hole in my psyche left over from the brainwashing you’ve pumped into my brain. Just wait until The Toronto Star hears about this!”
Grant went pale. “Toronto Star? What an excellently composed news authority. Its insight and credibility never fail to expand my perspective on the intricate workings of our world. Truly a fine journalistic institution. My mind just turns to a viscous jelly-like substance when I look at their headlines. A conspicuous pool of frothy drool accumulates at the sides of my mouth whenever I peruse their pages.”
Shane stepped back. “Sweet mother of all that is sacred! What have they done to you? Can’t you see the cult has warped your mind to the point where you’d be happy endorsing nearly anything?”
Grant twitched. “Preston Manning… don’t get me started… a fine politician… a beacon of our times… conservatism is what we need… we need… we need… strong leadership… damn immigrants… common sense revolution… Mike Harris… don’t get me started…”
Shane’s stomach dropped. “Oh no. They’ve taken you. You’re too far gone. Just know… this is for the best.”
He grabbed a pillow.
Grant sighed. “Don’t forget to break out of the institution by throwing large objects into steel-reinforced windows. It will make the dramatic effect of your selfless act even more poignant and meaningful.”
Shane hesitated. “Damn. I forgot to stare longingly at a flock of birds earlier. I hope that this will still be considered effective cinematography, since there’s been no foreshadowing.”
Grant shook his head. “Milos Forman would not be impressed by your lack of effective symbolic imagery.”
Shane froze. “Ah-hah! So that’s who’s behind this cult. I knew you’d slip up sooner or later.”
Grant’s smile widened. “He’s not alone… You don’t know how far it goes. You’re trifling with powers you can’t possibly comprehend.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Not… Mr. Dressup?”
Grant sighed. “He’s a minor pawn. His sinister talents are well applied to young Canadian children, teaching them to be inherently distrustful of hand puppets who live in trees, as well as the Irish in general. He’s more of a prototype… a foreshadowing of things to come. Much like The Terminator, who then came back in Terminator II but as a good Terminator… well, sort of…”
Shane dropped the pillow.
He sat down.
Took a deep breath.
And finally said, “Goddammit, I think I really am in a cult.”
The stolen car screeched to a halt in front of the familiar condo complex, its tires leaving black skid marks on the asphalt. Angele, Joanna, and Beverly tumbled out of the vehicle, their bodies battered and bleeding from the harrowing escape. In the distance, the wail of sirens grew louder, a stark reminder of the pursuit hot on their heels.
Beverly leaned heavily on Joanna, her mind still foggy from the drugs and the trauma of her ordeal. She stumbled as they made their way towards the building, barely registering the shocked and curious stares of their neighbors. Dimly, she heard the murmur of voices, the urgent questions and exclamations that followed in their wake.
“Why… why are we here?” Beverly mumbled, her words slurred and thick. “They’ll find us… we’ll be trapped…”
Joanna tightened her grip on Beverly’s waist, her voice low and reassuring. “Trust us, Bev. They won’t find us here. We have a plan.”
As they stumbled into the lobby and made their way towards the elevators, Angele took the lead, her eyes scanning the hallway with a fierce, predatory intensity. Beverly caught a glimpse of her friend’s face, and was shocked to see the way her features had begun to shift and change, taking on a distinctly inhuman cast.
The ride up to the third floor seemed to take an eternity, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. Beverly leaned against the wall of the elevator, her breathing shallow and labored. She could feel the warm, sticky flow of blood beneath her clothes, the throbbing ache of countless bruises and contusions.
When the doors finally slid open, Angele and Joanna practically dragged Beverly down the hall, their movements urgent and frantic. They burst into apartment 3B, slamming the door shut behind them and engaging the deadbolt with a decisive click.
Beverly slumped against the wall, her vision swimming as she struggled to take in her surroundings. The once-familiar space seemed alien and surreal, the cozy furnishings and personal touches overshadowed by the pulsing sense of danger that filled the air.
Angele raced across the room, her movements a blur of speed and agility. She came to a stop in front of a strange, abstract sculpture that Beverly had always assumed was some kind of avant-garde art piece. But now, as she watched Angele manipulate the device with deft, purposeful movements, she realized that it was something else entirely.
“What… what is that?” Beverly croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Joanna grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. “It’s our way out of here, Bev. Our sanctuary.”
Suddenly, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass filled the air, followed by the thunderous pounding of booted feet. The authorities had arrived, and they were breaking down the door, their shouts and commands echoing through the apartment like the tolling of a bell.
But Angele and Joanna seemed strangely calm, their eyes locked on the device as it began to hum and vibrate with an otherworldly energy. Beverly watched in amazement as the sculpture unfolded like a flower, revealing a shimmering, iridescent portal that seemed to lead to another world entirely.
Just as the door burst open and the first of the armed agents poured into the room, Angele grabbed Beverly and Joanna’s hands, yanking them towards the portal with a fierce, desperate strength. Beverly felt a rushing sensation, a dizzying sense of displacement as the world around her began to warp and distort.
And then, with a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar, they were gone, sucked through the portal and into a pocket dimension beyond the reach of their pursuers. Beverly felt her consciousness slipping away once more, her mind overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.
Back then, they didn’t have a name for it. Today, he would be classified as neurodivergent—his mind wired to see patterns where others saw only chaos.
He was also brilliant. Devoting his life’s work to the mysteries of the brain, he earned his doctorate by mapping its final flickers—the synaptic whispers between life and death. He believed that human consciousness lingered past the moment of expiration, like a voice echoing in an empty house. His research was meant to help the grieving process, to prove that death was not an abrupt end, but a slow fade.
Then, Dorothy died.
It was a freak accident. A sedan ran a red light, struck her car, and left nothing but twisted steel and an empty space. She was gone before he arrived at the hospital. They handed him a clear plastic bag of her belongings. He remembered staring at her wedding ring, still smeared with blood, and thinking, No. No, this isn’t right.
Walter had always been a man of science. that is, until grief rewrote the laws of reality.
His daughter, Shirley, was the first to notice the shift.
“You’re not sleeping,” she told him one morning, standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed. “And you’re avoiding work.”
Walter, unshaven and hollow-eyed, stirred his coffee without drinking it. His house smelled of burnt toast and unwashed clothes. Shirley sighed.
“Dad, listen to me. You have to—”
“I heard her,” he said. His voice was flat. Unshaken.
Shirley’s expression faltered. “What?”
“Last night.” He finally looked at her. “I was reviewing neural decay patterns, and there was an anomaly. A frequency that shouldn’t have been there.”
Shirley placed her hands on the counter, gripping the edge. “Dad. Please don’t do this.”
But her plea was far too late. Walter had already begun.
He relocated his research to a house outside Atlanta—an old rundown Victorian thing he managed to get dirt cheap, that hummed in the wind, with walls that swelled and groaned as if breathing. He filled it with stolen lab equipment, wires curling like veins across the hardwood floor, and spent his days and nights playing back Dorothy’s EEG scans from the morgue, searching for the signal.
Richard Fiske, his research assistant, tried to reason with him.
“Listen, Walter. You’re looking for something that isn’t there.”
Walter didn’t answer. He only turned up the volume on the signal. It was faint, like a heartbeat beneath static.
Then, something whispered his name.
Richard slammed the laptop shut. “Jesus Christ, Walter, that’s auditory pareidolia. You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
Walter pressed his fingers to his temples. The hum in his ears was growing louder. “Then why does it keep happening?”
Lester Allen, a brilliant but reclusive engineer, was the only one who didn’t dismiss him outright. “You’re listening to death’s afterimage,” Lester murmured, sifting through the data. “A voice trapped in a neurological photograph.”
“So now, all we need to do is find a way to amplify it,” Walter said.
Lester hesitated. “But what if the brain isn’t just lingering? What if it’s still…thinking?”
Walter ignored him. One problem at a time.
There was no doubting that Walter was a man of science, but the fact of the matter was that science had its limits. And that was where Madame Gravestone came in.
She was not the fraud he expected. Her presence unsettled him. She studied his equipment with quiet interest before finally saying, “You are opening doors. The question is: Do you know how to close them when you’re done?”
Walter hated her…but couldn’t deny that he needed her.
They worked together. She held séances while his machines recorded electromagnetic disturbances. The voices were growing louder. Dorothy was coming through.
But as they were on the brink of a breakthrough, something went wrong.
One night, during a particularly intense session, the housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, entered the room.
She had worked in the mansion for years, long before Walter arrived. She had seen many strange things, but nothing like this.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Walter barely glanced at her. His pulse was pounding. Dorothy’s voice was clearer than ever.
“She’s here,” he whispered.
Mrs. Hargrove stepped closer, her eyes widening. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not your wife.”
The moment snapped like a rubber band.
The equipment sparked, the lights flickered, and a deep, rattling breath filled the room. Madame Gravestone’s eyes went wide.
“Shut it off,” she hissed.
But Walter was frozen. Dorothy’s voice was still calling his name.
Mrs. Hargrove let out a strangled gasp. Her body stiffened, her eyes rolling back as she convulsed and collapsed.
Walter fell to his knees, shaking her. “No, no, no, wake up!”
But the housekeeper was gone. Her face a frozen mask of terror.
When the sheriff arrived, Walter told the truth, but the truth sounded utterly insane.
“You were…talking to the dead?” Sheriff Thompson asked, rubbing his jaw. “And that killed your housekeeper?”
Walter sat in a chair, hands shaking. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
When word reached Shirley, she paid her father a visit. She looked at him with an expression that made his stomach turn.
“I told you to stop,” she whispered.
“I wish I could.”
That night, alone in his study, he listened to the last recording.
The static crackled. A whisper slithered through.
“Walter.”
His breath caught.
It was Dorothy’s voice. But distorted. Stretched. Wrong.
“This is all so unnecessary. All you need to do is let me in.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. His hands trembled.
And he whispered, “Yes. Come in, my love.“
Rumor had it that Lester tore out of that house like a bat out of hell. He left town without so much as a by your leave and was never seen nor heard from again.
Madame Gravestone also mysteriously disappeared, her occult accoutrements abandoned in the mansion.
Shirley pleaded for someone—anyone—to help her in her search.
But, as with the others, Walter Baldwin was never seen again.
The rundown Victorian mansion stood empty. At night, passersby swore they could hear static crackling from the second-floor windows.
Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear a voice whispering.
Beverly drifted in a haze of pain and confusion, her consciousness flickering like a candle flame in a bitter wind. She caught snatches of sound and sensation – the blare of alarms, the acrid scent of smoke, the jostling motion of being carried. But nothing seemed real, nothing made sense through the fog of drugs and trauma that enveloped her.
Dimly, she was aware of Angele and Joanna’s presence, their voices urgent and strained as they navigated the chaos of the facility. Beverly tried to focus on their words, to cling to the familiarity of their touch, but her mind kept slipping away, dragging her back down into the depths of oblivion.
In her moments of semi-lucidity, Beverly caught glimpses of the incredible lengths her friends were going to in order to save her. She saw Angele’s body ripple and change, her limbs elongating into sinuous tentacles as she grappled with a group of armed guards. She heard Joanna’s voice, normally so gentle, rise in an otherworldly screech that sent their pursuers stumbling back in shock and pain.
But even as Beverly marveled at the incredible abilities her friends possessed, she couldn’t shake the sense of unreality that pervaded everything. The world around her seemed to be breaking apart, the very fabric of reality fraying at the edges. She wondered if this was what it felt like to die, to have one’s consciousness unravel and dissolve into the ether.
And yet, through it all, Angele and Joanna remained her anchors, her lifelines in a sea of chaos and uncertainty. They cradled her broken body close, whispering words of comfort and encouragement even as they fought their way through the labyrinthine halls of the facility. They used their own bodies as shields, their alien flesh absorbing the impact of bullets and blows that would have surely killed a human.
Time lost all meaning as they raced through the complex, dodging patrols and circumventing security systems with a skill and intuition that seemed almost supernatural. Beverly faded in and out of awareness, catching only glimpses of their progress – the flash of emergency lights, the clang of metal doors, the distant wail of sirens.
And then, suddenly, they were outside, the cool night air washing over Beverly’s feverish skin like a balm. She forced her eyes open, blinking against the harsh glare of floodlights and the swirling chaos of smoke and debris. In the distance, she could see the perimeter fence, a tangled mass of razor wire and electrified metal that seemed to stretch on forever.
For a moment, Beverly was gripped by a surge of despair, certain that they would never make it past such formidable defenses. But then she felt Angele and Joanna’s grip tighten on her, their bodies coiling with a fierce, determined energy. They exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them, and then, as one, they began to change.
Beverly watched in awe as her friends’ human forms melted away, their flesh rippling and reshaping itself into something altogether alien and extraordinary. Their limbs elongated and multiplied, their skin taking on a slick, iridescent sheen. Their faces split and reformed, eyes blossoming like strange, luminous flowers across their bodies.
And then, with a surge of incredible speed and agility, they were moving, their transformed bodies carrying Beverly effortlessly across the ground. She felt the rush of wind against her face, the powerful flex and coil of their muscles as they vaulted over obstacles and raced towards the fence.
In a matter of heartbeats, they were there, their tentacles lashing out to tear through the metal and wire like paper. Beverly felt a jolt of electricity course through her as they breached the perimeter, but it was nothing compared to the exhilaration of knowing that they were free, that they had escaped the clutches of those who sought to destroy them.
As they plunged into the darkness beyond the fence, Beverly finally allowed herself to slip back into unconsciousness, secure in the knowledge that she was safe, that she was loved, and that whatever challenges lay ahead, she would face them with Angele and Joanna by her side.
When the pastries first went viral, people called them Ganymuffins, though, to be honest, they weren’t even remotely related to the muffin family, or even to the Jupiter moon, Ganymede, for that matter. The actual ingredients remained a mystery until Doughmenic Bakery, Inc. filed a patent and listed the horribly renamed ConstellaScones as:
a laminated soy-based dough, deep-fried in pumpkin seed oil, which is then dusted with confectioners sugar, filled with a proprietary fruit preserve recipe and glazed.
This turned out to be a big fat lie.
It wasn’t until much later that we learned the real ingredients and how the baked goods were actually made. Then, everyone called them blood doughnuts, which should have affected sales, but by then it was far too late. We had been hooked on them for at least a decade.
***
Maybe that wasn’t the best way to start. My father always told me I couldn’t tell a story good and proper, always back to front with everything jumbled up in the middle. Perhaps I should have begun by mentioning our first contact with the Tiiwarnias? Sound good to you? Okay, let’s rewind and give that one a go.
On August 15, 1977, while searching for extraterrestrial intelligence, the Big Ear radio telescope located at Ohio State University received a strong narrowband radio signal that appeared to originate from the constellation Sagittarius. Dubbed the Wow! signal after Astronomer Jerry R. Ehman circled the recorded data on a computer printout and wrote the comment Wow! beside it, the anomaly lasted a full 72 seconds and bore the expected hallmarks of extraterrestrial origin.
A set of first contact protocols were rushed into draft that essentially stated if anyone received an extraterrestrial signal they were obligated to share the information with the rest of the world and were warned against broadcasting any replies without international consultation. In actuality, we could have taken our time composing the protocols because it took decades for the extraterrestrials to receive the reply and by the time they had, they were already here.
World governments rallied together and held a conference to (1) devise a plan of action to the potential threat posed by these unknown extraterrestrials and their alien motivations; and (2) discuss making the right first impression, whether we should tell the aliens all the bad things about humanity, or just the good things, and what language we would use. What would be the official first contact language of Earth?
In the end, none of it mattered.
As the Tiiwarnias touched down on American soil, all reports came through the White House which, of course, caused tensions with the rest of the world. The U.S. government agreed to work together with the United Nations to create a team of scientists and researchers from each nation to join in the first contact mission.
The public was informed through government officials and the White House Press Secretary that the aliens couldn’t speak any of our Earth languages and expert linguists made the determination that we would never be able to speak theirs, so a hybrid-speak was mutually adopted that combined the simplest words of all the languages, which the news explained as a sort of interstellar pig Latin. Because of this, it was nearly impossible to determine their level of intelligence but it was simply assumed that beings capable of interstellar spaceflight were orders of magnitude smarter than the brightest among us. From our increased dealings with them, they appeared to be beyond thoughts and acts of aggression and war and treated us with immense consideration and respect.
Yet, despite the aliens’ politeness, there was something… off. The way official reports danced around certain questions. The way scientists who had once been eager to discuss first contact suddenly went quiet. No leaks, no whistleblowers, no “anonymous sources” spilling classified details to reporters in dimly lit parking garages. Just silence.
And then there was the biggest red flag of all: no footage.
Not one single leaked video, blurry photo, or grainy livestream of the Tiiwarnias outside the government’s carefully orchestrated press events. Not even a rogue intern snapping a pic for clout. Either we’d suddenly become a species capable of keeping a secret, or someone was scrubbing every unauthorized glimpse before it ever saw the light of day.
And if there’s one thing history has taught us? When the government tells you everything is fine, everything is definitely not fine.
The Tiiwarnias earned their name from a television field reporter who attempted the nearest pronunciation our human tongues could manage of a word the alien visitors repeated frequently.
As far as shared technology went, the aliens were absolutely uninterested in our advancement and theirs was so beyond our understanding there was no way to adapt it to our systems or reverse engineer it. Even their seemingly limitless power source was both visible and touchable yet not liquid or gas or matter in any way we could measure or analyze. We weren’t capable of using it as a fuel or power source and more importantly, it existed beyond our ability to be weaponized. So while an international team of theoretical physicists continued to study it and create theories to explain it, the world at large lost interest in the Tiiwarnias.
That was until the press conference.
Until their television appearance, the public hadn’t laid eyes on the aliens. There had been artist renditions based on reports but none came close to capturing their unique alienness. When the broadcast cut to the live feed, the world finally saw them—and let me tell you, the artist renditions hadn’t even come close.
The Tiiwarnias were… unsettling. Not in a monstrous, tentacled-horror kind of way, but in the way your brain struggled to place them. Like an optical illusion that made sense only until you looked too long. They had faces, but not the kind you’d instinctively trust. Too symmetrical, too smooth, like something designed by a committee that couldn’t agree on what a person should look like. Their mouths were thin suggestions of shape, never quite moving when they spoke, and their eyes—God, their eyes.
Not black, not pupil-less, not the soulless void Hollywood loved to slap onto anything alien. No, these were worse. Multi-layered, refractive, shifting between colors like an oil slick catching the light. When they turned their gaze to the cameras, I swear you could feel it. Like looking at something that was looking back with interest, but no real understanding.
They were tall, but not towering. Their limbs just slightly too long, their fingers tapering into delicate, unnecessary points. Their skin—if you could call it that—was pale but not white, translucent but not see-through, as if they were composed of something that hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be solid or liquid.
And yet, they moved with an almost absurd grace, like dancers trained in a gravity different from our own. Effortless. Unnatural.
No wonder the government hadn’t shown them to us sooner. The moment they appeared on-screen, every human instinct screamed wrong.
And then they presented us with donuts.
At first, nobody moved.
The President—flanked by a dozen tight-lipped officials—stared at the silver tray piled high with what, by all appearances, looked like donuts. A slight sheen of glaze, powdered sugar dusted over the tops, the kind of thing you’d find in any grocery store bakery aisle.
A long silence stretched between species.
Were they serious? This was first contact—the moment humanity had dreamed of for generations—and the first thing they did was roll up with intergalactic Krispy Kremes?
The press, bless them, snapped out of the collective daze first. Murmurs rippled through the room, cameras flashing, reporters already forming the inevitable what does it mean? headlines.
The President glanced at his Chief of Staff, then at the tray. His face betrayed deep suspicion, but also something else: the impossible weight of being the guy who either (A) rejected the first gift from an alien race, potentially causing an interstellar diplomatic incident, or (B) took the first bite and died on live television.
The room held its breath.
Finally, in a move that could only be described as passing the buck, the President turned to Dr. Marina Solano, head of the international First Contact Research Division. She blinked, pointed at herself, and mouthed, me?
A slight nod.
Swallowing hard, Solano stepped forward, selected a donut—no, not a donut, a ConstellaScone, a name Doughmenic Bakery would shove down our throats later—and hesitated just long enough for every camera in the room to zoom in.
Then she took a bite.
And her face changed.
It wasn’t a oh, this is good change. It wasn’t even a holy hell, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten change. It was something deeper, something more visceral—as if every pleasure receptor in her brain had just been hardwired into something beyond human comprehension.
Her breath hitched. Her pupils blew wide.
The entire world watched as Dr. Marina Solano, esteemed astrophysicist, decorated scholar, and one of the most rational minds on the planet, devoured the rest of the donut like a starving animal.
A second of stunned silence.
Then the rest of the delegation lunged for the tray.
The aliens, eerily patient, merely watched as the most powerful figures on Earth shoveled bite after bite into their mouths, eyes glassy, hands trembling, as if they had just been offered the answer to a question they didn’t even know they were asking.
By the time the press got their hands on the leftovers, it was already too late.
We were hooked.
***
As mentioned before, the Tiiwarnias ship touched down planetside deep within a national forest on a 140-acre ranch in Sedona, Arizona, that belonged to a Hollywood stuntman and was used as a filming location for several movies. It also just so happened to be one of the most popular destinations in America for spotting supposed unidentified flying objects.
The ranch was reported to have been confiscated by the U.S. Government and certain areas of the national park were deemed off-limits but there were individuals who operated clandestine tours at night and that was how I became involved.
I worked for a rag named, Candor Weekly, as an investigative reporter, and my assignment was to infiltrate the base where the aliens were being held and uncover the things the government wasn’t sharing with us. So, I joined the Truth Seekers tour group and rented the suggested pair of night vision glasses and binoculars that had seen better days, after I signed an accident waiver and release of liability form, in which I agreed to hold harmless, and indemnify Truth Seekers Tours from and against all losses, claims, damages, costs or expenses (including reasonable legal fees, or similar costs). I wondered which one of these Einsteins thought they would be able to enforce the document for their illegal tour company that routinely trespassed on government land?
The tour group gathered two hours before sunset for orientation where we had been given a brief history of the strange occurrences that happened almost nightly since the aliens arrived.
“First, all of the animals on the ranch, dogs, and horses mostly, became sick with diseases that none of the vets in these parts were able to explain,” Tourguide Flint said and quickly followed with, “But not to worry, though, whatever bug is flying around out there only affected animals. I’ve been conducting these tours nightly and my doc says I’m fit as a fiddle!”
“Also, you’re gonna want to take pictures because there’s some freaky stuff that goes on out there especially during the last hour of twilight,” Flint continued.
“What kind of freaky stuff?” I asked.
“All kinds. From crazy light shows in the sky to bigfoot and dinosaur sightings and the biggest of them all, thelight portal!”
“The what?”
“Hey, man, I don’t invent it, I just record it,” Flint held up his hands in a don’t shoot the messenger fashion. “I’ve got plenty of photographic proof over there in the tour log book. Now, I’m not saying that it allows beings from other dimensions to travel here and vice versa, like some of the less reputable tour guides claim, but the portal’s the real deal, man, as real as it gets!”
“Oh, and there are two things you should know,” Flint added. “One: we’re uninvited guests on government land so it’d be a smart thing to turn off your camera’s flash. You don’t want to give our presence away, do you? And two: your electronic devices will not work out there, so the cameras on your phones will be useless. Not to worry though, we sell disposable cameras with 400-speed film which is excellent for taking nighttime photos.”
Probably a lie and scam to part the tour group with more of their money, but I bought a couple of cameras just to be on the safe side.
“Uh, sorry for all the questions,” I raised my hand.
“Knowledge is essential, man,” Flint smiled. “Ask away.”
“If this place is as heavily guarded as people say, how are you able to take tours out each night?”
“That’s because most of the barracks you’ll see are all decoys, man. The real base is underground, accessible by an elaborate tunnel system, used by both the military and the extraterrestrials.
“Course, some folks went poking around to find the real deal,” Flint said, lowering his voice like he was letting us in on some deep, dark secret. “Journalists. UFO nuts. Couple of rich boys with more money than sense.”
“And?” I asked.
“And nothing.” He gave me a knowing look. “Because they were never seen again. Oh sure, you’ll hear the usual excuses—car accidents, sudden retirements, tragic boating mishaps. But we all know what’s really going on. You get too close, you stop being a problem real quick.”
A woman in the group laughed nervously. “You’re just trying to scare us.”
“Am I?” Flint shrugged. “All I’m saying is, some questions ain’t meant to be answered. And some things? They stay buried for a reason.”
He clapped his hands together, jolting the group out of the heavy silence. “Now! Who’s ready to see some UFOs?”
I forced a grin, but my gut twisted. Because if half of what he was saying was true, I wasn’t just looking for a story anymore.
I was walking into a cover-up.
If there was a base out there, this was most likely true.
Once the sun set, the tour began with a two-hour meditation walk starting at the Amitabha Stupa, supposedly Sedona’s most spiritual vortex. Flint took us through a painfully boring guided meditation that ended at a well-known hot spot of UFO activity where we were guaranteed sightings of UFOs, using special night vision goggles. People in the group swore up and down to have spotted objects. I turned up a big fat goose egg.
Flint began rambling again about the “decoy barracks” and “elaborate tunnel systems” and while the rest of the tour group nodded at the prospect of uncovering the truth of the government UFO cover-up, I found myself in the grip of an irresistible gravitational pull, to be anywhere else at the moment.
But maybe there was something to the whole elaborate tunnel thing, so I slipped away from the oblivious group and I must have done some fantastically good deed in a former life, because after fifteen minutes of mindless wandering with my borrowed night-vision goggles, I luckily stumbled upon something.
A maintenance door? An emergency exit? Whatever it was, it was discreetly tucked behind what appeared to be a Hollywood movie prop of a pile of boulders. My heart raced as I dug my fingers into the seam and managed to pry the door open with the kind of stealth usually reserved for midnight snack raids.
The narrow tunnel was dim, lit only by the intermittent sputter of the night-vision goggles. The silence was oppressive and every step echoed, mingling with a faint, almost mocking aroma of something being baked—a scent that brought me back to childhood Sunday baking days with Mom, which was profoundly out of place in an underground labyrinth.
The descent into the heart of darkness felt like it went on forever but eventually the tunnel opened to a vast, cavernous chamber and in the middle of it lay a massive structure that could only have been described as an alien ship. Not the sleek, awe-inspiring craft of sci-fi cinema, but a crumpled, battered wreck, half-swallowed by the earth. Its metal skin, scarred by impact and time, gave off that same beguiling aroma of freshly baked goods. I hesitated for a moment before the allure of inexplicable contradictions forced me to press on.
Creeping along the ship’s rusted exterior, I discovered a side entrance open just enough to allow me to slip inside undetected. The interior was bizarre beyond words: stark, high-tech surfaces clashed with an oddly domestic atmosphere. And then I saw it—a surreal assembly line of sorts. There, strapped to a conveyor belt contraption that could have been ripped straight from a mad inventor’s sketchpad, was a creature whose features were unmistakably alien yet curiously reminiscent of a human in an uncanny valley sort of way. It was bound in restraints, its pale, unearthly skin lit by the harsh glare of a single overhead lamp, and from its body—of all things—continued to emerge a steady stream of what looked unmistakably like ConstellaScones.
I was never what anyone would have ever called “quick on the uptake” but my breath hitched in my throat and my heart pounded with horror, because I instantly knew what I was looking at. And the absurdity of it all was almost too much to comprehend: an alien was being forced into a subservient role that even the most desperate and despicable of culinary con artists wouldn’t consider. Before I could fully process the scene, I heard muffled voices coming from a nearby room or compartment or whatever they were called on an alien ship.
Slipping into a narrow passage, I pressed my ear to a cold, metallic wall and caught fragments of conversation between two individuals: one whose tone was clinical and detached, the other brimming with a greasy sort of enthusiasm.
“—so, you’re telling me it’s exactly the same as donuts?”
“Chemically, there’s no difference,” the clinical and detached speaker said. “I know you’re new here but surely you can smell it, can’t you? And have you tasted one? It’s donuts. Addictive as hell, and beyond our wildest indulgences.”
The other voice, smoother yet laced with dark humor, replied, “In the briefing they said only two of them survived the crash, and that one of them recently died and the other one’s been on a permanent strike ever since they started the forced-feed routine. So, how are they still shipping out ConstellaScones?”
“It turns out if you break them down to raw materials, you can manufacture a whole new batch.”
“So, they’ve been turning the dead bodies into alien donut poop?”
“Poop? Is that what they told you? The scientists discovered a while ago that we haven’t been eating their excrement at all. We’ve been snacking on their offspring.”
I nearly dropped my night-vision goggles. The implications ricocheted around in my head like a badly tossed frisbee at a Fricket match. Here I was, in a subterranean facility that smelt of freshly baked betrayal, and the dark truth was layered like a well-crafted éclair: a high-stakes, interstellar donut racket where survival, exploitation, and culinary perversion meshed into one twisted recipe.
As I absorbed the conversation, my mind raced with a cocktail of disgust, fascination, and a grim sense of responsibility. I knew I should retreat and report what I’d found, but the deeper I delved, the more I felt that the true story was just beginning to rise—like dough left to proof in the most unlikely of ovens.
Clutching my evidence—a hastily snapped photo of the conveyor belt and a recording of the hushed voices—I backed away from the macabre production line. My next move was clear: I had to expose this unholy alliance between extraterrestrial misfortune and human greed.
As I retraced my steps through the tunnel, the weight of what I’d uncovered pressed down on me like an overfilled jelly donut about to burst. My mind spun through the possibilities—if I got this story out, if people knew the truth, if they understood what they’d been eating, they’d…
They’d what?
Panic? Riot? Demand justice? Burn down every Doughmenic Bakery in righteous fury?
Or—
Would they shrug, lick the glaze off their fingers, and take another bite?
A cold realization slithered up my spine, slow and insidious. We’d been eating them for years. A decade of blind devotion, of cult-like devotion. We hadn’t just accepted the addiction. We’d embraced it.
Would I be exposing a horror? Or just ruining breakfast?
That’s when I heard it—a distant clink, the unmistakable scrape of a boot against stone.
As the weeks turned into months and the limits of what could be learned from studying Beverly while alive were reached, a grim consensus began to emerge among the scientists and officials overseeing her case. Whispered conversations in shadowy corners and behind closed doors gave way to a chilling realization: the only way to truly understand the nature of Beverly’s transformation was to examine her from the inside out.
At first, the idea was met with shock and revulsion. The notion of deliberately ending a human life, even one as altered and unprecedented as Beverly’s, seemed to cross a fundamental ethical line. But as the pressures and frustrations mounted, as the clamor for answers grew more and more urgent, the unthinkable slowly became the inevitable.
And so, without Beverly’s knowledge or consent, without even the courtesy of informing her family, the decision was made. Beverly would be euthanized, her body dissected and analyzed down to the cellular level. It was a betrayal of the most profound sort, a violation of the most basic principles of human dignity and autonomy.
When the day of the procedure arrived, Beverly was prepped and sedated like any other patient. She lay on the cold, sterile operating table, her body a patchwork of scars and mutations, her mind still clinging to the faint hope that somehow, someway, she might yet find a way back to the life she had once known.
Beverly lay on the cold, hard operating table, her mind foggy from the anesthesia that was slowly being administered to her. She had no idea what was happening, no clue that the people she had trusted to help her had instead decided to end her life in the name of scientific discovery.
As the drugs coursed through her system, Beverly’s thoughts became increasingly disjointed and hazy. She tried to focus on her surroundings, on the bright lights overhead and the masked faces of the surgeons looming over her, but everything seemed to be slipping away, fading into a distant, intangible dream.
Dimly, Beverly became aware of a commotion outside the operating room. There were raised voices, the sound of a scuffle, and then the door burst open, revealing two figures that Beverly would have known anywhere, even in her drugged and disoriented state.
Angele and Joanna stood in the doorway, their faces a mix of shock, horror, and fury as they took in the scene before them. For a moment, Beverly felt a surge of hope, a desperate belief that her friends had come to save her, to put an end to this nightmare once and for all.
But even as that hope flickered to life, Beverly could feel herself slipping away, the anesthesia dragging her down into a deep, impenetrable darkness. She tried to call out, to beg for help, but her lips wouldn’t move, her voice nothing more than a faint, gasping whisper.
The last thing Beverly saw before the void claimed her was the anguished, horrified expressions on Angele and Joanna’s faces, their mouths open in soundless screams of rage and despair. She wanted to reach out to them, to tell them that it was okay, that she understood, but it was too late.
As the darkness closed in around her, Beverly felt a final, fleeting moment of clarity, a sudden understanding of the true nature of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against her. She had been sacrificed, offered up as a lamb to the gods of science and progress, her life and autonomy stripped away in the name of a higher cause.
And with that realization came a crushing sense of despair, a feeling of utter hopelessness and isolation that threatened to consume her entirely. In that moment, Beverly knew that she was alone, that even the love and devotion of her friends couldn’t save her from the fate that had been chosen for her.
And so, with a final, shuddering breath, Beverly surrendered to the inevitable, her consciousness slipping away into a void from which there could be no return. The last thing she felt was a profound sense of loss, a deep, aching sorrow for all that had been taken from her, and all that she would never have the chance to experience.
And then, there was nothing. Only the cold, empty darkness, and the fading echoes of a life that had been cut short, a story that would forever remain unfinished, a mystery that would never be solved.
India hadn’t meant to open the invitation. The gold-embossed envelope had arrived weeks ago, hidden under a stack of unread mail. She told herself it didn’t matter, that revisiting her old college was pointless. But when she finally found it, half-crumpled and covered in coffee stains, her hands trembled.
The reunion.
And Keith might be there.
Keith. Even now, his name struck like a note of music she hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart. The man she had loved—not just loved, but worshipped. He had been her Adonis, an impossible blend of androgynous beauty and untouchable charm. They had shared a summer—one incandescent, endless summer—before he disappeared.
She told herself it was youthful foolishness, that her adult self should scoff at such nostalgia. Yet she found herself staring in the mirror, wondering if she’d aged gracefully enough, wondering if he’d remember her the way she remembered him.
The weeks before the reunion were a blur of frantic preparation. A crash diet left her irritable and light-headed, but she rationalized it as dedication. She scoured boutique shops for the perfect dress, one that whispered sophistication while screaming “look at me.” The final touch was a makeover that erased every imperfection her 20s had forgiven but her 30s now flaunted.
“You look amazing,” her best friend Nita said as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror on the night of the event.
“I have to,” India replied. “This might be the only chance I get to see him again.”
“India…” Nita hesitated. “What if he’s not who you remember?”
India forced a smile. “He will be.”
The reunion was held in the same hall where they’d once danced under string lights and cheap disco balls. Now it was all polished wood and faux elegance, with catering trays that couldn’t disguise the lukewarm taste of regret. India’s pulse quickened as she entered, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
And then, she saw him.
Keith stood by the bar, but he wasn’t the Keith she remembered. Gone were the ethereal features she had worshipped: the soft golden curls, the flawless complexion, the delicate curve of his lips. In their place was a man weathered by time, his hair streaked with gray, his frame heavier, his eyes duller. He looked ordinary.
Her chest tightened.
“India?” His voice pulled her back.
Keith was smiling, his teeth slightly crooked in a way she didn’t recall. But there was warmth in his expression, the kind that spoke of recognition, not regret. He looked genuinely happy to see her.
“Keith,” she said, her own smile brittle.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” He laughed, and it sounded real. “It’s been, what, fifteen years?”
“Something like that,” she managed.
As they fell into conversation, Keith told her about his life—a career in graphic design, a failed marriage, two kids he adored but rarely saw. He spoke with a vulnerability that caught her off guard, as if he weren’t trying to impress her, only to connect.
But India struggled to listen. She couldn’t stop comparing this man to the memory of the Keith she’d idolized. That memory was pristine, untouchable, while the man before her was flawed and human.
The breaking point came when Keith excused himself to the bathroom.
India wandered to the edge of the room, gripping her champagne flute as the weight of disappointment crushed her chest. Why had she come? To relive a fantasy? To prove something to herself?
“Still hung up on him?” a voice asked.
India turned to find Nita. “What are you doing here?”
“You looked like you needed backup,” Nita said with a shrug. “Also, I’m nosy.”
India laughed bitterly. “He’s not the Keith I remember.”
“Of course he’s not,” Nita said. “Neither are you. But the question is, why does that matter so much? What were you hoping for, India? That he’d sweep you off your feet and everything would magically fall into place?”
India’s throat tightened. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Well, you’ve got him right here. Flaws and all. You can walk away if you want, but don’t pretend this is about him. You’re the one stuck in the past.”
When Keith returned, India was still at the edge of the room. He hesitated, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but back in college… I thought you were perfect.”
Keith blinked, surprised. “Perfect? Me? India, I was a mess.”
She smiled despite herself. “Yeah, I can see that now.”
They both laughed, and for the first time that night, India felt the tension ease.
“Listen,” Keith said, his voice soft. “I’m glad you came. You were always… special to me.”
The words hung between them, not quite a declaration, but more than a polite courtesy.
India studied him—the lines on his face, the silver in his hair, the warmth in his eyes. For the first time, she saw him as he was, not as she had idealized him to be. And she realized she had been chasing a ghost, not just of Keith, but of herself.
As they said their goodbyes, India felt lighter. She didn’t know if she and Keith would stay in touch or if their connection had run its course. But as she walked away from the reunion, heels clicking against the pavement, she didn’t feel regret.
Because in seeing Keith for who he truly was, she had begun to see herself the same way—flawed, human, and still worthy of love.
As the chaos and confusion surrounding her case reached a fever pitch, Beverly found herself at the center of a storm that threatened to consume everything and everyone she had ever known. The constant barrage of tests and procedures, the endless parade of doctors and scientists and government officials, all blurred together into a surreal, never-ending nightmare.
Cut off from her loved ones and the outside world, Beverly felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into a state of hopeless despair. The isolation and uncertainty of her situation weighed heavily on her mind, eroding her sense of self and leaving her questioning everything she had once believed about her life and her future.
She watched helplessly as her story became fodder for the 24-hour news cycle, her face plastered across every screen and her name on every tongue. The speculation and conspiracy theories ran rampant, with everyone from fringe bloggers to respected pundits weighing in on what her condition might mean for the fate of the world.
Some claimed that she was a harbinger of an impending alien invasion, a human-hybrid created by extraterrestrial beings as a way to infiltrate and conquer our planet. Others insisted that she was the product of a secret government experiment gone wrong, a bio-engineered weapon or a test subject for forbidden technologies.
As the theories grew wilder and more outlandish, the truth became increasingly difficult to discern. Beverly found herself questioning her own memories and perceptions, wondering if perhaps there was some kernel of truth hidden beneath the layers of speculation and conjecture.
Meanwhile, on the global stage, Beverly’s case had become a flashpoint for international tensions and diplomatic maneuvering. Foreign governments and health organizations clamored for access to her medical records and research data, each one seeking to gain some advantage or insight in the face of the unfolding crisis.
There were whispers of cover-ups and conspiracies, of backroom deals and clandestine operations. Some nations even went so far as to threaten military action if they were denied a seat at the table, arguing that the potential implications of Beverly’s condition were too great to be left in the hands of any one country or organization.
Amidst all of this, the scientific community found itself grappling with profound ethical questions and moral dilemmas. The drive to understand and potentially harness the mechanisms of Beverly’s transformation pushed the boundaries of what was considered acceptable research and experimentation.
Debates raged over issues of consent and autonomy, with some arguing that Beverly’s unique situation justified a more aggressive approach to studying her condition, while others insisted that her basic rights and dignity as a human being had to be protected at all costs.
For Beverly, caught in the middle of this maelstrom of competing agendas and conflicting interests, the toll on her mental and emotional well-being was immeasurable. She felt like a pawn in a game that she couldn’t begin to understand, a specimen to be poked and prodded and analyzed until there was nothing left of her former self.
As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, Beverly found herself retreating deeper and deeper into her own mind, seeking some form of escape or solace from the unrelenting pressure and scrutiny. She lost herself in fantasies and daydreams, imagining a world where she was free from the constraints of her altered body and the expectations of those around her.
The succubus. A figure shrouded in mystery and allure. This entity has captivated imaginations for centuries. Its origins trace back to ancient civilizations. The story begins in Mesopotamia, around 4000 BCE. Here, the Sumerians spoke of Lilith. She was a night demon, a figure of seduction and danger. Lilith was said to prey on men in their sleep. She embodied both desire and fear.
As time passed, the tale of Lilith evolved. The ancient Hebrews adopted her into their folklore. In Jewish mythology, she became Adam’s first wife. Unlike Eve, Lilith refused to submit. She sought independence. This defiance led to her banishment. She transformed into a demon, haunting the night. Lilith became synonymous with seduction and vengeance. Her story laid the groundwork for the succubus.
In the medieval period, the concept of the succubus flourished. The term “succubus” comes from the Latin “succubare,” meaning “to lie beneath.” This reflects the succubus’s role in folklore. She was a female demon who seduced men in their sleep. The male counterpart, the incubus, would visit women. Together, they formed a dark duo of desire.
The Church played a significant role in shaping the narrative. During the Middle Ages, sexual repression was rampant. The Church condemned lust and desire. The succubus became a symbol of temptation. She represented the dangers of unchecked passion. Men who experienced nocturnal emissions were often blamed. They were said to have been visited by a succubus. This belief led to widespread fear and paranoia.
The tales of the succubus spread across Europe. In France, she was known as “la succube.” In Germany, she was called “Alp.” Each culture added its own twist. The succubus became a reflection of societal fears. She embodied the struggle between desire and morality. The stories often ended in tragedy. Men would lose their lives or sanity after encounters with her.
The Renaissance brought a shift in perception. Art and literature began to explore the theme of the succubus. Poets and painters depicted her as both beautiful and dangerous. She became a muse for artists. The allure of the succubus was undeniable. Yet, the underlying fear remained. The duality of her nature fascinated many.
In the 19th century, the succubus found new life in literature. Writers like Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft drew inspiration from her. The succubus became a symbol of forbidden love. She represented the darker side of human desire. The stories were filled with passion, danger, and intrigue. Readers were captivated by the thrill of the unknown.
The 20th century saw the succubus evolve once more. With the rise of psychology, interpretations changed. Sigmund Freud explored the subconscious. He linked the succubus to repressed desires. The figure became a representation of inner conflict. The succubus was no longer just a demon. She was a reflection of human nature.
In modern times, the succubus has become a pop culture icon. Movies, television shows, and video games feature her prominently. She is often portrayed as a seductive anti-heroine. The lines between good and evil blur. The succubus is no longer just a villain. She is complex, multifaceted, and relatable.
The fascination with the succubus continues. She embodies the eternal struggle between desire and morality. Her story resonates with many. The succubus challenges societal norms. She invites exploration of the darker aspects of human nature. In a world that often shuns desire, she stands as a symbol of empowerment.
The origins of the succubus are steeped in history. From ancient Mesopotamia to modern pop culture, her tale has evolved. Yet, the core elements remain. She is a figure of seduction, danger, and desire. The succubus invites us to confront our fears. She encourages us to embrace our passions. In doing so, she remains a timeless figure. A reminder of the complexities of human nature.
As we delve deeper into her history, we uncover layers of meaning. The succubus is not merely a demon. She is a reflection of our desires, fears, and struggles. Her story is a testament to the power of myth. It reveals how folklore shapes our understanding of the world. The succubus challenges us to question our beliefs. She urges us to explore the shadows within ourselves.
In conclusion, the succubus is a captivating figure. Her origins are rich and varied. From ancient myths to modern interpretations, she has left an indelible mark. The succubus embodies the duality of human nature. She is both a source of fear and fascination. As we continue to explore her story, we find ourselves drawn to her allure. The succubus remains a powerful symbol. A reminder of the complexities of desire and the human experience.
MADD FICTIONAL 