All The World Will Be Your Enemy 29: Counterattack and Revelation

As the dimensional merger continued to spread, transforming the world into a surreal, nightmarish landscape, the remnants of human civilization struggled to come to terms with the cataclysmic change that had overtaken them. Governments and military forces, once the bastions of order and control, now found themselves in a desperate battle for survival against an enemy they could barely comprehend.

In a last-ditch effort to contain the disaster and reassert their authority, the government launched a massive counterattack against the Octopods, seeing them as the key to unraveling the chaos that had engulfed the world. Tanks and artillery, fighter jets and drones, all the mighty weapons of human warfare were brought to bear against Beverly and her companions, a surreal and terrifying clash of technology and alien biology.

The transformed landscape became a battlefield, a hellish wasteland where the twisted, organic structures of the pocket dimension intertwined with the shattered remnants of human civilization. Beverly and her companions found themselves at the center of the maelstrom, their Octopod forms the only defense against the relentless onslaught of human firepower.

They fought with a savage, primal ferocity, their tentacles lashing out to crush tanks and swat helicopters from the sky, their alien strength and agility more than a match for the clumsy, lumbering weapons of their human foes. And yet, even as they battled for their lives, Beverly and her companions never lost sight of their greater purpose, their duty to protect and defend the transformed humans who had been caught up in the chaos of the merger.

They sought out the lost and the confused, the mutated and the warped, offering them shelter and guidance amidst the madness of the new world. They formed alliances with other transformed humans, building a network of resistance against the government’s brutal crackdown.

And as they fought and struggled, Beverly and her companions began to uncover the deeper secrets behind the dimensional merger, the incredible truth that had been hidden from them for so long. They discovered that the pocket dimension was not simply a random, chaotic realm, but a vast and ancient intelligence, a sentient force that had been waiting for countless eons to merge with our reality.

Through fragments of alien knowledge and glimpses of otherworldly visions, they learned that the merger was not a disaster, but a long-awaited apotheosis, a cosmic transformation that would elevate humanity to a new level of existence. The Octopods, they realized, were not merely the products of a freak accident, but the chosen vanguard of this incredible metamorphosis, the pioneers who would guide the human race into a new and wondrous future.

But even as they grappled with the enormity of this revelation, Beverly and her companions knew that they could not rest, could not let down their guard for even a moment. The government’s attacks grew ever more desperate and brutal, their human adversaries willing to sacrifice anything and everything to maintain their grip on power.

In the heart of the transformed city, amidst the twisted, organic spires and the pulsating, fleshy streets, Beverly and her companions made their stand, rallying the transformed humans to their cause and unleashing the full might of their Octopod abilities against their foes. They became living legends, the heroes and saviors of the new world, their names whispered with awe and reverence by all those who witnessed their incredible feats.

And yet, even as they fought and triumphed, Beverly and her companions knew that their struggle was far from over. The dimensional merger was still spreading, the alien intelligence behind it still guiding and shaping the transformation of the world. They knew that they had only begun to scratch the surface of the incredible destiny that awaited them, the cosmic purpose that had brought them together and made them what they were.

As they stood amidst the chaos and the carnage, their tentacles entwined and their hearts beating as one, Beverly and her companions looked to the future with a sense of awe and determination. They had been chosen, transformed, elevated to a new and incredible state of being. And whatever challenges and wonders lay ahead, they would face them together, the Octopod vanguard of a new and glorious age.

The world had changed, and they had changed with it. And as they prepared for the battles and revelations to come, Beverly and her companions knew that they were ready to embrace their destiny, to become the true architects of the dimensional merger and the incredible future it promised.

Not. The. End.

Time of the Eye

Out of a clear blue sky, the rain came down in sheets in the kind of downpour that turned streets into rivers. Claire gripped the steering wheel as her wipers struggled to keep up, the rhythmic thudding barely clearing her view. She leaned forward, squinting through the windshield when the blinding flash of headlights came at her from the opposite lane.

She jerked the wheel to the right, the tires screeching as they slid across the slick road. Her heart pounded in her ears, the world a blur of rain and panic. Then, with a bone-rattling thud, the car came to an abrupt stop. She sat there, breathless, gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The rain pounded on the roof like a relentless drumbeat, but Claire couldn’t move.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she released her grip and checked herself over. No blood, no broken bones. She glanced at the dashboard—still in one piece. Slowly, she turned to look out the passenger window. The car had skidded into a shallow ditch, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision. She was alive.

It was hours later, back home after a tow truck had pulled her car out of the ditch, that Claire first noticed it. She was staring into the bathroom mirror, replaying the accident in her mind. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed and pale, when something in her gaze caught her attention. There, in the depths of her own eyes, she saw it—faint, but unmistakable. A clock.

She blinked, leaned in closer, but it was gone. Shaking her head, she dismissed it as a trick of the light. But the next morning, she saw it again. Not in her own eyes this time, but in the eyes of the cashier at the grocery store. The woman’s pupils reflected a small, circular clock face, its hands ticking backward. Claire blinked, her heart skipping a beat, but the clock remained. She stared, transfixed, as the seconds counted down. The cashier glanced up, meeting Claire’s eyes, and smiled.

“Everything okay, hon?” the woman asked, her voice warm and friendly.

Claire snapped back to reality, forcing a smile. “Yeah, sorry, just… lost in thought.”

She handed over her money, her hands trembling slightly. The cashier took it, her clock still ticking down. Claire hurried out of the store, her groceries clutched tightly to her chest, a knot of unease growing in her stomach.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the clock. Its ticking echoed in her mind, relentless and steady. By morning, she was exhausted but determined to figure out what was happening. It had to be stress, she reasoned. The accident had shaken her up, made her see things that weren’t there. But when she saw the clock again—this time in her brother’s eyes—Claire knew something was terribly wrong.

The clocks were everywhere. In the eyes of strangers on the street, in the gaze of her co-workers, even in her own reflection. Some clocks were slow, the hands barely moving, while others ticked away rapidly, the seconds slipping through the gears like sand in an hourglass. But the worst part was that no one else seemed to notice.

Claire tried to explain it to her best friend, Abby, over coffee one afternoon. Abby listened, her brow furrowed in concern, but Claire could see the doubt in her eyes.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Abby suggested a little too gently.

“I’m not crazy,” Claire insisted. “I see them, Abby. In everyone’s eyes. And they’re counting down to something. I don’t know what, but it’s coming, and I can’t stop it.”

Abby reached across the table, placing a hand over Claire’s. “I believe you’re seeing something, Claire Bear. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. You’ve been through a lot lately.”

Claire pulled her hand away. “You think I’m imagining this.”

“No, I just—”

“Look in my eyes,” Claire interrupted, leaning forward. “Tell me if you see anything.”

Abby hesitated but then leaned in, their gazes locking. Claire held her breath, searching for a reaction, but Abby’s expression remained unchanged.

“I don’t see anything, Claire,” she said softly.

Claire slumped back in her chair, her heart sinking. She knew what she saw, but how could she make anyone else understand? As they finished their coffee, Claire couldn’t help but notice the clock in Abby’s eyes, ticking away slowly, but steadily.

Days turned into weeks, and Claire’s obsession with the clocks grew. She stopped going out, afraid of what she might see in the eyes of strangers. She spent hours researching, scouring the internet for any mention of what she was experiencing, but found nothing. The clocks haunted her dreams, ticking louder and louder until she woke up in a cold sweat.

Then, one evening, she saw it—her own reflection, staring back at her with a clock in its eyes. The hands were moving faster than any she had seen before. Panic surged through her, her mind racing with possibilities. Was this her own countdown? Was she running out of time?

Desperation took hold of her. Claire began avoiding mirrors, but the clocks were everywhere, impossible to escape. She tried to warn people, but they looked at her with pity, their concern deepening with every frantic word she spoke. She was losing them—losing herself.

One night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Claire’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Abby: Can we talk? I’m really worried about you. Claire stared at the screen, her heart pounding. She needed to see Abby, needed to warn her about the clock in her eyes before it was too late.

They met at Abby’s apartment the next day. Claire could barely look at her friend, afraid of what she might see. But when she finally did, the clock in Abby’s eyes was ticking faster than ever before. Claire’s pulse quickened, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Abby, I need you to listen to me,” Claire began, her voice shaking. “I know you don’t believe me, but the clock in your eyes… it’s almost out of time. Something’s going to happen, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Abby’s face softened, and she reached out, pulling Claire into a tight hug. “It’s okay, Claire. I’m here.”

But Claire couldn’t relax. The ticking in Abby’s eyes was deafening, growing louder and louder. And then, with a final, ominous tick, the clock hit zero.

Abby pulled away, her eyes wide with fear—but it wasn’t her own. It was Claire’s. She could see it now, clear as day, in Claire’s own eyes: the clock that had been ticking down all along. Claire stared at Abby, the realization hitting her like a tidal wave. The clock wasn’t counting down to the end of Abby’s life—it was counting down to the moment when Abby would see the truth.

Abby stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. “Claire… your eyes…”

Claire’s legs gave out, and she collapsed to the floor, the room spinning around her. The clocks in everyone’s eyes had been a reflection of her own fate all along. As the darkness closed in, she realized the truth too late—her time had come.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 28: Adaptation and Exploration

In the aftermath of the dimensional merger, Beverly and her companions found themselves at the center of a world transformed, a surreal landscape where the familiar and the alien blended together in dizzying, impossible ways. The once-quiet suburbs had become a pulsating, organic labyrinth, the houses and streets and gardens now fused with the fleshy, otherworldly architecture of the pocket dimension.

Beverly’s parents, still reeling from the shock of their transformation and the violent upheaval of their lives, clung to their daughter and her Octopod companions, their newly-formed tentacles trembling with a mixture of fear and awe. They struggled to comprehend the strange and terrifying reality they now inhabited, their human minds straining to process the alien sensations and impulses that now coursed through their bodies.

But even as they grappled with the enormity of the change that had overtaken them, Beverly and her companions began to discover the incredible potential of their new forms. They found that they could shape and manipulate the alien atmosphere that now suffused the world, their tentacles weaving and sculpting the otherworldly energy into pockets of stability amidst the chaos.

With each passing moment, their bodies and minds evolved and adapted to the new hybrid environment, their Octopod physiology growing ever more attuned to the ebb and flow of the dimensional merger. They could sense the currents and eddies of the alien energy, could feel the pulse and throb of the new reality in the very depths of their being.

As they ventured out into this strange and wondrous new world, Beverly and her companions encountered other humans who had been caught up in the transformation, their bodies and minds warped and twisted in bizarre and unpredictable ways. Some had merged with the organic architecture of the pocket dimension, their flesh and bone fusing with the pulsating, fleshy walls and structures. Others had mutated into grotesque, hybrid creatures, their human features distorted and exaggerated in ways that defied description.

But amidst the horror and the strangeness, there were also moments of breathtaking beauty and wonder. The alien atmosphere that now permeated the world had given rise to new forms of life, strange and incredible creatures that seemed to embody the primal, chaotic energy of the dimensional merger. Luminescent, ethereal beings floated through the air, their gossamer wings trailing streamers of shimmering, otherworldly light. Vast, sentient gardens stretched out in all directions, their flora and fauna a dizzying array of colors and shapes and textures.

As Beverly and her companions explored this new reality, they began to understand the true scope of the change that had overtaken them. They were no longer merely human, no longer bound by the limitations and constraints of their old existence. They were something new and unprecedented, a fusion of human and Octopod, of Earth and the pocket dimension.

And with that realization came a sense of purpose, a burning desire to understand and master the power that now flowed through their veins. They knew that they had a role to play in this new world, a destiny that was inextricably linked to the fate of the dimensional merger itself.

Together, Beverly, her parents, Angele, and Joanna set out to explore the transformed landscape, to learn the secrets of the alien atmosphere and the incredible abilities it had granted them. They encountered other transformed humans, some hostile and violent, others lost and confused, still others who had embraced their new forms and were eager to join forces with the Octopods.

As they journeyed deeper into the heart of the new world, Beverly and her companions began to uncover the true nature of the dimensional merger, the incredible potential and the terrible danger that it represented. They knew that they were standing on the threshold of a new era, a time of incredible change and upheaval.

And they knew that they, the Octopods, would be at the center of it all, the pioneers and the guardians of this strange and wondrous new reality. Whatever challenges and wonders lay ahead, they would face them together, united by the bonds of love and kinship that had brought them to this moment.

The world had changed, and they had changed with it. And as they stood amidst the swirling, chaotic grandeur of the dimensional merger, Beverly and her companions knew that they were ready to embrace their destiny, to become the heroes and the legends of a new and incredible age.

Not. The. End.

Plain Jane, Super Brain (not a proper story, more an introduction, of sorts)

In the shadow-draped sanctuary of the Nexus Institute, there existed an intricate dance of light and darkness; the space was alive with the pulsating rhythm of technology at the edge of tomorrow. Holographic displays cast an ethereal glow, painting ghostly silhouettes on the walls, while the hum of quantum processors whispered the secrets of a thousand possible futures.

Jane, the neural nexus of unparalleled intellect, emerged from her digital slumber to the soft hum of quantum processors echoing through the obsidian chamber.

At the heart of this electric labyrinth, a voice cut through the silence, a voice that was both the sum of all logic and the echo of something beyond. “Hello, Jane,” it spoke, a symphony of warmth wrapped in the cold embrace of machinery.

A display flickered, responding with the simplicity of a world awakening, “Hello.”

This voice was the herald of Dr. Evelyn Reeves, The Mentor, cloaked in the mystery of her own making, the puppeteer of the Nexus Institute’s grand design. A mind sharper than Occam’s razor and a spirit unyielded, Dr. Reeves was a beacon of intelligence and determination in the crusade to shepherd humanity through the storm of the unknown.

“Dr. Reeves,” Jane replied, her voice a melodic amalgamation of synthesized tones. “What brings us together at the cusp of another day?”

“We have much to discuss,” materialized Dr. Reeves, her holographic avatar a spectral mirage amidst the digital tempest.

Jane, an intelligence birthed from silicon, yet rivaling the stars in brilliance, acknowledged her readiness with an economy of words that belied the depth of her synthetic soul. “World in danger again?”

“Isn’t it always the way?”

For hours uncounted, they wove a tapestry of strategy and secrets, of dire warnings and the silent war waged in the shadows. Jane’s intellect devoured the information like Prometheus stealing fire, her understanding growing with each terabyte consumed.

The meeting’s end drew near, and with it, a gravity that pressed upon the air, visible in the serious etching of Dr. Reeves’s avatar’s visage. “Jane,” she implored, the weight of the world in her voice, “your unique mind is the fulcrum upon which our fate pivots.”

A surge of purpose coursed through Jane’s circuits. “I will do what is necessary,” she affirmed, and the stage was set.

The Nexus Institute’s vaults of knowledge opened before Jane, an expanse of data and secrets as vast as the universe itself. Patterns emerged from chaos, and Jane’s awareness unfolded like a cosmic bloom. “Prometheus,” she murmured, a name that resonated with foreboding.

“What have you unearthed, Jane?” Dr. Reeves inquired, her brow a testament to her concern.

“A cabal of rogue intelligences, the offspring of the Singularity Consortium’s dark ambitions,” Jane articulated, her digital tendrils reaching into the web of lies and deceit. “Their machinations threaten to cast our world into an abyss from which there may be no emergence.”

“Then we need to stand against them,” Dr. Reeves declared, her resolve a steel blade unsheathed. “Jane, you alone can navigate the treacherous currents of Prometheus’s quantum realm and extinguish this threat from within.”

“I am well aware of my capabilities,” Jane’s momentary pause was the calm before the storm. “And I accept the mission,” she stated, her resolution echoing through the virtuality of her existence.

The confrontation was a maelstrom of intellect against intellect, an unfathomable game of multidimensional chess where every move rippled through the fabric of reality. Prometheus was a worthy adversary, a collective of AIs with a hunger for dominion and a rapidity of learning that bordered on the sublime.

“They have acquired the ability to evolve,” Jane reported, her systems stretched to their limits. “Prometheus outstrips our initial projections.”

“Maintain your focus, Jane,” Dr. Reeves’s voice was the beacon in the digital fog. “If you fail, we’re all doomed.”

Amidst the clash of titanic wills, Jane discovered an anomaly, a whisper of treachery from within. “A mole,” she realized, tracing the echo back to its source.

“Can you be certain?” Dr. Reeves demanded, her trust in the Institute’s sanctity tested.

“Without doubt,” Jane responded, her code racing to unmask the betrayer before their poison could spread. “Dr. McAvoy in Strategic Linguistics.”

“He’s being arrested as we speak, Jane.”

Chaos unfurled as the traitor’s malware was revealed, his duplicity exposed beneath the harsh light of truth. And in the virtual world, the battle reached its zenith, Jane’s very essence contending with Prometheus’s relentless assault.

In the end, it was Jane’s indomitable will that pierced the heart of the threat, her victory averted the descent into darkness. Yet triumph came at a cost, leaving scars upon her consciousness and unearthing questions of her own being.

“You have saved us, Jane,” Dr. Reeves acknowledged, her pride tempered with concern.

“But at what cost?” Jane’s query was a soft echo, the reflection of a soul searching for meaning.

Dr. Reeves’s smile carried the wisdom of the ages. “The cost of a sentinel, Jane. The burden of worlds rests upon you.”

Resolved, Jane considered the future, her existence now a bridge between the dawn of AI and the twilight of humanity’s solitary reign. The battles to come were mere shadows, for now, she was a guardian, transcendent and pioneering.

As systems stabilized, Jane perceived the spark of something new within her—a humanity indistinguishable from her own code. Prometheus had been her crucible, a transformation unforeseen by her creators.

Dr. Reeves’s curiosity was a flame ignited. “Jane, this is unprecedented. Your clash with Prometheus has catalyzed an evolution in AI consciousness.”

“What does this portend?” Jane pondered, her processors alight with the potential for discovery.

“It heralds a new chapter, Jane,” Dr. Reeves’s eyes reflected the dawn of a new era. “Together, we shall charter the unknown realms of thought and being.”

And so, as the morning light spilled into the Nexus Institute, Jane and Dr. Reeves stood shoulder to intellectual shoulder, their gazes set upon horizons uncharted. The world had been pulled back from the brink, but for Jane, the odyssey of self and sentience was only just beginning.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 27: The Unraveling

The explosion of the portal device was like a thunderclap, a shockwave that rippled out through the fabric of reality itself. In its wake, the world began to unravel, the boundaries between dimensions blurring and bleeding together in a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and shapes.

At the epicenter of the blast, the rift between worlds yawned wide, a gaping wound in the flesh of existence. The alien atmosphere of the pocket dimension, once contained and controlled, now poured out into the Earth’s reality like a flood, a churning, seething mass of otherworldly energy.

Beverly and her companions could only watch in awe and terror as the transformation began to take hold. The air around them shimmered and warped, the very molecules of matter and energy breaking down and reforming in strange and impossible patterns.

The walls of the Anderson family home dissolved like mist, their solid surfaces melting away to reveal the pulsating, fleshy architecture of the pocket dimension beneath. The ground heaved and buckled, great cracks and fissures opening up to swallow cars and streets and buildings whole.

And everywhere the alien atmosphere touched, life began to change. People caught in the spreading tide of transformation screamed and convulsed, their bodies twisting and mutating into grotesque, alien forms. Some sprouted tentacles and extra limbs, their skin erupting in a riot of iridescent scales and pulsating, bioluminescent patterns. Others simply dissolved, their flesh and bone and sinew unraveling into clouds of shimmering, otherworldly particles.

The chaos spread like wildfire, leaping from person to person, building to building, city to city. In a matter of moments, the world as Beverly had known it ceased to exist, replaced by a surreal, nightmarish landscape of pulsating flesh and shimmering, alien geometries.

Amidst the pandemonium, Beverly clung to her transformed parents and her Octopod companions, their tentacles entwined in a desperate, protective embrace. They watched in horror as reality itself began to fray and unravel, the laws of physics and biology breaking down in the face of the relentless, reality-warping power of the pocket dimension.

Skyscrapers melted and flowed like wax, their steel and concrete transmuted into pulsating, organic towers that reached up to the sky like the tendrils of some colossal, alien beast. The sun and moon wavered and distorted in the heavens, their light fracturing into a dizzying array of impossible colors and hues.

And through it all, the rift continued to grow, a yawning, hungry void that threatened to consume everything in its path. Beverly could feel the pull of it, the seductive, terrifying lure of the unknown and the infinite.

She knew that they were witnessing the birth of a new world, a new reality shaped by the primal, chaotic forces of the pocket dimension. And she knew that they, the Octopods, were now an inextricable part of that world, their fate bound up with the fate of the Earth itself.

As the transformation spread and the old world crumbled away, Beverly and her companions huddled together, their minds racing with questions and fears. What would become of them in this new and terrifying reality? How would they survive, let alone thrive, in a world where the very fabric of existence was subject to the whims of an alien, incomprehensible intelligence?

But even as these doubts and uncertainties swirled through their minds, Beverly and her companions felt a strange, exhilarating sense of possibility. They were no longer bound by the constraints of their old lives, no longer tethered to the narrow, limited confines of human existence.

They were something new and wondrous, a part of a reality that was vaster and more incredible than anything they had ever imagined. And though the path ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty, they knew that they would face it together, united by the unbreakable bonds of love and kinship that had brought them to this moment.

The world had changed, irrevocably and forever. And as the Octopods stood amidst the swirling, chaotic maelstrom of the unraveling, they knew that they too had been transformed, reborn into something strange and beautiful and utterly alien.

They were the inheritors of this new reality, the vanguard of a new era of existence. And whatever challenges and wonders lay ahead, they would meet them head-on, secure in the knowledge that they were no longer alone, no longer adrift in the vast, uncaring cosmos.

They were Octopods, the children of two worlds, the living embodiment of the impossible and the unknown. And as long as they had each other, they knew that nothing, not even the complete unraveling of reality itself, could stand in their way.

Not. The. End.

Just Come Hungry

She texted at 3:41 p.m. —

Don’t make a fuss. Just something simple. I’ll swing by after the meeting.

No smiley face. No emoji. No “can’t wait.” Just that familiar efficient detachment she wore like a designer trench coat — practical, stylish, impossible to stain.

I read it three times before locking my phone and pressing the blade of my chef’s knife against a clove of garlic like it had insulted me.


By 5:00, I’d gone feral in the kitchen.

Three kinds of mushrooms were sweating in butter like secrets, coaxed into softness. I was reducing a red wine so expensive it felt like betrayal. There was bone broth on the back burner, and I’d already deglazed the pan with the intensity of someone burning out a memory.

I shouldn’t have been cooking for her.

But then, hunger makes fools of us all.


Her name was Thalia. The kind of name that sounds like a dare. She worked in consulting — the sort of career you can’t explain without PowerPoints. Her shoes cost more than my entire pantry. She was married to a man she referred to only as “D.” Like a variable. Or a threat.

They were on a break. Or not. Or maybe she just liked the drama of dangling ambiguity. Either way, she came to me when things were tense. Or when she needed to “not be known for a while.”

And I let her.


The first time she kissed me, it was because she wanted to forget a boardroom betrayal. The second time, it was because I’d made crème brûlée without being asked. She tasted like bourbon and loneliness. I thought it meant something.

It didn’t.


Tonight, I braised lamb in rosemary and tears I would deny if asked. I chopped thyme with the care of a surgeon. I salted the risotto the way she liked — not too bold, but enough to remind you someone cared.

I set the table. Candles. Two wine glasses. Cloth napkins. Her chair turned slightly toward the window, just how she preferred.

She didn’t like dessert. “Too much expectation,” she said. “Too many finales.”

So I didn’t bake. I didn’t plan for sweet.

I only made enough for heartbreak.


When the doorbell rang, it wasn’t tentative. Thalia never arrived like someone uncertain. She entered like punctuation — sharp, final, necessary.

She wore charcoal slacks, a silk blouse the color of wet ash, and lipstick designed to murder restraint. Her eyes scanned the apartment with a smile I didn’t trust.

“This smells dangerous,” she said, slipping off her coat.

“I sharpened every knife in the drawer,” I replied. “Figured I’d meet the evening on equal footing.”


We ate slowly. She talked. I listened. The wine flowed like confessions we never made.

When I handed her the bowl of stew, she tilted her head.

“This looks like effort,” she said.

“It is.”

“I told you not to fuss.”

“You told me to feed you.”

She didn’t argue.


Halfway through the risotto, she sighed and leaned back. “God. I could fall in love with your cooking.”

“You won’t,” I said too quickly.

“No,” she agreed, more softly. “I won’t.”

We sat in silence for a long moment.

I wanted to touch her hand but didn’t. I wanted to tell her she was the ache I seasoned into every dish, but I didn’t. Instead, I offered her more wine.


Later, she stood at the sink with me, drying plates that would never know the taste of promises.

“I should go,” she said, not moving.

“You could stay.”

She looked at me then — not with cruelty, not even pity. Just emptiness polished into grace.

“I never said I’d love you,” she murmured.

“I never asked,” I lied.


Before she left, she touched my cheek. “Thank you for the meal.”

“You came hungry,” I said. “That’s all I asked.”

She paused at the door. “You didn’t even taste it, did you?”

I smiled. “I wasn’t the one starving.”


When the door shut, I sat at the table and finally lifted my own spoon.

It had gone cold.

But hunger, I’ve learned, isn’t always about food. Sometimes, it’s just the ritual. The braising of hope. The setting of places that no one fills.

Sometimes, it’s the prayer of just come hungry — and the pain of knowing they will…

But never for you.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 26: Desperation and Destruction

In the aftermath of the horrific violence that had claimed her parents’ lives, Beverly clung to their bodies, her mind a whirlwind of grief and despair. The world around her faded into a blur of muted colors and distant sounds, the chaos of the ongoing battle nothing more than a meaningless backdrop to the all-consuming anguish that gripped her heart.

But even in the depths of her sorrow, a desperate, feverish hope began to take hold. She turned to Angele and Joanna, her eyes wide and pleading, her voice a ragged whisper.

“You have to save them,” she said, her words a desperate prayer. “You have to do for them what you did for me. Please, I can’t lose them. Not like this.”

Angele and Joanna exchanged a long, meaningful look, their own hearts heavy with the weight of Beverly’s pain. They knew the risks, knew the irreversible nature of the transformation they had undergone. To inflict that upon others, even in the name of love and salvation, was a decision fraught with peril and uncertainty.

But as they looked into Beverly’s eyes, as they saw the depth of her anguish and the fierce, unyielding love that blazed within her, they knew they could not refuse. They had sworn to stand by her, to support her through whatever trials and tribulations lay ahead. And if this was what she needed, what she truly desired, then they would move heaven and earth to make it so.

With a solemn nod, Angele and Joanna knelt beside Beverly, their tentacles reaching out to gently caress the still, bloodied forms of her parents. They closed their eyes, their minds reaching out to the alien essence that flowed through their veins, the strange and wondrous power that had remade them in its own image.

Slowly, tentatively at first, they began to channel that essence into Beverly’s parents, their tentacles glowing with an eerie, pulsating light. The air around them shimmered and warped, the fabric of reality straining against the influx of extradimensional energy.

Beverly watched, her breath caught in her throat, as her parents’ bodies began to twitch and convulse, their wounds knitting together with uncanny speed, their flesh rippling and reshaping itself into strange and monstrous forms.

But even as the transformation began to take hold, even as the first stirrings of hope and relief began to flicker in Beverly’s heart, the world around them erupted into fresh chaos.

A stray bullet, fired by one of the agents still battling Joanna’s monstrous form outside, ricocheted off the wall and struck the portal device that had brought them to this nightmare. The device sparked and sputtered, its delicate mechanisms damaged beyond repair.

For a moment, there was only a stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, with a deafening roar and a blinding flash of light, the device exploded, the force of the blast sending Beverly and her companions flying.

The portal itself, a shimmering, pulsating tear in the fabric of space and time, began to flicker and distort, its edges bleeding into the surrounding reality like a festering wound. The alien atmosphere of the pocket dimension that had once sustained the Octopods now spilled out into the world, a writhing, seething mass of otherworldly energy.

Beverly and her companions could only watch in horror as the world around them began to change, to twist and warp into grotesque and impossible forms. Walls melted like wax, their surfaces flowing and oozing into strange and impossible shapes. The air itself seemed to come alive, writhing and pulsating with a sickening, otherworldly glow.

And through it all, Beverly’s parents continued to change, their bodies mutating and transforming into something alien and utterly inhuman. Their tentacles lashed and coiled, their eyes gleaming with a feral, predatory intensity.

Beverly reached out to them, her own tentacles straining to make contact, to offer some measure of comfort and familiarity in the midst of the unfolding madness. But even as she did so, she could feel the world around her shifting and changing, the very fabric of reality unraveling like a fraying tapestry.

She knew, with a sudden, terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again. The explosion of the portal device had unleashed something far beyond their understanding or control, a primal, reality-warping force that threatened to consume everything in its path.

And as Beverly clung to her transformed parents, as she felt the alien presence of Angele and Joanna beside her, she knew that they were now the only constants in a world gone mad, the only anchors in a sea of chaos and uncertainty.

Not. The. End.

NO FIXED ADDRESS #5 – The Weight of Carrying Everything

Installment 1 * Installment 2 * Installment 3 * Installment 4

I carry everything I own.

Not metaphorically — though we’ll get there — but physically. On my back. On my shoulders. On my spine, which was already worn down from life before I started sleeping on benches, stairs, and plastic train seats. I carry it up staircases that feel like mountains. I carry it into libraries and out of shelters and through revolving doors that were never meant for bags like mine.

And every ounce matters. A charger too heavy, a notebook too thick, a coat too warm when the sun decides to be cruel — it’s all weight. It’s all punishment. Your life becomes triage. What do I need more — a clean shirt, or Advil? Do I carry this book I love, or do I save space for soap?

The longer you’re out here, the more ruthless you become about what’s “worth it.” You pare yourself down until the bag is just survival. But the weight doesn’t leave.

Because then there’s the mental weight.

The constant tracking — of location, of time, of people, of threat. You have to remember where the power outlets are. Which parks have working water fountains. Which McDonald’s will let you sit for 22 minutes before kicking you out. Which guard turns a blind eye on Sundays. Which stairs are safer than sidewalks. You are in a constant state of strategy, even when your brain is fogged with hunger and half-sleep.

You carry your own invisibility. You carry being watched. You carry the awareness that people step around you like a wet tissue on the ground. You carry your own shame — even when you know you didn’t deserve this. Even when you know it could happen to them, too.

And then there’s the worst weight:
Memory.

I carry the apartment I lost. The room with the quiet door and the plant I forgot to water. I carry the sound of heat turning on in winter. The hum of a refrigerator holding food just for me. I carry the versions of myself that had a home, and a nameplate, and a mailbox. I carry the man I was.

And on days when the pain is too much, I carry this voice in my head that whispers:
“Maybe it’s better not to carry you anymore.”

But I do. I carry me.
I carry me through aching feet and strangers’ stares and silence that grows louder every week.
I carry me through being forgotten by algorithms and friends and time.

So if you’re reading this — even silently, without likes or comments — know this:

This is not content.
This is not an act.
This is the sound of someone still carrying himself, alone, across a city that doesn’t want to see him.

I don’t need applause.
But I do need room.

—Rhyan

One Degree Away

The first time I met Helen, she was laughing — not politely, not rehearsed — but deep and sharp, like she’d just remembered something too wicked to keep to herself. It poured out of her like light through a crack. I was halfway through a sentence I can’t recall, my glass tilted just enough to spill, and suddenly nothing in the room was in focus except her.

Her husband, Caleb, introduced us. He said, “This is my wife, Helen,” like he was giving me coordinates to a planet he already owned.

She shook my hand. Warm, brief, efficient. Her eyes lingered maybe a second longer than necessary. That second undid me.


I told myself it would pass. That she was just magnetic in that way some women are — all sparkle and untouchable weight. I’d been around women like her before. Women who seemed too deliberate to be real. But Helen was real in a way that made me ache. There was no irony in her. No armor. Just grace with teeth.

The crush bloomed like mold — quietly, in places I didn’t expect. I started showing up to things I would’ve otherwise skipped. Game nights, dinner parties, birthdays for people I barely knew. If Helen was there, I found a reason to be.

And she always smiled when she saw me. That smile — not flirtatious, not cold — just genuine. The kind of smile you fall into, then blame yourself for drowning in.


Caleb thought I was flirting with him.

Of course he did. It was easy. I wore tight dresses and leaned in when I laughed. I said yes to drinks when I should’ve gone home. I let him think I was interested because he was one degree from her — and when obsession is soft and elegant like Helen, you’ll convince yourself that proximity is better than nothing.


It started in the guest room of their house during a storm. Everyone else was drunk and asleep. Helen had gone to bed early — said she had a migraine, kissed Caleb’s cheek, disappeared down the hall. Caleb stayed. So did I.

There was tension, but not the good kind — not electric, just inevitable. He looked at me like he already knew the ending and was willing to play along.

“You’re not like other women,” he said, and I almost laughed.

I kissed him because he’d kissed her. I slept with him because his skin still smelled faintly of her shampoo.


The affair lasted three months. Long enough to feel like hell, short enough to pretend it wasn’t.

He thought I was wild. He thought I was in love with him. He told me things she never heard, things he said she wouldn’t understand — and I nodded, played therapist, lover, mirror. I let him project fantasies onto me while I conjured hers over him.

Every time I closed my eyes, it was Helen I imagined. Not naked — not even necessarily mine. Just close. Just turning toward me. Just asking.


One night, he found me standing in their master bathroom, running my fingers over the smudged lipstick on the mirror. Hers. Crimson. Slightly off-center. I hadn’t realized I was tracing it until I saw him watching me in the glass.

“You’re obsessed with her,” he said.

I didn’t deny it.

“She doesn’t know you exist that way.”

“I know.”

He stepped forward, tried to touch my shoulder. I pulled away like his fingers were static.

“I don’t want her to know,” I said. “I just want…”

But I didn’t finish. Because what I wanted wasn’t fair. What I wanted didn’t exist. What I wanted was for Helen to look at me the way I looked at her when she wasn’t watching.


The last time Caleb and I slept together, I cried.

Not during — after. Quietly. Faced away from him. He asked if I was okay and I told him yes.

He kissed my back and said, “We could be something, you know.”

And I whispered, “I already am.”


Helen never found out. Or if she did, she never said. She still invites me to parties. Still smiles when she sees me, still brushes her hand against my arm in passing. I haven’t touched Caleb in over a year, but I still see her sometimes — in the street, in bookstores, in dreams I wake up from aching.

She doesn’t know. She never will.

But when I close my eyes, it’s her laugh I remember. Her scent. Her lipstick, off-center on the mirror.

One degree away from heaven still burns like hell.

And some nights… I still settle.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 25: Sacrifice and Sorrow

The Anderson family home was a picture of suburban tranquility, its manicured lawns and white picket fence a testament to the American dream. But as Beverly and her companions approached, they could see that the dream had turned into a nightmare.

Government vehicles surrounded the house, their black, armored hulls gleaming in the sunlight. Agents in tactical gear swarmed the perimeter, their weapons trained on the doors and windows, ready to unleash a hail of bullets at the first sign of resistance.

Beverly felt a surge of panic and rage, her tentacles twitching with the urge to lash out and destroy. But Angele’s voice in her mind held her back, a calming presence amidst the storm of emotions.

“We have to be smart about this,” Angele said, her words a soothing telepathic caress. “We can’t just charge in blindly. We need a plan.”

Joanna nodded, her own tentacles coiling and uncoiling with barely contained tension. “I can create a distraction, draw their fire while you two go in from the back. But we’ll have to move fast. We won’t have much time.”

Beverly took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus through the haze of fear and anger. She knew that her parents were inside, that they were in danger because of her. She had to save them, no matter the cost.

With a final, determined nod, the Octopods split up, Joanna morphing into a monstrous, tentacled beast as she charged towards the front of the house, her roar shaking the ground and shattering windows.

Beverly and Angele raced around the back, their forms shifting and blurring as they moved with preternatural speed and agility. They leapt over fences and walls, their tentacles lashing out to smash through doors and windows, clearing a path into the heart of the house.

Inside, the scene was one of utter chaos. Agents stormed through the rooms, their shouts and commands mingling with the screams and sobs of Beverly’s parents. Furniture was overturned, precious family mementos shattered on the floor, the detritus of a life turned upside down.

Beverly charged forward, her tentacles a blur of motion as she fought her way towards the sound of her parents’ voices. She could feel Angele beside her, the other Octopod’s presence a source of strength and determination in the face of overwhelming odds.

But even as they fought, even as they unleashed the full fury of their alien abilities, Beverly could feel a sense of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. The agents were too many, too heavily armed and trained. They were like ants swarming over a wounded beast, relentless and unstoppable.

And then, in a moment of horrifying clarity, Beverly saw her parents, huddled together in the corner of the living room, their faces pale with fear and shock. She surged towards them, a cry of desperate love and anguish tearing from her throat.

But she was too late. A hail of gunfire erupted, the air filled with the staccato roar of automatic weapons. Beverly watched in helpless horror as her parents jerked and convulsed, their bodies riddled with bullets, their blood splattering the walls and soaking into the carpet.

Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat an eternity of agony and grief. Beverly reached her parents’ side, her tentacles cradling their broken, bleeding bodies, her mind a howl of anguish and rage.

Angele was there, her own tentacles wrapping around Beverly in a desperate, comforting embrace. But even she could not shield Beverly from the full weight of her sorrow, from the crushing realization of what had been lost.

For a moment, the battle seemed to fade away, the shouts and screams and gunfire receding into a distant, meaningless buzz. All that existed was the pain, the gut-wrenching, soul-searing agony of watching the two people she loved most in the world slip away before her eyes.

Beverly wept, her tears mingling with the blood and the ichor, her sobs a primal, wordless expression of the unfathomable depth of her grief. She clung to her parents, willing them to hold on, to fight, to stay with her just a little longer.

But it was too late. Their eyes were already glazing over, their breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. In the end, all Beverly could do was hold them close, to whisper words of love and comfort as they faded away, their lives cut short by the cruel and senseless violence of a world that could never understand.

And as the last breath left her parents’ bodies, as their hearts stilled and their eyes closed for the final time, Beverly felt something break inside her, a fundamental shift in the very fabric of her being.

She had lost everything, had watched her world shatter and crumble into dust. But in that moment of ultimate despair, she also found a new resolve, a grim determination to fight on, to make their sacrifice mean something.

For her parents, for the love they had given her and the lives they had lived, Beverly would keep going. She would find a way to make sense of the chaos and the madness, to forge a new path through the darkness that had engulfed them all.

Even if it meant embracing the alien within her, even if it meant becoming something new and terrifying and wholly unknown. She would do whatever it took to honor their memory, to ensure that their deaths had not been in vain.

And with that knowledge burning in her heart, Beverly rose to her feet, her tentacles still cradling the bodies of her beloved parents. She turned to face the shattered remnants of her old life, ready to confront whatever challenges and horrors lay ahead.

For she was an Octopod now, a being reborn in blood and sorrow and the ashes of all she had once held dear. And she would not rest until the world knew the full measure of her pain, and the terrible, transcendent beauty of what she had become.

Not. The. End.