The few of you who follow (and hopefully read) me regularly, know me as a fiction writer — I typically manage two stories a week, every Monday and Thursday, strange tales spun from stranger places. That won’t change. The fictions will continue. The ghosts and aliens and memory glitches and strange girls at the bus stop will all keep coming.
But starting this week, Sundays will be different.
I’m calling the new segment No Fixed Address — not just because it sounds poetic (though it does), but because it’s now my legal truth. I don’t have a home. Not an apartment. Not a room. Not even a couch.
As of February 18th, I was evicted from the small rented room I’d lived in for nearly a decade. I sleep upright on the subway most nights. I apply for jobs constantly. I carry everything I own. I’m not telling you this for pity. I’m telling you because it’s happening, and because I believe truth deserves to be written down.
So on Sundays, I’ll post about that truth: The logistics, the humiliations, the loopholes, the kindnesses, the cold. What it’s like to find a public restroom when you have nowhere to go back to. What it’s like to smile at people who step around you like you’re a trash bag with eyes. What it’s like to still write stories in your head while watching a cop gently nudge a man awake so he won’t freeze to death.
These entries won’t be pretty. They won’t be polished. But they’ll be mine. And if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written and thought, “I see something of myself in this,” then maybe you’ll see something in these, too.
So:
Mondays & Thursdays: Fiction.
Sundays: No Fixed Address.
And the rest of the time, I’ll be out there, living it.
Stay with me if you can. Read if you’re willing. And if you’ve ever loved a story I told — now might be the time to send some positivity my way to help me live long enough to write more.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Kevin McClure matched with Bianca Forester three days ago. Her profile had been strangely compelling—a chef specializing in heritage Black Forest cuisine, with photos of her meticulously layering dark chocolate sponge, kirsch-soaked cherries, and thick cream into elaborate cakes.
Her bio mentioned she’d recently moved from Germany’s Black Forest region, and her messages had been oddly formal yet playful. A mix of old-world charm and something he couldn’t quite place.
When she invited him to her restaurant, Schwarzwald, for a private after-hours tasting, he jumped at the chance. The reviews were stellar—but something about the place was elusive. The website had no menu, no listed hours. When he searched for photos, they all seemed… wrong—as though the restaurant itself didn’t want to be seen.
Kevin arrived at 9 PM sharp. The street was empty. Schwarzwald stood in the dim glow of a single lantern, its heavy wood-and-iron door cracked open, inviting him inside.
The restaurant was dark except for a single table, bathed in candlelight. The walls were lined with twisted wooden beams that looked almost organic, as though the building had grown from the ground itself.
Bianca greeted him in a crisp white chef’s coat, her dark hair pinned back, except for a few loose strands curling around her pale face.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, leading him to the table. Her accent was soft, but deliberate, like someone who had spoken English for centuries but never quite let go of their mother tongue.
She brought out the first course—thin slices of Black Forest ham, deep red with marbled white veins.
“Cured in-house,” she explained. “Traditional methods. The smoking process takes months. But the preparation?” She smiled. “That begins with the first bite.”
Kevin picked up a slice and placed it on his tongue.
The taste was indescribable.
At first, it was rich, velvety, almost intoxicating. Then—something shifted. A creeping feral musk. The deep, loamy taste of soil after rain. The lingering bitterness of pine resin. Something ancient. Something alive.
Bianca watched him intently.
“What’s your secret ingredient?” he asked, the question half a joke, half a plea.
Her smile widened. “We preserve more than just meat in the Black Forest.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
Kevin’s vision swam. The candle flames flickered strangely, their shadows elongating, twisting, moving when nothing else did.
The walls seemed… closer. The beams had shifted, hadn’t they? The wood looked like bones now—not carved, but grown that way, shaped by centuries of wind, time, and hunger.
Bianca returned, setting down a slice of Black Forest cake before him. The cherries glistened wetly in the candlelight, dark as coagulated blood.
Kevin blinked. His fingers felt numb. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t move.
“What… what’s happening?” he slurred. His fork clattered against the plate.
Bianca tilted her head. Her pupils were too large now, swallowing the color of her irises, and her shadow on the wall was… wrong.
Too tall. Too jagged.
Branches. Not arms.
“The Black Forest is old, Kevin,” she murmured, voice deepening, growing rough, raw, and layered—like a chorus of voices speaking through her. “The trees, the roots, the soil—we learned long ago how to preserve more than just flesh. Time. Memory. Life itself.”
The walls creaked. No—breathed.
Kevin’s body felt heavy, sinking into the chair as if the wood had begun to absorb him.
Bianca stepped closer. Her shadow branched outward, dark tendrils splitting and stretching across the walls like reaching roots.
“You ate the ham.”
Her fingers brushed his face, and Kevin saw.
A flash of dark trees stretching skyward. Something vast and watching beneath the canopy. A hunger older than the bones of the world.
The restaurant wasn’t a place—it was a threshold. A piece of the Black Forest, still alive, still feeding, still growing.
And now, so was he.
Bianca leaned in, whispering in his ear.
“The smoking process takes months.”
She pressed a hand to his chest.
“But the preparation… that begins with the first bite.”
Three days later, Schwarzwald unveiled a new special.
A house-cured Black Forest ham, unlike anything diners had ever tasted.
“The depth of flavor is incredible,” a patron murmured over candlelight, slicing into the delicate meat. “What’s the secret?”
Bianca smiled from the kitchen doorway, watching, waiting.
“Family tradition,” she said.
She turned back inside, where the restaurant sighed, exhaling softly, the wood of the beams shifting, growing.
On the dating app, a new profile appeared.
Someone seeking adventurous diners interested in sampling authentic Black Forest cuisine.
The sky over Hickory Glen shimmered a bright, cloudless blue on the day of the Autumn Harvest Festival. Banners of orange and gold fluttered in the breeze as townsfolk bustled around the main street, a charming stretch lined with century-old shops and pumpkin-laden wagons. A faint smell of hay and caramel apples wafted through the air. Laughter and conversation filled every corner, while the clucking of prized chickens and the lowing of well-groomed cattle filled the gaps.
On one end of the festival grounds stood long tables groaning beneath the weight of homemade jams, pies, and preserves. Beyond that, an impromptu stage had been set up, where local kids in scarecrow outfits performed folk dances to the beat of a fiddler. Everywhere, people admired massive gourds and towering stalks of corn, hoping to win ribbons for the largest or most unusual produce.
Around mid-morning, a stranger arrived unnoticed. He wore white face makeup, dark eyeliner exaggerated his eyes, and he was dressed in black from head to toe—a mime. He began to stroll through the crowds, weaving silently between booths, gesturing at onlookers with animated movements.
Some of the festival-goers found him delightful, clapping at his pantomimed pretend walls and invisible ropes. He plucked an imaginary flower and offered it to a giggling child. But others felt something…off about him. Perhaps it was the way he never broke character, not even to smile or to nod. Or maybe it was the shifting shadow at his feet that seemed a touch too dark, as though the sun couldn’t touch it.
By afternoon, the mime had set up an impromptu performance circle near the center of town. Families paused on hay bales to watch. The mime mimed the act of juggling, yet no one could see what he might be tossing in the air. Children clapped anyway, cheering him on. Then he tipped an imaginary hat and started “pulling” something out of it.
That was when the first strange thing happened.
The light in the square seemed to flicker, as if clouds had suddenly drifted across the sun—yet the sky remained free of any. The wind stilled; no more pleasant breeze teased the flags and ribbons. A hush spread across the festival as the mime continued to pull and pull from his invisible hat. Slowly, a shimmer appeared in the air, like heat waves rising off asphalt. People pressed closer, uncertain if it was some clever trick.
Then, with a silent snap, a shape formed in midair—a grotesque, quivering thing covered in ropy, black tendrils. It hovered before the mime as though he were holding it by a leash. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The mime stared at his conjuration, moving his gloved hands with expert precision, guiding it. The shape pulsed once, twice, and then slithered across the dusty pavement before vanishing into the shadows beneath a booth.
Parents snatched their children away, hugging them close. The festival’s host, Mayor Rosalee Hightower, rushed to the scene, demanding an explanation. But the mime said nothing. His chalk-white face remained impassive, eyes flitting from person to person as though searching for his next target.
Almost at once, the feeling in Hickory Glen curdled. The sweet smell of caramel apples turned sour in the nose. Far across the green, a bleat of terror rose from the livestock pen. People ran to investigate, only to find the animals huddled and shaking. One of the prized goats was missing—just gone without a trace. A thick patch of black ichor stained the ground where it had stood.
Meanwhile, the mime pressed on. He performed a silent routine of “feeding” an invisible something in front of him. Though no one could see the shape, they sensed its presence—a malignant energy that made their skin crawl. The shadows around him lengthened in impossible ways. A second later, a thunderous crack echoed overhead, though the sky remained rainless.
Panic seeped through the crowd. The once-bustling festival grew quieter as people backed away. Some tried to run for their cars, only to find the road barricaded by twisted illusions: towering figures that flickered into existence, shifting between solid and spectral. They loomed over the escaping townsfolk, forcing them back.
A desperate hush fell. Mayor Hightower ordered the local deputies to intervene. They approached the mime cautiously, guns drawn. He stared them down with a look of eerie calm. With one graceful gesture—hands miming the shape of a box—he trapped them behind invisible walls. Their frantic cries were muted, as though they stood behind thick, soundproof glass.
By now, the most elderly residents were whispering old folktales about a creeping evil that once haunted Hickory Glen long before it was settled. They spoke of a traveling performer who had, according to legend, bargained with dark entities in forgotten woods. Though none had believed the stories for generations, it all felt too real now.
As sunset approached, the festival lights flickered on. The swirl of color and warmth did nothing to dispel the suffocating fear. The mime took center stage once more, his gloved hands raised to the bruised-purple sky. With each measured movement, the rifts of shimmering air tore open around the square. Something like diseased roots or ancient tentacles pressed against the edges of reality, threatening to break through in multiple places at once.
Children screamed and clung to their parents. Strong farmers who’d once wrestled livestock into pens turned pale and helpless. The top prize for the largest pumpkin sat, still unclaimed, next to a half-finished pie contest. In the distance, a church bell began tolling on its own, each peal more ominous than the last.
And the mime was smiling now—barely, but definitely smiling. A faint curve of the lips painted in stark white. In that moment, the townsfolk realized this wasn’t an act. Something unfathomable had chosen their celebration as a gateway.
An unspoken question gnawed at every survivor watching: could this horror be stopped, or was Hickory Glen doomed to become a silent, abandoned ruin beneath an ancient darkness?
No one dared breathe too loudly as the mime continued his performance, weaving illusions into life, each one more terrifying than the last. What had begun as a day of pride and joy—bounty from the land—had become a nightmare beyond mortal comprehension. The mime’s white face caught the glow of lanterns, and in his eyes, there was a silent promise that the worst was yet to come.
Miles Modesto stepped into the old warehouse at the edge of town, the scent of motor oil and damp wood clinging to the air. He adjusted his Italian suit, exuding the effortless confidence of a man who had left his past behind.
A past that stood waiting for him in the dim light.
Philly Fuego emerged from the shadows, his expression unreadable. “Been a while, partner.”
Miles stopped short, his breath hitching for just a second before he regained his composure. “I thought you were gonna die in that cell.”
Fuego chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Guess I was too stubborn for that. Got out early—turns out, good behavior has its perks.”
Miles forced a smile. “You always were good at playing the angles.”
“Not as good as you,” Fuego said, stepping closer. “Five years, Miles. Five years inside, while you were out here getting rich off what we stole. Now, I’m here for my share.”
Miles exhaled slowly. “The money’s gone.”
Fuego’s eyes darkened. “Try again.”
“It’s not a lie,” Miles said. “I had to move fast—cops were sniffing around, the heat was on me. I funneled it all into the business. There’s no stash, no hidden vault.”
Fuego clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “And yet, you’re standing here in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, living in a villa outside the city while I was eating slop off a metal tray.”
“You think it was easy for me?” Miles snapped. “I spent five years waiting for the knock on my door. Every time I saw a cop in my rearview, I thought it was over. I didn’t abandon you, Fuego—I survived.”
“Yeah?” Fuego’s voice was razor-sharp. “Well, now it’s my turn.”
Miles studied him for a long moment. “I don’t have cash to give you. But I do have a job.”
Fuego scoffed. “A job?”
“Modesto Import & Export,” Miles said. “You start in the warehouse. Work your way up. You’ll make money. Legitimately. No more running, no more hiding.”
Fuego stared at him, trying to gauge whether this was an insult or an olive branch.
“You owe me,” he said finally.
“This is how I pay you back,” Miles replied.
Fuego’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it.”
But he already knew his answer. He wasn’t here for redemption. He was here to take back what was his.
Miles’s villa was nothing like the life they had once dreamed of. Behind wrought-iron gates and walls of climbing bougainvillea, he had built something untouchable.
It should have enraged Fuego. It should have fueled his hunger for revenge.
But then he saw her.
Piña Modesto wasn’t a child anymore. The last time Fuego had seen her, she’d been a shy teenager, tucked behind Miles’s protective arm. Now, she was twenty-two, with dark, expressive eyes and a sharp wit that cut through any pretense. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had always been underestimated.
And she noticed Fuego long before he ever spoke to her.
The first time was at the warehouse. She was sorting paperwork in the office when she looked up and caught him staring.
“You’re Philly Fuego,” she said. Not a question.
Fuego leaned on the doorframe. “And you’re Miles’s stepdaughter.”
She smirked. “He told me you were dead.”
“Sometimes, I think I was,” he admitted.
She studied him. “Why are you here?”
Fuego hesitated. For revenge? For money? Or for something else?
“Still trying to decide that,” he said instead.
At first, it was small things—glances held a second too long, conversations that dipped into dangerous territory. Piña was clever, sharp, and relentless. She wanted to know everything about him.
“Did you really rob a bank?” she asked one night, leaning on a stack of shipping crates.
“Yeah.”
“And Miles just…got away?”
Fuego gave a humorless laugh. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Did you ever think he set you up?”
Fuego froze.
Because the thought had gnawed at him for years. But hearing it from Piña, spoken so casually, sent a shiver down his spine.
And then there was the night she touched his hand—just a brief, fleeting thing—but enough to make Fuego feel like the world had tilted beneath his feet.
“This isn’t a smart thing to do,” he muttered. “You play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.”
“Maybe,” Piña whispered. “But what if I don’t care?”
Miles noticed. Of course, he did.
The moment he saw Piña looking at Fuego the way she used to look at him for approval, he knew.
“He’s using you,” Miles told her, voice tight with barely contained rage. “to get back at me.”
“Like you used him,” she shot back. “to get rich?”
Miles went still.
And that was the moment he knew he had lost her.
Fuego was waiting in the courtyard, his worldly possessions stuffed into the rucksack slung over his shoulder, when he heard the footsteps.
But it wasn’t Piña.
Miles Modesto stepped out of the shadows, his Wilson Combat SFX9 drawn.
“You think you can just waltz back into my life, steal my stepdaughter like some petty crook, and I’m going to let you get away Scot-free?” Miles’s voice was thick with fury.
Fuego didn’t flinch. “It ain’t stealing ’cause you don’t own her…and she wants to come with me.”
Miles exhaled slowly. “And you expect me to believe that you want her?”
Fuego hesitated.
“I do. More that anything I’ve ever wanted.”
Miles nodded. “Well, here’s where you earn it.”
Fuego barely had time to react before Miles raised the 9mm Luger.
Crack.
The first shot rang out across the courtyard.
A heartbeat later—the second.
Neither hit their mark.
Blood bloomed.
Across Piña’s dress.
She hadn’t meant to step between them. Just as she hadn’t meant to come between her stepfather and his former partner.
Miles’s gun trembled in his grip, his face drained of color. “Piña—”
She collapsed.
Fuego caught her, lowering her gently, hands pressing against the wound.
“Why?” he whispered.
Piña’s breath came in shallow gasps. She tried to smile.
“Because I love you.”
Miles staggered back. His daughter—his one remaining connection to something pure—was slipping away.
Fuego lifted her, his voice breaking. “Get help!”
Miles didn’t move. He just watched. Because, for the first time, he understood: for him, this wasn’t about revenge. It wasn’t even about the money. It was about being chosen, about who was more important.
And Piña had made her choice.
The sirens wailed in the distance.
Fuego didn’t know if she would make it. But as he looked into her eyes, filled with pain but still burning with fire, he knew one thing. For the first time in his life, he had something worth running toward. And he wasn’t going to lose her.
This piece started out as a casual, one-off blog post—like so many of my bite-sized stories—but it refused to stay small. I thought we could compromise on a short story, while it insisted on becoming a novel. After hours of spirited negotiation, we struck a deal and settled on a novella. If you’re curious, you can find it here: https://amzn.to/40o2hJv. This draft was the seed; the final version in the novella is this scene cranked up to eleven.
The pub didn’t have a name. Its sign was blank, the wooden board swinging creakily above the cobblestone street as though it had forgotten what it was supposed to say. Noakes—the first one—paused in front of the door, hesitating. He checked his watch.
“3:03 p.m.” He muttered. A lucky time.
The second Noakes bumped into him from behind. “Well, are we going in or not? I’m parched.”
Noakes—the first—turned, raising an eyebrow at the uncanny resemblance. The man behind him looked exactly like him, down to the scratch on his chin and the threadbare scarf around his neck.
“I… sorry, but who are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Noakes,” the second man said casually. “Same as you, mate.” He stepped past and pushed open the door, the scent of old wood and stale beer wafting out. “Coming or not?”
Noakes—the first—followed, his curiosity outweighing his unease.
Inside, the barroom stretched impossibly far. Rows of tables lined with flickering candles seemed to fade into the distance, disappearing into a haze of smoke and dim light. The air buzzed faintly, a low hum that seemed to resonate in the bones.
“Two pints,” Noakes—the second—said to the barkeep, who had already turned around and started pouring before the words were fully out.
The barkeep was a wiry, ageless man with one eye larger than the other, giving him a permanently surprised expression. He slid the pints over without a word.
“Cheers,” Noakes—the first—muttered, raising his glass. They clinked, the sound strangely hollow, as though the pint glasses were made of something other than glass.
The first sip hit like a hammer. Noakes—the first—gasped as his vision blurred. The bar around him expanded outward in a kaleidoscope of colors, the tables multiplying into endless rows, the hum rising to a deafening crescendo before settling back into its low buzz.
“What the hell?” he croaked.
Noakes—the second—grinned. “Yeah, it does that.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You notice anything… different yet?”
Noakes—the first—looked down. His hands were trembling slightly, but that wasn’t unusual after a strong drink. The barroom, however, had changed. Where before there had been a handful of patrons—a hunched man in a flat cap, a woman nursing a martini in the corner—there were now dozens of figures, all identical to himself. Each sat at their own table, some deep in conversation, others staring blankly at the flickering candles.
“What the…”
“They’re all Noakes,” the second Noakes said. “Just like you. Just like me.”
“How?”
The second Noakes shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, have another drink.”
The barkeep set another pint in front of him without being asked.
“I don’t want another drink,” Noakes—the first—said, his voice shaking.
The second Noakes laughed, a hollow, echoing sound. “Yeah, that’s what we all say at first. But you will. You always do.”
He drained his glass and stood. “See you around, mate. Or maybe I won’t.” And with that, he vanished into the endless rows of tables, leaving Noakes—the first—alone with the hum, the candlelight, and the reflection of his own face staring back at him from every corner of the bar.
The barkeep smiled. “Another?”
Where does Noakes’s story go from here? The expanded version is available here.
The first time Judith Engel made lemonade, she was five years old, standing on a stool in her mother’s sunlit kitchen. The scent of fresh lemons and sugar hung in the air, as familiar and comforting as her mother’s voice.
“You have to put your heart into it,” her mother said, her hands guiding Judith’s small ones as they squeezed juice from the lemons. “That’s the secret.”
Judith didn’t understand what her mother meant, but she nodded seriously. She wanted nothing more than to make her mother proud. When the lemonade turned out too sour, her mother only smiled and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll get it someday,” she said, her voice warm as sunlight.
Someday never came. Her mother’s laughter faded from the house, leaving behind an aching silence that Judith couldn’t fill, no matter how many glasses of lemonade she made.
Now, at nine years old, Judith stood behind a makeshift lemonade stand in front of her house. The wooden sign, painted with uneven letters, read: 25 cents. A jar of coins sat on the table, the product of neighbors’ polite purchases. They sipped the lemonade, their faces carefully neutral, offering gentle words of encouragement Judith barely heard.
The lemonade wasn’t very good. She knew that. But it was all she had left of her late mother, and she made it every day, hoping that somehow, she could pour her grief into the pitcher and sweeten it into something better.
One afternoon, as the sleepy sun blushed orange, beginning its daily routine of tucking itself into the horizon, and shadows stretched across the street, Judith stirred a new batch of lemonade. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, the sound of her voice, the way she would hum as she worked in the kitchen. Tears welled in Judith’s eyes, and before she could stop them, they spilled over, falling into the pitcher. She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed, though no one was there to see.
When the next customer, an elderly woman from two houses down, took a sip, her eyes widened. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
“Oh, my,” the woman whispered, clutching the cup as if it were something precious. “It’s like I can feel it all over again. My Henry…” Her voice broke, and she handed Judith a dollar before hurrying away, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Judith stared after her, the dollar bill crumpled in her hand. She tasted the lemonade herself, and for a moment, it was as if her mother’s absence swelled inside her, sharp and all-consuming. But when she set the glass down, she felt lighter, as though the weight of her grief had shifted. She didn’t understand it, but she knew one thing: the lemonade had changed.
Word spread quickly. The neighbors came in droves, sipping the lemonade and leaving with red-rimmed eyes. They whispered about Judith’s stand, about how her lemonade could unearth old memories and long-buried sorrows. Some left generous tips; others lingered, thanking her softly before walking away.
Judith’s father noticed the change, too. He’d been a shadow of himself since her mother’s death, retreating into his armchair and barely speaking. But now, he watched the parade of visitors from the living room window, his face clouded with something Judith couldn’t name.
One evening, after the last customer had gone, the doorbell rang. Judith opened the door to find a man in a gray coat standing on the porch. He was tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to see too much.
“Judith Engel?” he asked, his voice smooth and polite.
Judith nodded, gripping the doorframe.
“My name is Mr. Carrick. I’ve heard about your lemonade.” He glanced at the stand, now empty, and smiled faintly. “May I come in?”
Her father appeared behind her, his voice firm. “What do you want?”
“To help,” Mr. Carrick said, his gaze flicking between them. “Your daughter has a remarkable gift. One that others like her have learned to refine.”
Judith stepped back, her heart pounding. “Others like me?”
Mr. Carrick nodded. “People who can take emotions—grief, pain, even joy—and distill them into something tangible. Something transformative. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”
Her father’s face darkened. “She’s just a child. Leave her alone.”
But Mr. Carrick’s attention was on Judith. “You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? The way the sadness lifts, just a little, when you pour it into the lemonade. Imagine what you could do with guidance. You could help people, Judith. Not just your neighbors, but so many others.”
Judith hesitated. She thought of the strangers who came to her stand, the way they left lighter, as though she’d taken something heavy from them. She thought of her mother’s words: You have to put your heart into it.
Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts. “She doesn’t need your help. Get out.”
Mr. Carrick sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small glass vial. Inside was a liquid the color of sunlight, swirling gently as though alive. “This is what’s possible,” he said, setting the vial on the table. “Think about it, Judith. When you’re ready, I’ll find you.”
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Judith and her father stood in silence, staring at the vial. The room felt heavier, the air thick with unspoken questions.
Finally, her father spoke, his voice low and weary. “You don’t need him. Or anyone else. You’re my daughter, and that’s enough.”
Judith picked up the vial, its warmth surprising against her skin. She thought of her mother, of the lemonade, of the way the sadness seemed to flow from her and into the pitcher. She thought of the neighbors, their tears, their gratitude. And she wondered: Was this enough? Or was there more she could do?
That night, as she lay in bed, the vial sat on her nightstand, catching the moonlight. Judith closed her eyes, the echo of her mother’s voice in her ears. You’ll get it someday.
MADD FICTIONAL 