The last time Frank saw Katie, she was waving from the front seat of a sky-blue convertible. The sun obscured the details of her face, but her silhouette was unmistakable. Her hair in a ponytail rippled like a flag, to which he semi-waved and half saluted. That was ten years ago. Today, he stared at her name in his contacts list, a finger hovering, waiting for instructions to scroll past or tap the call button.

A birthday reminder notification blipped on the phone. Frank didn’t want a reminder, had already hurt for so long. He could have disabled the annual reminder, but he rationalized that he needed an annual reminder to feel anything.

His finger sliding across the glass screen made a sound he hadn’t noticed before, which reminded him how quiet this small cabin by a lake could be. He swiped two more times to hear his finger make contact with the glass and swoosh away the active screen. When he was done, he turned the phone over, reclined his chair raising his feet, one of which revealed a hole at the big toe.

Ronnie put his paws on the leg rest and tugged at the sock, the hole expanded to expose Frank’s toe–the one that needed its yellowing nail clipped. Ronnie licked the toe a few times. The rough texture, dry enough to make Frank laugh any other day, caused him to pull his foot back.

“Knock it off, Ronnie.”

The dog tilted his head, tongue dangling from the side as his breath huffed with a careful understanding. Ronnie walked in a circle on the rug before settling on a position where he lay on his side with a paw under his head.

Frank nudged the socks of both feet. He let them fall from the leg rest and crumple on the floor. The mantel on the fireplace still contained remnants of the past, a small plushie of a seal from an amusement park, a framed photo of the trio as they entered the theme park. It usually looked like a blur without his eyeglasses, but today it was clearer than it ever had been. Katie, holding Olive in one arm and himself with an arm around Katie—a picture-perfect image of a young couple in love; the ocean behind them with the sun rising across the horizon.

A stranger offered to take the photo and said the rising sun would be a metaphor for their rising relationship. Katie was insistent on getting an old painted rendition but relented when a pressing matter stopped all discretionary spending. “Another time,” she contemplated while aligning the photo frame until it was just right.

Everything was fine—until it wasn’t. That was when Olive stopped breathing.

Neither spoke for days after the funeral. Their existence consisted of subtle gestures with the hand, head, and eyes. From serving an extra cup of coffee to being covered by a blanket as they sat in a somber embrace on a sofa that had crumbs and toys between the cushions.

The fourth day, Katie’s sister Erica arrived. Convertible backed into the driveway, as a few boxes and suitcases filled the trunk and backseat. She needed time. He understood—ten years ago. Was it enough time? He wondered.

Frank positioned the recliner back to normal and walked down the hallway, past the bathroom, guest room, to the far end, where a closed door concealed a moment of time, a moment of possibilities, love, and comfort. All that had been torn away from them and the door remained closed ever since.

He placed his fingers around the knob and let them linger. He shifted the ball left and right, just enough to engage the latch, but not enough to open it. Was he ready? He asked himself. He didn’t want to stand there and debate himself so when the latch clicked, he used his toes to open the door enough to let the stale air run through his nostrils. He turned his head. Frank slid his foot further into the room, the door pressed against his toe as he dug in his heel so he couldn’t shut it.

The sun was bright, piercing through the curtains. He had to shield his eyes as the door opened fully, letting go of the knob, and making his way to the center of the room. He surveyed the room, the wall decorations, the furniture, the custom name plate that Katie had painted earlier that day with the letters that make up their daughter’s name.

His arms felt heavy, dragging him to the floor, where he sat with his legs outstretched. Quiet whispers of moments bounced from wall to wall, surrounding him and poking him in the chest. He held his breath, afraid to let the air out of his lungs in case they didn’t fill back. He ran his palm over the carpet and felt the indentation of tiny feet alongside larger ones.

Visual images flashed of the last time he saw Olive and her porcelain face just before the casket closed. The weightless words from everyone who tried to console the two seemed to run through his ears as though a dozen people were in the room. Frank shook off the feeling when the slow jingle of a collar caught his attention.

Ronnie had made his way into the room. A room that he wasn’t allowed to enter since he was a pup. He walked slowly, sniffed the carpet, furniture and a few toys. He returned to Frank and laid his head to rest in Frank’s lap. Frank placed his hand on Ronnie’s head and gave him a gentle rub, feeling the furry flesh crinkle and then smoothen out with each scritch.

Frank reached into his pocket and fished out his phone. He stared long at the contacts list. With a trembling finger, he pressed the green button.

The phone rang,

and rang,

until she answered.

The sun in his eyes, “Hello? Katie?”

STORY

Daniel entered the coordinates on the GPS, and after a few seconds of calculating the distance, the voice from the machine estimated an hour of travel. He thought this would be his usual route through highways, with plenty of places to stop for food, or to use the restroom if needed. He checked his hair in the rear-view mirror and ran his fingers through a loose fringe that tickled his forehead. “His Superman curl,” as he referred to it. In an hour he’d be reunited with childhood friends that he’d known since the kindergarten sandbox. Lifelong friends that let life lead them different ways until someone’s spouse cooked up a surprise fiftieth birthday party.

Five minutes into the drive, the GPS piped through the speakers and gave a directive that promised a more fuel efficient and faster route. Daniel would be able to shave off a few minutes of drive time, which was still enough to debate the probabilities of what to say to the four best friends. Would he open with a joke, a hug, or a handshake fist-bump combo? What if things were awkward, or even worse, what if they had grown apart? He mentally flowcharted different scenarios in the few minutes it took to reach the first detour.

“Hmm, this is new,” he said aloud. He flipped the visor down to shield his eyes from the sunset, squinting as far as he could to see if there was anything on this road of interest.

Nope, just fields.

Might have been rice, wheat, or cotton. He didn’t know. It had been so long since he dealt with farming that he was content with not knowing the details. He checked his rearview mirror, no one behind him. “Heh—why would there be?” he said. The road was paved narrow for two-way traffic, mostly to accommodate farm equipment and navigating from one field to the next.

Daniel glanced at the navigation console. “45 minutes left. Not bad.” He turned up the music and ran the windshield wipers to swipe off the myriad array of bugs splattering on the glass. The night sky settled in when the first turn came. It was a sharp 10 mph turn right and a few hundred feet later a sharp turn left. He flipped on the high beams, but the visibility was narrow and only revealed tall stalks of whatever needed harvesting. As soon as he rounded the corner, there was another tight left and one annoying right.

The navigation showed a U-shaped bend in the road to bypass an irrigation ditch. Once the road straightened out, there was a single bright light in the distance. Perhaps several miles away. It was bright enough to be glaring and irritating. Daniel squinted his eyes.

Something shot across the road, from left to right. His fingers wrapped themselves tight around the steering wheel. “Oh shit, what was that?” He peered towards the passenger side of the car and there was a brown rabbit on the roadside. The ears on the creature were pinned back as it entered the thick tall vegetation.

Suddenly the paved asphalt was replaced with gravel across a narrow dirt road. Single lane. “I hope no one comes from the other direction.” He rolled down windows to see if the road had a shoulder, or anything to pull onto in case of on-coming traffic. There was no respite, it was all irrigation ditches that ran parallel to the road. For a second, he thought it would be an interesting game of chicken, not knowing if he’d be brave enough to gamble going with anything or anyone out here, in the middle of nowhere.

He slowed from 45mph to 25mph as the gravel too dissipated and was replaced with the imprinted tracks of a caterpillar tractor, which set his tires into a frenzied rumble. His seat vibrated with such ferocity that his teeth chattered, his fingers white knuckling the steering wheel as the dark, oppressive fields closed in around him. “Good thing I’m alone... I think.” The light ahead grew in luminescence yet seemed farther away. This made Daniel check the mirrors again. Then he looked at the dash screen and saw that his phone still had a cellular signal. “Okay, at least I’m not in the Twilight Zone.”

Daniel continued driving with the high beams on. It didn’t seem like there were any cars in either direction. He glanced at the car’s gauges to check the air in the tires and to see if there were any check engine warnings. “The last thing I need, in a place like this, is to break down and possibly end up dead before sunrise.”

What would the guys think if I just vanished out here? Would they even care after all these years? The distance between us felt vaster than these empty fields. He shook his head. “Focus on getting out of here.” He slowed down even more as the ridges in the road became intense. His fingers couldn’t pinch and zoom out on the navigation map because of the interruption.

The GPS estimated thirty minutes of travel time left. The tractor tracks on the road faded and asphalt returned a short while thereafter. “Finally,” he said. His fingertips pinched the screen and zoomed out. He could see the thicker line. It was the highway. He’d be there in fifteen minutes, and then another fifteen minutes on civilized roads until arrival.

The curves in the road had come and gone, along with the wildlife and the shadows from damaged buildings or equipment. One thing remained constant: The stinging from the very white and bright light. Except, something was different. The light was no longer retreating. It was moving forward as the car got closer to it.

“It’s probably just some farmer’s floodlight, pointed in the wrong direction,” he said. He lowered the sun visor to see if that would help. It didn’t. Daniel was still squinting to see ahead. The car slowed to twenty mph. He held up his hand across his eyes and used the small gap between fingers to see ahead. The glare was gone. Time to focus on the prize.

The size and intensity of this pure white light was beyond outrunning, Daniel reasoned. He was going to arrive at the source in a minute or two. The inside of the car was lit up, despite the night sky and tinted windows. He felt like he was on stage with a giant spotlight on him. There was a feeling of warmth. He held his fingers up to the air vents and it was blowing cool air. And just like that, it was gone. The car was dark and the cool air from the vents chilled his skin. He stopped the car, checked the rearview mirror. “No way,” he said.

Daniel stepped out of the car to get a better look at the source of the antagonistic light. It was an industrial halogen floodlight mounted on a rusted grain silo... Behind the light was a heavy equipment storage facility. Daniel shook his head in disbelief and returned to his car.

On the horizon, Daniel could see the traffic moving north and south on the highway. Another glance at the GPS info. Three miles to the highway, and twelve minutes to arrival. “Fuck yeah.” His foot pressed the accelerator, until cruise control kicked in. With a final check of the rear-view mirror, Daniel saw his car’s taillights shine red on the last of remaining crop growth. Once on the highway, Daniel set the cruise control and let the taillights lead him into town. The darkness was behind him, but as he rehearsed his opening joke, he realized the real unknown was waiting for him at the party.

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This is a true story from June 2025. The timeline is modified from the second paragraph because this happened after the party—on my way home. The drive to the party was fine, except my anxious thoughts about getting there—those were authentic.

The Story Behind the Story
This story came to be during a writing session with the weekly writing group from Dominican University of California.

The prompt words were Susurration, Murmuration, Realization, Visitation, & Frenzied

I was nostalgic when I took the shortcut onto Hwy 45 instead of taking Hwy 20 to Hwy 99, because I could drive past the field where I took out electricity for an entire region at two in the morning—that’s another story.

I had only taken this road to its end once when I first received my driver’s license. Those were the young-n-dumb days, and I had driven it in the daytime, I didn’t even remember where I’d end up. If you follow Hwy 45, there is no real way to Hwy 99 while heading south bound. Click to go there

There was a period time where I was working at rice processing facility doing twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. \

I had a buddy approach me and offer me a ten-hour night job operating a Caterpillar tractor to disc a field. This tractor had those army tank treads and only operated in third gear. I digress; that’s another story too.

When I checked out the GPS, there was a way I could get to highway 99, but that route would still give me forward momentum without having to backtrack, so I figured, “Why not?” After all I had just left a party where I was feeling young-n-dumb again.

I didn’t count on the sun going down so fast and it being pitch black out there—no moon in the sky that I could see. The first 1/3rd of the drive was reasonable and I got to soak in that nostalgia, but it didn’t last long at all because the sun was gone at the same time the asphalt disappeared and the “Watch for Farm Equipment” warning signs appeared on a dirt road marred with indentations from tractor tracks.

This is where that light was mounted. Click here to go there

Oh, and those tight turns with blind corners where children of the corn might appear? Here is that crazy bend: Click to see the bends up close

In the end, this is the route I should have taken if I wanted to do that detour correctly.
Notice all of the fields. Somewhere in my nighttime panic attack, I took a wrong turn, backtracked, used a private property road to crossover to highway 99 and made my way home.

Well, this was not a fun memory to re-live. It was way crazier at night during a season where the crops weren’t plowed for the next planting cycle. It’s one of those, “You have to have been there,” moments.

Oh, about that party? That was great feeling 18 again and having my body remind me that I am not.

Thanks for taking a trip with me to the peripheral edge.

-Daniel

I’m at the stage in life where “You either piss on the pot or get off” applies more each day. I’ve got queries out there, and I’ve got rejections. That’s the game. But two weeks ago, at the Sacramento Annual Book Festival, something shifted.

I walked past rows of authors sitting behind their tables — books stacked, bookmarks fanned out, QR codes ready to scan. And for the first time, I didn’t just admire them. I pictured myself there. My books. My table. My readers stopping by to see if what I write resonates with them.

I met with four small presses that day. Three of them genuinely liked my pitch and encouraged me to submit. I left with a stack of books, a fistful of business cards, and a kind of cautious optimism.

On Sunday, I researched their submission processes. That’s when reality hit: long backlogs, slow turnarounds, and the possibility that if they did get to my manuscript, it wouldn’t be until September or November based on their submission forms. I’m too impatient for that, and I’m too far along for that.

But those conversations taught me something important — what a small press would actually do with my book once it was in their hands.

First, they’d read it to see if it was a good match. (It is.)
Second, they’d handle editing, cover design, revisions, and the blurb.
Third, they’d move it into distribution: ISBN, Amazon, Ingram Spark, Draft2Digital.
Fourth, they’d push marketing: social media, ARC reviews, author presence, bookstore outreach, library visits, open mics, readings, signings.

And as I listened to all of that, I realized something simple and obvious:

I can do those things myself.

Not because I’m trying to be a one‑person publishing empire, but because I’m already doing the work. I’ve already built the skills. And I’m tired of waiting for someone else’s timeline to validate my momentum. Of course, not everyone is in my position, but what I found was that outside of time and patience, it is genuinely possible for someone to follow along and not only self‑publish but also become a small press and curate your own aesthetic or brand of stories from like‑minded storytellers.

This idea didn’t happen overnight, and I did not want to self‑publish, lest my ego get the best of me and I start believing my own hype.

I was curious about what it would take and whether there would be efficiencies discovered along the way. I did have four titles I wanted out there, and I was not going to wait on someone else’s approval or schedule.

I came into this knowing one thing: Don’t get sucked into the Amazon ecosystem. What did that mean? I read similar things online, and the reasons were plenty depending on what matters most to you personally. Me? I wanted eBooks everywhere and physical copies everywhere — this is my ego.

So, who are the players in those spaces?

IngramSpark — Global reach, libraries, major retailers (online and offline), small bookshops, and print‑to‑order. I should note that IngramSpark leaves little margin for independent bookshops, so consignment (where you buy copies at your author price and split the retail profits at a percentage) is financially beneficial to both parties. Although, you could also get the same deal with Amazon Author Copies depending on the price difference and delivery time.

Draft2Digital — The eBook distribution behemoth. Their physical books are powered by IngramSpark with limited options, so while you could do physical copies, you are limited in the level of control you have versus using one for physical and D2D for digital.

Kindle Direct Publishing — The last item on the list for physical and digital copies within the Amazon ecosystem. There is also KDP Select, which locks you into an exclusive agreement for 60 days, where you cannot sell your eBooks anywhere else. The benefit is that you get a larger share of the pie because it is coming from a pooled amount. The negative aspect is that you cannot sell any digital copies anywhere else — not even your own website. I’m not messing with Amazon attorneys.

There is a prerequisite decision to make before you get to this stage: the ISBN number. Yes, there are free ISBNs provided by Draft2Digital, IngramSpark, and Amazon (ASIN for Kindle eBooks).

Here’s the deciding factor: Do you want to own your books?

Let me reframe that: Do you want full control over the rights, metadata, and imprint associated with your books?

If you don’t purchase your own ISBN, then the distributor becomes the publisher of record, and your book is published under their imprint—not yours. You still own your copyright, but you do not control the publishing identity of the book. It’s similar to being a contractor who wrote a book for the company whose imprint appears on the ISBN.

Disclaimer: I’m not a lawyer.

It just so happens that my publishing company also publishes my books along with anthologies, once I create an open call for submissions. It’s going to be cool assembling a team of editors, readers, and staff. I digress.

Copyright. Can’t forget copyright. I used to think just writing “copyright YYYY” was good enough — and it is — sort of. If you want to be able to pursue legal pathways to protect from infringement, it’s best to register an official copyright, which I did through the U.S. Copyright Office.

When you decide to grab your own ISBN, whether you self‑publish or choose to publish under someone else’s imprint, it changes how you move forward. If you use someone else’s imprint, you’re splitting royalties, and hopefully the split is favorable. For me, it means my publishing company owns the rights to my book, and I get a decent cut and flexibility with what I can do with my work with respect to rights. More on this later.

I chose to purchase 10 ISBN numbers from Bowker. One title can have these attributes: eBook, paperback, hardcover, and audiobook. Depending on what mediums you want to make available to your readers, you could get away with as little as one ISBN, but you only control that specific medium, not the others, with the free ISBN from Amazon, Ingram, or D2D.

The math for my use case is eBook, paperback, and audiobook, so 3 formats × two books = 6 ISBN numbers. I haven’t decided whether the audiobook is something I’ll do or if I’ll roll it into a podcast. At the moment, only 8 ISBNs are in use (4 titles in eBook and paperback format).

At this stage, each title should be assigned to an ISBN number, because we’ll need that when we list our books on the three different platforms.

Before you hit the distribution platforms, you should have a front cover for the eBooks and the front, spine, and back cover (one image/PDF) for paperback and hardcover. If you have a designer — cool. If not, Canva worked decently, but I ended up using Affinity V3 because I was already an owner of V2. The hardest part of uploading the cover specifications from Ingram and Amazon was that Canva messed up the resolution with every upload. With any other graphic editing program, it was fine. So, the lesson here is to use the PDF templates or PSD file with a solid editor. The rest was easy, including the export: CMYK PDF PRINT READY.

You’ll need .jpg formats of the front cover and either .png or .jpg for the whole cover, as well as the exported .pdf of the whole cover. Each platform uses different formats/standards.

I used Atticus for the book matter formatting. One key thing to remember is pinning certain pages on the right side (title, dedication, preface, ToC, chapters, etc.) and pinning the copyright on the left side. This will mean there are blank pages on the left, but no matter — consistency and adherence to the book standard that readers expect is important. Because Atticus is web‑only, I’ve had some issues when using the PWA on my desktop and getting sync issues when connected to the web. I did download a desktop app from another company, but I don’t want to be tied to Windows, since I’m in a Linux environment most of my day.

Two things to upload: the inside matter (text) and the covers. Then you wait. And wait.

Draft2Digital has a one‑page site for each title that can contain all of the links to all of the stores in all available formats via Books2Read.com. Here is my author profile, which contains links to two of four books out now. I like this feature because I can’t be bothered to keep inventory of URLs.

Don’t forget to order your printed proofs from Amazon and IngramSpark.

Once you have some storefront presence, it’s time to get those ARC reviews posted to them. You’ll need the URLs from Books2Read for your reviewers. I’m using BookSirens because they’re legit and have an ecosystem of people who like to review in specific genres. Plus, they’re vetted, and you can choose to filter some out by a number of criteria.

Then you wait. Unless you have a built‑in base of readers or followers, your book will be invisible until you get some credible reviews to support the friends‑and‑family purchases and get those sites to rank you higher. There are also newsletter list swaps and group promotions you can be a part of.

This has been a high‑level overview of how I stumbled into the publishing business.
Next time, I’ll go into details — costs, time, effort, etc.

Send me questions on what you’d like to know or comment if there is something I overlooked.

Thanks for taking a walk with me to the peripheral edge.

—Daniel

STORY

Gray.

Everywhere.

Luka reached for Ophelia’s arm and pulled her inside the shadow of the cave, “They’ll see you.” He placed his free hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming and making any other sounds. She winced and nodded as the two stepped backwards into the shadows.

The drone flew overhead with a scanner surveying the land. Its gray body and blades made it nearly invisible against an overcast sky. It hovered over a small brush with reddish brown leaves and released a light mist of spray that hissed like a snake and drifted down to change the color, just as it had done to the others–all gray–everywhere. The smell of the paint residue caused the remaining wildlife to scatter from its pungent ammonia and skunk blend.

The two poked their heads out until a little bit of the fading sunlight cast a glow upon their faces. Ophelia tucked loose strands of her black hair into the covering of the gray hoodie, though it couldn’t hide her hazel eyes, but that was permissible for those born without the resequencing shot. Luka pulled his long sleeve down to his wrist, covering the colorful artwork that consisted of vibrant red, yellow, green and blue gathered from plants that the drones couldn’t reach. His light blonde hair is decorated in swirls of the same colors, now concealed by his gray hoodie.

The non-sequenced–or Nonnies as they were called, were the last of their kind–last of the dreamers, lovers, thinkers and the curious who persisted with questions. They were an aberration of the new reformation–the one after the first apocalypse of 2032.

The new inhabitants of the reformation were gray in all areas that could be genetically and cosmetically modified. They were the selectively bred inheritors of a new world with hopes to avoid the follies of their predecessors.

***

Copernicus stood in front of the large window in the lone tower overlooking a city that still smoldered from post-war fallout. Black swaths of smoke contrasted the grey rubble. To his right was an encampment, the third of its kind, where the sequenced (Seeqers) toiled at their respective tasks.

“Are you pleased, Copernicus? Production is steady and all are in compliance,” said a feeble gray-haired man. “The Seeqers are performing as expected, some even better,” he continued.

Copernicus, hands clasped behind his back turned to the man and looked down to meet his eyes, “New America has been quiet since the enforcement of Nonnie containment zones. This level of perfection has me uneasy with the sense that the Nonnies are up to something.”

“I don’t understand. There aren’t many left to be a threat to your new world. Shall we send in the drones and eradicate the rest?” He wrung his hands in anticipation.

“Not yet. They’re scattered too far apart to waste our limited resources. Instead, we wait, we watch until they make their move. They won’t come in small groups—they know they don’t stand a chance. No, we wait until they come at us with what remains of their combined yet dwindling forces—then we crush them and continue our expansion.”

***

Luka and Ophelia emerged from the cave as the drone’s silhouette grew smaller and its buzzing blades could no longer be heard. The pair made their way along a riverbank, occasionally stumbling from the oversized gray shoes and pants the elders had confiscated from fallen Seeqer soldiers.

Dwindling supplies necessitated small bands of rebels to acquire medicinal compounds but the recent change in physiology of the resynchronized meant that they were no longer susceptible to Nonnie ailments, which meant supplies were scarce and the excursions became riskier the farther the party had to venture into the protected area.

They arrived at a clearing and observed a few deer in a pasture. The brown and white of their fur was a pleasant contrast to the natural greenery that remained out of the drones’ range. If one had made it out this far, their nozzles would be clogged from the concoction they were tasked to spray.

A doe with large black eyes caught sight of Ophelia and stood at attention, with only the occasional twitch of its tail. Another dog came and did the same.

Luka stood behind her and gently tapped her on the shoulder, “Be as still as you can and they might come closer.”

Ophelia gave a slight nod and a muffled “mmm hmm.”

The animals’ ears twitched and they tightened their haunches. In no time, they began to run away from Luka and Ophelia. The two looked at each other to see who was to blame for causing the deer to scamper away.

They heard a familiar buzz and a drone appeared behind them as it rose into the sky from the horizon. The two looked back and then at each other. “Run!” Luka shouted. They took off as fast as they could. If only their feet fit the shoes instead of tripping them up, they would have gotten away.

The drone wooshed over them and soon was directly in front of them, scanning their gray covered bodies. They stood there, panting, hands on their knees, trying to catch their breath. The scanner warbled as the beam scanned from twice from top to bottom. Luka stood upright and saluted the drone, while tugging Ophelias’ sleeve so she’d do the same.

The drone came close, then closer, fixated on Luka’s right arm. Luka followed the path of the beam and saw that his sleeve had rolled up while running and the bright red tail of a fox was peeking out from his right sweatshirt cuff.

Ophelia noticed too. “Luka, do something,” she murmured through her clenched teeth.

Luka stood as still as he could and with a single motion jerked his arm down, causing the sleeve to lower and cover his arm once more.

The beam from the drone disappeared and it beep-booped twice as its blades spun faster and lifted it into the sky to continue its patrol.

“So glad these outfits worked,” said Luka, exhaling as he gave his heart a moment to slow down and stop pounding against his ribs. He held his ribs for a while before checking on Ophelia, “You okay?”

She nodded with watery eyes while remaining careful not to let teardrops fall.

***

Copernicus walked the long corridors with authority as his many assistants took notes on which tasks he delegated to whom. They would disappear as fast as others would reappear.

“Sir, do you feel that perhaps you are doing too much? You should take time…”

“Time, Julius? Every moment that we delay rebuilding our society from the ashes, we remain beholden to those who would disrupt our quest for a perfect society. I will eradicate the Nonnies when an opportunity presents itself. We will not capitulate to their demands the way generations of our forefathers had done. Nonnies are nearly extinct and we will not let them infect our Seeqers with their mediocrity, apathy, and individualized contamination.”

“Yes, of course, Copernicus. I should have known better than to concern myself with your wellbeing.” Julius slowed as the two rounded the corridor. Julius waved his hand across a muted white beam of lasers that criss-crossed the entrance. His open palm lingered while the beam bounced off his ring and onto a panel with a small hole. Once the light entered, the beams disengaged long enough for them to pass through, allowing them secure passage.

A roomful of fourteen counselors gave Copernicus a nod of affirmation. He acknowledged them with a terse nod, then launched into the meeting. “Council, status report.”

Moving clockwise starting from his left, the first counselor spoke, “Sector one has reached 92% compliance. The water filtration system is working well in its second week; I have brought the blueprints to be distributed to all council members so their sectors can have clean water as well.”

Copernicus nodded his head and each counselor continued down the line until they reached sector 5. The council member hesitated, “Sector 5 quelled an uprising attempt. Our medical supplies are exhausted; thankfully we’ve had no need for them since everyone in the encampment is confirmed Seeqers.”

The council report from sector eight caused murmurs amongst the attendees, “Sir, rumors have it that the Nonnies have a wave of SARS-BaV2. Drones have spotted mass burial grounds. It is estimated that Sector 8’s death toll is high.”

Copernicus raised an eyebrow, “Very good. I want the color removed from the burial site. Send the paint drone, lest the rebel Nonnie survivors get any ideas.”

***

Luka and Ophelia had made their way to a chained area. Ophelia had led the way, taking a handful of dirt and tossing it in the air ahead of them to check for any sensors, while Luka stomped the fresh dirt behind to avoid a trail of color. Ophelia pressed her cheek to the rough cold fence and saw one guard at a post in front of the area they needed to get to. She used two fingers and a motion of the hand to signal Luka to the security gate and remained hidden until she signaled it was clear.

Luka crouched and took short heel-toe movements, remaining as quiet as possible. Ophelia headed in the opposite direction, where she was able to army crawl under a section of damaged fencing. Once she was in the compound, she made her way to a building and stood with her back against the wall, adjusting the string on the hoodie and remaining along the shadowed eaves.

There were an abnormal amount of Seeqers out and about with their colorless garments and physical bodies covered in gray from top to bottom. Two of them were having a conversation nearby that Ophelia overheard. Their conversation was devoid of emotion or original thought. It was as if they were speaking from a technical manual—it sounded cold and clinical.

Ophelia looked for any signs on whether they were scientists or doctors of sorts. The Nonnies did not speak like them. The Nonnies would listen, pause to ponder, and consider many responses before allowing sounds to leave their mouths. Seeqers spoke in a rhythmic manner, like a tennis ball being hit from one racquet to the next. Their outfits revealed no clue about their profession. She only knew that hearing them speak was disturbing enough for her to move to another location.

She had managed to get closer to the entrance by moving past three buildings without anyone acknowledging or suspecting a thing. She did her best to avoid eye contact by shifting her attention as if she was looking for someone in the crowd. This gave her the cover of making eye contact while having permission to not engage in conversation if she was perceived to be searching for someone.

She could see the security gate. The guard standing still, only moving his head left and right. Ophelia felt that it may have been a revised android, a remnant of the final war.She approached with caution, including herself in a group of seeqers where were passing through the checkpoint. Her task was to get into the supply room, grab a handful of anything she could find and quickly make her way out of the compound from the way she came while Luka causes a distraction.

Seeqers moved quickly with them being the product of resequencing. They could converge on a position within seconds with their running speed. They were physical specimens in this level of human evolution. Ophelia knew this. That’s why she shifted her weight onto her tiptoes and made her way into the building and headed straight to the supply location.

***

Luka remained concealed within a gray shrub, watching the gate and the mechanized guard who swiveled his head from one end of the compound to the other like clockwork. He yawned, suppressing any noise that would normally come out. He also kept an eye out towards the checkpoint that Ophelia would be at once she secured the supplies.

To his left was a group of Seeqers that moved like they were operating by the instructions of a microcomputer. Luka knew that was impossible because the Apocalypse had wiped out circuitry and knowledge had vanished along with the digitized codes and the experts who curated them. He reached into his pocket and gripped the small explosive device, checking the fuse as he waited for Ophelia’s signal.

***

Ophelia adjusted her hoodie and pulled her sleeves past her wrist until her fingertips were concealed. She paced herself to move with the crowd because her adrenaline would have made her walk very fast if she didn’t. The Seeqers moved in a flow where one group can walk east to west while another walks north to south and they’d cross paths without a risk of running into one another–it was an uncanny synchronicity that was likely pushed upon them as a lesson on uniformity and discipline. She had heard stories from the elders about this.

She arrived at the entrance of the building. She entered by blending in with a large group of seeqers that wouldn’t notice when she’d joined or left. The Seeqers crossed paths in a tight, uncanny synchronicity that allowed different groups to pass through each other without collision, a result of their relentless conditioning in uniformity. Ophelia abandoned them as soon as they were near the supply room, by sidestepping into the hallway, and turning a corner with the supply room ahead of her.

The room was empty with good reason, since the Seeqers were free from known ailments. She retrieved a small pouch from her waist pocket and turned the handle on some of the cabinets, ones she knew to contain remedies from her previous stealth visits. Some of the pill containers rattled and the syrups sloshed while tiny packets crinkled from stale packaging. With her pouch full, Ophelia made her way out.

***

Luka’s neck began to cramp from the positioning of his body facing the guard while having to crane his head to the checkpoint. His palms were getting sweaty, it seemed like Ophelia was taking longer than usual to reach the checkpoint. He was slowly shifting his feet so they wouldn’t go to sleep while he was hunched over inside the brush. It seemed like minutes, but a gray figure the size of Ophelia flashed a hand signal and Luka was ready to leap out of the brush and cause a distraction, until he saw Ophelia was not alone.

***

After flashing Luka their signal, Ophelia took a few steps towards the exit when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

It was a Seeqer. But how? She wondered. Was it the rattle of the pills or the crinkle of the wrapper? Maybe her odd gait with shoes too large for her to be assigned, She had to think fast. If she ran, they’d swarm.

Ophelia closed her eyes and turned. “Yes?” she asked.

“The area is restricted. Are you authorized…”

“Are you authorized?” she interrupted.

The Seeqer paused for a moment, as if caught off guard by the sudden retort, unable to finish its own automatic script.

“No,” the Seeqer responded.

Ophelia parroted the initial phase, “This area is restricted. Are you authorized to be here?”

Silent rumination.

“Then move along.” she commanded.

The Seeqer let go of her shoulder, turned around and walked away, unsure why..

Ophelia leaned with her back against the fence and took a deep breath. “That was close.” She adjusted her sweatshirt and tied her shoelaces tighter. As she turned to head towards the exit, two Seeqers were approaching with large strides.

She had to run now.

As she turned to plant her foot, she had arms wrapped around her. Her legs began to flail as she was lifted off the ground, her arms pinned at her sides in a bear hug from behind. Ophelia wiggled her body like a fish caught on a hook, to no avail. She shouted, “Luka.” as the Seeqer squeezed tight enough to limit her inhalation. Her vision was narrow and black.

***

Luka shot out of the foliage like a lizard changing its hiding place. He ran past obtrusive branches that bounced off his forearm as he covered his face. He hopped and leaped over various sizes of rocks as he made his way to the fence where the two Seeqers held Ophelia.

“Hey, Hey You!” Luka shouted at them as he tugged at the fence. He shook it back and forth hoping to cause it to fail in some way, but it was too late. The Seeqers were converging, seemingly in multiples of five, all droning with low frequency drawl. “Buhhh.”

Ophelia screamed once more, kicking in any direction, hoping to land her foot on anything.

Nothing landed, she started fading from the exertion.

Close to thirty Seeqers were closing in on the inside of the fence and another twenty were surrounding Luka on the outside. He kept shaking the fence, his sweatshirt sleeves billowing and his hoodie strings slapping against his body.

“Let her go, you lab rats!” He screamed just as he was lifted off the ground with a Seeqer’s arms wrapped around his ribs.

With his arms still free, he began to ram his elbows backwards onto his captor’s body. The motions caused his loose sleeves to ride up and his hoodie to slide off of his head. At that moment, everything stopped.

Ophelia and Luka were dropped to the ground as the Seeqers recoiled in horror. Their gray eyes fixated on the colors in his hair and arms

She tossed the pouch over the fence and climbed. Luka backed into the fence, letting her feet rest on his shoulders.

“Run!” she shouted.

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🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This piece lays the foundation for Scar City (a play on scarcity), which is my spin on A Brave New World and a shift in POV. We are viewing the world through Authoritarians, the brainwashed, and the dying rebels. It is the path to utopia, not without sacrifice and a reset.

The Story Behind the Story
I’ve been tooling around with the idea of an ideal society. Going back to the first known societies, there had to have been someone willing to have a vision, enact that vision and enforce that vision. Think Sumerian, Mesopotamia, Egypt, to the modern-day authoritarians.

Those leaders had to crack down on dissent. Which leads me to the underlying premise of Orwell’s1984” and Huxley’s “A Brave New World.” These stories explain the downstream effects on exertion of control. We were brought into the story at the midpoint of the new world order, and we were not privy to its completion. I intend to explore that conclusion. How the in-story universe responds, accepts/rejects the ideals of one man’s vision of the future.

The story starts off with the first two lines: Gray. Everywhere. That sets the tone.

Then we’re introduced to Ophelia and Luka who emerge in a GATTACA run amok world, where genes are re-sequenced to craft the best version of a person. These are called Seeqers (maintaining its origin to sequencing) and the non-sequenced (Nonnies) who are essentially us—non modified humans.

The cross-genre intent is writing a socio-political dystopic thriller. Since they don’t have that intricate level of curation, this story will reside in the thriller category.

That said, the structure here is short scenes, quick punchy sentences, plenty of transitions from the main characters from each scene to the next and a pacing that has ebbs and flows of tension, drama, reflection, and repeat until the end.

Here is secret #1: If you look at the last few lines of each scene, the last sentence is where I ran into a wall. Rather than fight it and lose momentum, I accepted it and switch to another scene as needed. The in-world time was still ticking, which meant that whichever character I abandoned is inferred to carry on and have figured things out by the time I return to them later.

While it is easier for me to write all portions of one character’s parts all at once for a title like “The Void Protocol: A Serial Killer’s Guide to Stain Removal and other Life Hacks” (now available in paperback [979-8-9959202-1-2] and e-book [979-8-9959202-0-5]), I like the freshness of what one character could reveal about the others, so playing musical chairs this way keeps the story dynamic for me.

Here is secret #2: This is the few stories that I can think of that doesn’t incorporate any of “me” inside. No past traumas, no grief, gloom, or whatever. I’m pulling this out of my head from world events, history, and a dash of imagination.

I imagine Luka and Ophelia to be teens or pre-teens, but not adolescent. This shielding maintains some level of innocence about a dire world and their eventual demise which gives them hope to preserver, whereas others might give up after seeing the futility of getting to live another day. I’d probably just take the shot and get resynched—my flesh is weak; I’d go for a quicker death or jumping ship.

Copernicus and Julian are two characters that I really want to explore. The story has Copernicus as the protagonist. His story is about what absolute systems thinking becomes when one becomes an adherent to its rules and endgame. A key example of this is during the sector reports, where the bodies of the Nonnies are buried, Copernicus is only concerned with the logistical friction that the uncovered dirt will cause if it’s not gray like its surroundings.

Copernicus is all “mission-first,” similar to the way Thanos was, a tragic figure trying to avoid the mistakes of the past. The challenge for me will be to shift the perspective to an over-the-shoulder look at the world through Copernicus’s eyes. In one sense, I can have him do everything opposite of what I believe and call it a day, but I want him to be a complex person that we root for, while realizing what we’re rooting for him as he continues towards his goal.

I’m not sure how much of the Nonnies I’ll feature, because I’m looking forward to writing about how the Seeqers view the Nonnies. I want to get into the head of one of them and see what their reactions are to seeing color and having the carefully curated world of Copernicus show cracks. Think—-The Truman Show, I’ve written the facade, now the true story begins.

As far as craft goes, the revision process for this piece was to ensure there was enough of the different senses spread across relevant areas. As I read this finished version, there’s always room to show more, but that would kill the pacing for this piece. Thrillers are meant to move fast, like looking out of a subway or train window, there’s enough information to appreciate where you’re at, but not enough details to linger.

Thanks for joining me once again at the peripheral edge.

See you next time.
—Daniel

STORY

Claire Marsden turned the doorknob to a cabin she hadn’t visited since her best friend vanished in the autumn of 2019.

The door creaked open with a forceful nudge, after she pressed her shoulder against the weathered wooden door knocker. A deluge of stale air filled her nostrils and she gagged. She left her muddy shoes on the porch, stepping softly onto the ragged carpet fiber.

Tiny claws of rodents could be heard scattering, and it only intensified as the echoes of their exit replaced the silence. The front door allowed a welcomed surge of forest fresh air, as it coursed its way through each room, tapping on every window, searching for a way out, or perhaps a way to let the rest of the outdoor air in.

She didn’t bother closing the door behind her. The rays of the sun that beamed in over her shoulder allowed the tiny flecks of dust in the air to sparkle, similar to the way that fireflies would light up the night sky during a campfire of s’mores and a cup of hot chocolate.

Claire stretched her arms wide and when she felt enough of her upper back relax, she reached behind and gently slid the backpack off her shoulders and placed it on the cushion of a gray leather sofa.

She remembered that it used to be a red sofa. She hovered with an outstretched index finger, inches above the once familiar cushion, and scrawled out the letter “C” which confirmed her initial thought. It was red leather all along. Dust coated every surface, leaving the cabin frozen in time. The profound stillness of the space since Martha’s disappearance weighed heavily on her. Claire’s heart wrenched at the thought of hearing the sirens and the background chatter of investigators as they combed through anything within reach, in a quest for answers.

Claire shook her head with a quick burst to clear her thoughts and center herself. She decided to head into the kitchen. There was no power, yet she toggled the on/off switch a few times anyway. The high-backed dining chairs were in place, tucked snug against the square dining table. The bowl of faux fruit that remained as a conversational centerpiece was now ashen, draped in the layers of dust.

There was a window above the kitchen sink. The navy-blue curtains had faded to a light powdered blue from the comings and goings of the sun. She stood by the sink, leaning across the countertop to slide the window coverings open. Bits of curtain crumbled between her thumb and forefinger, but she still managed to spread them apart wide enough to view the lake off in the distance.

It remained as she remembered it, shimmering ripples from the wind escaping the confines of the trees that surrounded the area, as it caressed the still water, assertive enough to cause motion, but gentle enough to maintain surface tension. Claire closed her eyes, and a vortex of fragmented memories, Martha’s tear-streaked face, the flash of a searchlight swirled behind her eyelids. Her stomach churned as faces from the past rushed in a disorderly parade that caused her to wince.

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story was written during a weekly writing session at Dominican University of California’s MFA program. The prompts for the story were: Complicated, Wrench, Vortex, Severe

The Story Behind the Story
This situation is something I imagine would happen to someone who had a childhood spent at their parent’s vacation cabin in Lake Tahoe.

Internally, I was still revisiting the memory of going to clean out my parents’ house (my childhood home) after they passed. There were a stillness and stagnant air that was unsettling. My rational mind told me it was because the windows were closed and the AC hadn’t been running to circulate the air. Even though I grew up there, I had this urge to wrap things up as quick as possible and get the hell out of there.

The good thing? They didn’t have critters skittering about. I put that in to give Claire something physical beside the memory to add to her torment.

The bit about dust on the sofa layered on… It occurred to me at this very moment that there has been no one present for that much dust to accumulate—unless there’s a draft from an unsealed door/window during a wind or dust storm. This is what I noticed about my parent’s house—there wasn’t any accumulation of dust from the last time I was there several months back. Let’s just say Claire’s cabin had a draft.

I interspersed memory to slow down the pace.

One thing you’ll notice is that she clicked the switch on and off a few times when she entered the kitchen. If you’ve ever been derailed by something unexpected, you’ll know that it takes a bit to get clarity. She knew the power was out, yet she clicked anyway. I thought it was a nice touch to show her mental state and how she processes information as it is thrown at her.

The window scene is a fantasy of mine. I’m reminded of those episodes of Little House on the Prairie where there was a window at the kitchen sink and whoever is looking outside gets a smile based on whatever is outside. If there’s a scene where a character needs to recenter themselves, you’ll be able to spot my self-indulgence and know that that scene is for me, to give me a bit of hope for the character as they’re awash in some form of misery.

I think this story ended on a downbeat because there’s an inference that whatever happened to her best friend Martha, happened at that lake. That’s why it ends on her recalling the sirens. The name Martha was from that Batman v Superman joke that their mothers had the same name—Martha.

That’s the story behind the story.

Thanks for being with me at the peripheral edge.

-Daniel

Read about them below

The Peripheral

Release: May 2026 | Genre: Psychological Thriller

After a flash burn on the job, welder named Jake begins seeing shadows flicker at the edges of his vision. At first, he blames the injury, until the shadows reach for him. What follows afterward forces Jake to confront a buried secret he’s spent years trying to conceal.

The Void Protocol

Release: June 2026 | Genre: Psychological Crime Thriller

Investigative journalist Paul Chandranand, still haunted by the success of The Wolcott Murders, is ordered back to the ADMAX facility to face serial killer Jasper Wolcott once more. Armed with Detective Thorne’s case notes, Paul retraces all 37 murders, documenting each crime scene as Jasper reveals the methods behind his madness. What emerges is a meta‑narrative—A Serial Killer’s Guide to Stain Removal and Other Life Hacks—that pulls Paul into a psychological unraveling he never saw coming.

The Chaos Particle

Release: August 2026 | Genre: Metaphysical Psychological Thriller

Disgraced detective turned private investigator Heath Miller is working a routine cheating‑spouse case when he finds his mark comatose in a park, seated upright in the lotus pose. His curiosity deepens as more meditators are discovered as hollow husks, leading him to the only survivor—Vikram Kamalpan—whose incoherent ramblings offer no answers. Desperate, Miller tries meditation himself and encounters Sean Gladstone, a man using the minds of others to reach the Chaos Particle in a misguided attempt to rewrite his past. Three men are set on a collision course that will expose the truth binding them together.

The Scar City

Release: November 2026 | Genre: Dystopian Psychological Thriller

After a global catastrophe, Copernicus Graves, one of seven leaders rebuilding their fractured nations, sets out to resurrect a unified America built on order, uniformity, and a collective purpose. His vision falters when a rebel faction challenges his doctrine, insisting on individuality over compliance. As tensions escalate across the quadrants, Graves must confront the cost of enforcing utopia on a world that no longer agrees on what it means to be human.

There you have it. If these resonate with you, check out the short stories and flash fiction for free on my Substack and stay tuned for more details on the titles above by subscribing to my newsletter. No spam, no giving away your personal information—just you, me and the stuff I write.

Thanks for reading.

-Daniel

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STORY

Commander Nick Schmitz radioed moon base V, “Zenith IV to moon base V, do you copy?”

“Moon base V, copy Zenith IV, go ahead.”

“Be advised, your platinum delivery plus subscription expires end-of-week. Recommend renewal to maintain two-day supply chain integrity.”

No response from the moon base.

“Spicer, they get the message?”

“Roger that commander, comms show message received.”

Pilot Rob Spicer toggled a switch that brought up a chat-like interface, complete with speech bubbles with a status indicator.

“Copy that. They’ll come around. ETA on re-entry?”

The curvature of the Earth had a white halo, as if someone took LED mood lighting and placed it on the backside of the decorative blue sphere.

Rob checked the data from his HUD in the upper right corner. “Almost time to turn on that ‘Fasten your seatbelt’ sign.”

Commander Schmitz nodded and secured himself to the contoured chair—a cocoon-like design with an oval opening, almost enclosing most of his body.Video screens were placed eye-level, displaying the key areas of the capsule if the need to eject should arise.

The capsule made its way closer to the Earth; patches of land mass were now beginning to sprout details such as topographic mountain ranges and terrain. Spicer kept his hands steady at the controls and called out some coordinates to the on-board assistant. He took a deep breath, “View never gets old, huh Commander?”

“Never has, never will.” Commander Schmitz moved his head side to side, getting his neck to pop in key areas. He placed his finger on the comms button and menu options appeared on the small screen to the left of him. He selected the first option. Mission Control.

“Mission Control, you copy?” He asked.

“Roger that Zenith IV.”

“I’ve spotted an anomaly on a continental land mass.”

“Come again, Zenith IV?”

“I’ve spotted a large object over what should be Nebraska, over.”

Engineers and control operators shifted to high alert and began to pull up data streams and live video footage. Scanning for signs that would corroborate what Commander Schmitz was relaying.

“Control to Zenith IV, Control to Zenith IV, do you copy?”

“Roger that.”

“Can you provide additional information?”

“That’s an affirmative, control. It’s big, over,” he said. “Upon further inspection, it appears the anomaly was your momma. Over.”

Pilot Spicer blew spittle in his helmet in a failed attempt to contain his laughter. His fist peeked out from his cocoon shell and met with the Commander’s. “Got em Commander, good one, Sir.”

On the ground hundreds of staff shook their heads in disbelief while operator Maritz put down his coffee cup, leaned forward with both hands on the console screen barrier. The red light in the control room went from a flashing red to yellow and settled on green. “Get me eyes on the crew.” He said to a subordinate.

The large screen switched from an overhead view of the upper American states to the faces of Commander Schmitz and pilot Spicer. He adjusted the foam microphone on his lapel.

“Control to Zenith IV, please be advised I may have left my toothbrush at your domicile and your wife says ‘hello.’” He released the button and turned towards the control operations staff, “Alright, let’s get these two home.”

The capsule continued its descent. The system checks came back negative and everything was “go” for LEO entry. The two astronauts reviewed a checklist and spent an extra moment on the section about radiation.

The commander noticed a break in the conversational rhythm. “Everything okay Spicer?”

The pilot responded two seconds later, “It’s nothing Commander, except we’ve done this 147 times and never had any dealings with radiation. They should really update the procedures.”

“Affirmative, and duly noted.” The commander said.

After a few additional checks, the crew were about to enter LEO.

“Zenith IV, You’re go for LEO. I repeat, You’re a go for LEO.”

“Roger that, Control. Making our descent.” The commander said.

Spicer pressed a button and buffer panels moved to cover the view ports. The process took 20 seconds. The synchrony of the panels ensured that the capsule remained stable, but something happened that moment.

The capsule creaked and a large pop was heard. The two crew were jostled in their seated cocoons.

“What the…?” Commander Schmitz toggled through the camera displays mounted outside to monitor the capsule. He flipped through several areas, and then made two clicks back. “Uh-oh.”

“Commander, you see something?”

“Affirmative. We just had a panel fly off and burn in the atmosphere.”

“Protocol R34G?”

“Roger that. Switch to full pod mode.”

The two used their thumb to flip open a safety lock and expose a red button. With a firm press, their shelled seats were now a sealed cocoon, ready for blast protection and rapid ejection.

“Spicer, tell me something good.”

“Integrity checks—green for go.”

“Green? Far from it. Running additional integrity checks.” The commander moved a rollerball control pad under his left palm, navigating through the various messages of the capsule’s status.

“Anything sir?”

“Hold her steady. We lost panel RT852, Things are about to get toasty.” The commander pressed the comms button, “Zenith IV to Control, Zenith IV to Control, we have a situation, over.”

The capsule screeched like a can inside a hydraulic press. The pair were being spun as reports of a rudder lit up their screen, and soon more alerts appeared until it looked like a Christmas tree in their pods.

Pilot Spicer punched some codes on a console near his right knee. “Commander, Popcorn primed and on standby.”

More parts began to strain and the temperature inside the capsule was rising fast.

***

There was a professional panic at ground control where every member did their best to monitor, analyze, report, and continue as they were trained but the training didn’t cover the adrenaline rush that comes from suppressing panic—especially when the mission command gets a phone call from Washington D.C.

“Yes, I understand Sir. We are doing everything in our power… Yes—Yes sir.” His voice wavered and his hands shook. The lights in the control center matched the interior of the capsule—a twinkling of reds, orange, yellow, and even flashes of silver tinsel like material painted all surfaces that was available.

Murmurs grew louder as tensions rose. People went from whispering into their microphones to audible sounds of helplessness “I don’t know,” cropped up across random seats within rows of staff as they watched things unfold just as the rest of the world does.

“Cut the public feed. NOW!” The shouting silenced the murmurs and several seconds of silence spread through the control room. Public signals and streams went dark and every phone began to ring.

***

“Pop corn, sir?” Spicer asked.

“Hold, we’re going in too hot. Engage chute, now!”

It was true, with the loss of the rudders, damage spread to the dampeners. From the ground, the capsule looked bright red and observers expected it to disintegrate before their eyes.

Spicer deployed the thermal chute. It wasn’t meant for this altitude or speed and it was going to burn up in an instant. He knew this. The string of beads around his right wrist began to squeeze tight. The letters embedding themselves into his skin.

“Daddy, daddy, wait. I made you something.” His daughter ran under the barricade and straight to her father’s arms and he held out his arm as she placed a makeshift bracelet around his wrist.

He let his eyes remain closed longer with each blink. His inner eyelids turned into a projector for memories of holidays, birthdays, milestones, and the gleam in her eyes whenever he’d return. She’d always wrench her hand free from her mother’s and zig zag past the security just to be the first one to greet him.

He wondered about today. Would he let her down? He never considered this outcome until now. His high school sweetheart and seven-year-old daughter waiting at a gate for a return that would never happen. He let the tear build up and run down his face. He couldn’t hide the sniffling.

“Spicer. Engage Pop Corn”

Sniffles.

“Spicer, c’mon buddy. Engage Pop Corn NOW!” the commander’s voice rattled through speakers that weren’t designed to handle that high of volume.

Spicer widened his eyes, resolute to keep them open. “Sir, Engaging Pop Corn.” His index finger reached across the digital keyboard and pressed the Engage button.

The capsule shed its outer shell and shot two cocoons out of its cockpit. The coordinates timed to eject them when the capsule spun away from the ground.

Now airborne, two silver capsules rotated and spun as the flaming capsule broke into pieces below them.

Their ascent slowed.

Now gravity took over and those silver bullets began to shoot towards the ground as if they were fired by a sky pistol.

***

Ground control went silent. Only the whir of their overheated computer fans persisted. All eyes were on the screen, now being transmitted from digital ground telescopes and two aerial fighter jets that were deployed minutes ago.

Then the trail of smoke by the capsule dissipated and two shiny objects pierced the remaining smoke and were hurtling towards earth.

Operators began tapping away at their keyboards. A desperate attempt to patch into the live feed of the cacoons.

Nothing.

The encasements were too far from the ground towers and falling too fast for satellite lock on. Their trajectory was far from their intended target of the California coast line. Their continued path would have them land near Lake Piru, which was in the mountainous terrain of Southern California near Santa Clara. With its small footprint, if they missed that body of water, the structural integrity of the pods would not be able to sustain damage at such velocity.

The commander, through all of his extensive training and logged mission hours, was experiencing the type of gravity that can’t be simulated. His skin was pulled opposite the ground, which made his face a skeletal halloween mask. His organs were crashing into each other, jockeying for position inside his sternum. He began to experience the early stage of blacking out.

***

“Nick did you remember to set the autopay for the rest of the bills? I don’t see them on the scheduler in the app.”

“It’s a new bank. Give it a bit, I’m sure it will be fine.” Nick Schmitz leaned in kissed Alanis on the cheek. “Besides, I’m only gone for a week. Two deliveries to two moon bases and I’m back.”

Alanis crossed her arms and tapped one foot, while she stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles. “I don’t like this and I honestly don’t see what you get out of it these days. You and Rob go up there every week and it’s not like there’s anything new happening.”

“I’m not doing this again with you. You married me because I was an astronaut and now you’re pulling the rug from under me?”

“No, I married you for you. I wanted to spend my life with the man that went into space and came back to me to start a family and do the things that families do. Instead, I’m doing weekly laundry loads for my space husband who can’t seem to stand the planet he was born on.”

Nick walked to the door, dufflebag in hand, ready for the next mission and delivery. “You don’t get it. What’s happening on the moon—it’s bigger than us. It’s for all of humanity. Look, I gotta go, my ride is here—just know that I love you.” The door shut with a click behind him.

***

Commander Schmitz recovered from a momentary blackout. The images on the screen were disorienting. His body was being yanked by gravity in so many directions that the end couldn’t come sooner for him. He wanted to scream but his lungs weren’t in a position to inhale oxygen from his mask.

As his pod careened towards the ground, traffic on I-5 came to a halt. Emergency vehicles attempting to get to the potential crash site were left behind motorists who could do nothing but gaze into the sky.

The two pods were nearly parallel when their respective chutes launched. News helicopters kept their distance, using high strength zoom lenses to document the recovery, while the fighter jets remained in the sky, making several fly-bys to keep eyes on them, in case the Santa Ana winds picked up and altered their trajectory.

The pods cartwheeled and sometimes spun like a top, but when they hit the surface of lake Piru, the violent sound of metal meeting water was enough to make the two consider the merits of crashing into a mountain as a way to meet their fate.

The commander’s capsule sank to the bottom of the lake and when the parachute detached itself, the capsule slowly rose towards the surface and began to float horizontally, doing the same as Rob Spicer’s pod had done nearly two seconds earlier.

Now that they were stationary on the ground, comms was reestablished. The squawk of the radio echoed in the floating pods.

The two did not respond.

Teams of rescue personnel were deployed across the lake and each pod was retrieved carefully loaded onto the decks. When the boats docked, teams of rescue personnel encircled the pods, no one keen on how to extract the astronauts inside.

Spicer had a severe headache and could not wait to take his helmet off and feel the earth’s breeze blow across his face. He placed one hand across his wrist, checking to see if all of the beads on the bracelet were there.

He pressed his comms button, “Commander, we made it.”

Silence.

The commander remained inside his cocoon, lights flashing, screens fluttering. He thought of his wife’s words, the laundry, the gravity of a home he had spent years trying to escape. A quiet contemplation. A moment of truth. Clarity—before emerging from the pod to throngs of people wanting answers.

“Spicer?” His thumb on comms. “Does your pod smell strange?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand, our suits are sealed.”

“I should have known.”

“Come again?”

The commander radioed mission control. “Mission Control, this is commander Zenith IV, over.”

“Zenith IV, Mission Control, roger that. Glad to have you back on Earth sir.”

“Mission control, get your toothbrush out of my bathroom and tell my wife I’m coming home for good. Commander out.”

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story is part of a Write-Along where I go through the process of writing this for a Reedsy contest.

The Story Behind the Story
This story was a viability test to see if I could do this via livestream in the future. It turned out well and aside from the diversion of researching a few things, it would be a fun thing to do on stream.

In the Write-Along, I go over the process of the who, where, what and filling in the rest. There is good craft about a single instance, two backstories, and a conflict with a reasonable resolution.

The ingredients was the return of Artemis II with a few adjustments for a story in the future. The rest of the justification and process is in the Write-Along.

Don’t forget to listen to the podcast audio from NoteBookLM in the space above, the two podcasters have really good insight into thematic elements that I purposefully included and others that I had no idea about.

Thanks for hanging out with me on the Peripheral Edge.

-Daniel

No, I’m not self‑publishing — at least not yet. This was about curiosity. I wanted to understand what the self‑pub side actually looks like. The more you know 🌠

I spent the last two days inside Atticus typesetting two manuscripts: The Void Protocol and The Peripheral. It’s the kind of work that looks invisible from the outside but changes everything on the inside. Once a story has margins, headers, and a rhythm on the page, it stops feeling like a draft and starts feeling like a book. It also gave me a new appreciation for small presses, independent publishers, and self‑publishers who do this every day.

Onto the books, shall we?

The Void Protocol

This novella follows an investigative journalist who’s contractually obligated to revisit a serial killer at an ADMAX facility. His assignment: turn the killer’s obsessively staged crime scenes into a DIY‑style book. The narrative unfolds through case notes, interview transcripts, journal entries, and an editor’s disclaimer. It’s a story about arrogance, integrity, and the slow collapse of both.

It’s conceptual in its cross‑genre upmarket presentation, while still accessible to true‑crime, psychological‑horror, suspense, and thriller readers. It’s meta with meta.

The Peripheral

This novella tracks a welder’s descent after a flash burn at work. Jake begins seeing shadows at the edge of his vision — the same “peripheral” that gives this publication its name. If you’ve seen the logo with the giant eye, look closer and you’ll notice the shadows. They linger, then intrude, then demand a confrontation he’s not prepared for. It’s a story about injury, intrusion, and the thin membrane between the real and the unreal.

This one was a joy to write, and seeing it laid out in both typeset and digital formats makes me want to pull the trigger and release it myself.

Why This Work Matters

Typesetting forces decisions: how the text breathes, where the reader pauses, what the eye lands on first. It’s also the moment when a project becomes tangible. These books now exist in a form that could sit on a shelf, which is a strange and grounding feeling.

With Chaos Particle on the horizon, I’m starting to see how these projects might eventually fit together — maybe as a small‑press lineup, maybe as something an agent would recognize on a manuscript wish list. I’m not chasing that yet, but I’m aware of the possibility.

For now, PTP is where I’ll document the steps, the tools, the decisions, and the quiet work that happens before a book meets a reader.

A Major Takeaway

Once I figured things out, I realized that the pre‑print version of a manuscript is simple — almost ugly. Whether you use .docx, .gdoc, or .rtf, the core elements are title, subtitle, subheading, and text. Nothing else. Nothing fancy. Honestly, it’s advantageous to write entirely in Markdown (.md) since this iteration of the web is built on block structure.

I also remembered why I don’t love the tech side anymore. It’s fun to dabble, but if I did this every day — even with AI workflows and optimizations — I’d lose my mind and a significant portion of my day.

Again, shout‑out to the typesetters in small publishing, independent presses, and the indie authors who put in the work before the book with the nice cover and clean, organized text appears in your hands.

Questions, suggestions on what to do next, let me know—seriously.

STORY

He looked at the withered post-it note affixed to the center of a refrigerator door. Written on it were two scribbled words, “Anterograde amnesia,” and one name with a single question.

“Herb, who am I?” he read aloud. His voice echoed from each empty wall until it dissipated into an empty corner.

A small obelisk sitting as the centerpiece on the dining table, the size of a pocket-sized book, came to life with rings of light illuminating their way to the top. Once they reached the tip, a voice that sounded familiar, yet was clearly not at the same time, responded.

“We are Herb Inkwell. You created the items that occupy the remaining space next to me, on this table.”

Herb groaned as he sank his thumb and ring finger into the recesses of his temples. He massaged them gently, assessing the information and leaving a pair of indentations near the front of his head. He shifted his attention from the post-it to the obelisk.

“I’m Herb Inkwell… You’re Herb Inkwell too?”

“I’m your collective consciousness in storage,” the obelisk said.

Herb circled the table, one arm crossed his chest, while the other hand was used to prop up his chin as he contemplated the pragmatic approach of how or why his collective consciousness was in storage of any kind.

“Why is my consciousness in storage and why are you using it?”

“There was an incident that left you with anterograde amnesia. Since you frequently forget, your consciousness was transferred.”

Herb shook his head in disbelief. “That’s wild. You say, I made these?” His fingers grazed the surface of an electronic contraption with a few wires exposed beyond the casing that was supposed to conceal them. “What are they? What do they do?”

The obelisk lit up with a collection of rings moving from the base to the top. “We call these the Molecular Arrangement & Nano-Templating Intervention System, or MANTIS. MANTIS allows us to shape the atoms within molecules to alter the fundamental particles of existence.”

“Simple English—my head hurts.”

“The buttons allow you to change the shape and structure of any biological entity. You can alter it at an individual cellular level, up to the sum of its entirety.” Obelisk Herb paused. “In short, you’ve created a biological transformer.”

“You’re saying—We are saying that we can create dog, cat, giraffe, and bear amalgamations, including plants? That would unleash a global hysteria—including conspiracies about what is organic versus manufactured to spec.”

Obelisk Herb took a moment to process the query and then convened a meeting to determine how the needs of Herb Inkwell could be met.

“Yes.”

“Why would we—I make this?”

“You make these to prevent the destruction of our world.”

“How?”

“Your first invention was stolen. That’s what MANTIS was created to stop.”

Herb pulled out a chair from under the dining table and took a seat. He placed his elbows on his knees and his cheeks were pressed against his palms; he tried to maintain even breathing but it wasn’t enough to slow down his thoughts.

His right foot began to tap like a metronome that was increasing in pace. When his taps could not physically get faster, he stopped in an abrupt manner with a fluttering in his left eyelid and asked, “Why did I make the first thing?”

“The first device was created to enable customization of CRISPR data. The first trials were a success. We changed the characteristics and traits in mice in real time—not in vitro, not splicing, no stem cells. That device could flip on and off any atom and shift its positioning.”

Herb took one of the devices in hand, raised it to eye level and rotated it. “And this one is supposed to do what, again?”

“A good contrast would be, when would-be parents want to remove certain negative traits from a child during the embryonic growth cycle—the first device would allow fine tuning down to the length of its eyelashes. This device takes any organic matter and modifies the shape of its atoms at a precise location or across the whole body.”

Herb put the device down and turned it so it no longer pointed in his direction. “What happens to those molecules?”

“It’s best not to talk about it,” Obelisk Herb said.

Herb slid his chair back, stood up and scratched the back of his neck. “Who uses these things and how does that counter creating a well designed offspring?”

“There is an agency. You’ll find their card in your coat pocket.”

Herb patted down his pant pockets, then his coat pockets, only finding lint and a receipt for delivery pizza. He unwrapped the piece of paper, hoping that some detail might help him figure things out. The ink was fading, so he reached in his inner coat pocket to retrieve his glasses, when his fingertips grazed against the edge of a business card.

With his glasses on and new found card in hand, Herb held the card under the brightest place in his kitchen—the refrigerator light. The chilled air wrapped in baking soda and expired takeout food lingered in his nose enough to force a sneeze.

He was able to view the contents of the card after pushing the other items to the back of a near-empty shelf. It was a solid black card with fancy typeface and a satin finish under the embossed lettering. Herb flipped the card to the backside and saw a phone number. He patted his pockets in search of a phone.

“Hey, Herb? Do we have a phone?”

The obelisk came to life once more, “Yes. We do have a phone and yours is in the charging station beside your nightstand.”

“We? You have a phone too?”

“My apologies, I have phone capabilities built-in.”

Herb turned and walked out of the kitchen, through the hallway, around the corner and up the stairs. When he got to the top of the stairs, he was met with four rooms. Two on each side of the second floor landing. He turned right and headed for the first room on his left.

“Huh? I don’t remember my name, but I somehow remember something I don’t even recognize?” He attributed this innate knowledge of his house as muscle memory for routine things that you do without thinking. Except, now that he was thinking about it, his stomach gurgled uneasiness.

Inside the bedroom, there was a nightstand, just as Obelisk Herb had mentioned. He found his phone, a watch and a slim wallet. His phone was locked, requiring a standard password instead of biometrics. He tried to focus on other things while his fingers tapped away at the keyboard, raising alerts of incorrect passwords—muscle memory did not work this time. He tossed the phone onto the well made bed. He flipped through his wallet, hoping something would jog his memory. There were a few photos with people he didn’t recognize. Were these his family? Aunt and mothers? Cousins or nieces and nephews? His head began to hurt.

He sat at the edge of the bed, hoping enough of his body remained on the bed in case he passed out from the momentary vertigo he was experiencing. The feeling washed over him and left him leaning forward, looking at the carpet fibers between his feet. He blinked several times until the tiniest carpet fibers were in focus.

His fingers were fiddling with something. It was the card from downstairs. Herb held it in view and focused on it once more. Nothing about it rang a bell—at least not until the cell phone buzzed.

From the lock screen he could see that this wasn’t a random call. It was the number on the mysterious card. His thumb hovered over the green answer icon and on the third ring, he answered, “Hello?”

A few clicks could be heard, maybe people joining the conversation or maybe buttons being pressed. There were shuffling sounds, like cloth or hair over a microphone–maybe an earpiece.

“Is it ready?” A muffled voice crackled.

“Who is this?” Herb asked.

“We don’t have time, less than thirty minutes to be exact. Is the MANTIS ready?” There was an urgency and commanding presence in this voice that made Herb feel uncomfortable. He tossed the card to the floor and began to press a clenched fist into his stomach.

“Yeah—Yeah it’s ready. What now?”

“We will send someone. Ten minutes tops.” The call was disconnected.

Herb took a shuddering breath, pressing his fist into his stomach to force the nausea down. The grounding pain was enough to help him regain focus and return to the kitchen to ask himself—Obelisk Herb—some questions.

“Do any of these work? Someone is coming in a few minutes.” Herb picked up both devices and shook them to listen for some rattles or any signs of incompleteness. They may have been identical inside, but their exteriors showed physical deviations, indicating a beta version and a release version. Herb’s impatience got the better of him. “Nevermind, just tell me how to turn it on and where to point it.”

With the operating instructions revealed, Herb held one unit that would not power on. It seemed charged, but there was no indication it was operational. He let it fall to the floor as he picked up the second unit and initiated the power-up sequence. This time something happened.

Small lights along the side of the unit began to blink, mostly green but one orange. This unit felt heavier in his hand than the first one.

“What do these lights mean and how come one is orange?”

The obelisk sent a pattern of rings from bottom to top as it was calculating its response. “The lights are hardware test results. Everything seemed to pass.”

“Not the orange one—what’s that about?” He had set the unit down and let his fingers regain some feeling. He hadn’t realized that he was applying a tight grip round the piece. The sudden rush of blood to his fingertips caused pulsating that matched the beat of his heart.

“We don’t know, but you used to.”

“What does that mean?” He made quick note of the post-it on the fridge door. “Right—nevermind.” His face felt warm. “When do I forget all of this?” His shoulders slumped and he began to pace from the kitchen entrance to the fridge, checking his watch every few passes.

“You’re right. I don’t remember. Probably never will.” He picked up the unit with the orange light, held it firmly in his grip. Fingers from his other hand tapped their way across the row of buttons that ran across the top of the unit. They felt like they’d click if pressed hard enough, but his fingers only pressed before that threshold.

On a countertop, at the intersection of a windowed wall and one with a portrait of fruit, sat a potted plant. Herb walked over to the plant, and stroked a single petal from the flower. It was real, firm, and it gave a fragrant plume when he finished. He brought the device closer to the flower of the plant.

Four buttons that could click, two dials that had ten levels of adjustments—unlabeled, unknown.

He clicked the first button and the device emitted a tone. The plant began to tremble beneath the soil of the pot.

A second button and the petals of the flowers became erect, as if stretching towards unseen particles of sun. He turned a knob and the petals lunged towards him like tiny knives attracted to a magnet.

Another turn of the knob and the press of the second button caused Herb to step back. His eyes went wide and his jaw fell agape. The flower had changed, its form no longer like the others. Petals became tiny appendages—but not fingers of humans or animals—this was over twenty tiny appendages that encircled the center pistil and moved in unison like the tentacles of a squid as it propels itself through the water.

Herb’s hands began to tremble. He tossed the device onto the table. “What the hell is this thing?”

The plant’s fingers were billowing, reaching, and then taking a neighboring flower and mangling the petals that resembled its former self. Bits of ravaged flower petals fell to the countertop.

There was a knock at the door that was heavy, determined, and immediate. Herb looked at his watch and then at the plant, whose flower fingers tore into the remaining flowers, petal by petal. “Shit.”

“They’re at the door. The plant isn’t a plant anymore. What should I do?” He picked up the obelisk and shook it as if it was an old novelty fortune telling item.

The obelisk lit once more, “We don’t know.”

Herb’s anger welled up and burst through. “Bullshit. I don’t know. You should know. We made this god damned thing. Why?”

Obelisk Herb remained indifferent. “We built the first device to change the lives of the physically ill, the downtrodden with deformities and disease. That is why you created the first device.”

The knocking at the door became pounding and reverberated through the walls into the kitchen.

“Where is the first device?”

“It is being used to build a genetic mutation of militarized humans turned beasts.”

“Is that why the agency wants this unit? To build their own mutant army?”

“We’ve seen what happens when used on a plant. It destabilizes molecules and forcibly reorganizes the atoms within.”

“Okay, but that was a normal plant. What does that have to do with modified humans? Is this supposed to turn them back to normal?”

“A genetic puddle of soup.”

Herb picked up the beta model from the table, tossed it to the floor and stomped on it until pieces flew across different directions of the kitchen. He grasped the functional unit and backed himself into a corner just as the front door was kicked open.

“What do we do?” Herb asked.

The obelisk didn’t respond. Heavy footsteps made their way into the kitchen and men in protective bodysuits quickly filled the area.

One man stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Give me the device.” His tone lifeless and bureaucratic.

“What will you do with it?” Herb asked

“Set things right.”

Another man walked to the counter where the plant with a flower of fingers continued to mangle the other flowers. He didn’t seem surprised. Herb clutched the device to his chest, but the man easily overpowered him, wrenching it from his trembling grip before pressing two buttons and turning a second knob. The plant morphed itself many times, it echoed the evolution of its species and the variants that were its ancestry.

When the man let go of the button, the only thing in the pot was a pool of liquid that spilled over the rim of the pot and dribbled onto the countertop, absorbing the remnants of normal petals that were shredded earlier.

Herb watched in terror. “Who are you people?”

The first man stood in front of Herb with his arms crossed, acting as a bodyguard for the other man who held the device.

“You won’t remember any of this.”

“Then fucking tell me what the hell is going on!” Herb demanded. His heart beat so fast that he felt the pressure in his head as he balled his fists.

“Your formula to help humanity level up had one flaw in the equation.”

“Huh?”

“You forgot to factor how fucked up we are as a species.”

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story originated from the writing prompt at Reedsy.com. Prompt: “Center your story around a character who has lost their ability to create, write, or remember.”

The Story Behind the Story
I chose this prompt because I liked the idea of loss in all areas: creating, writing, and remembering.

Using my standard formula of someone + somewhere + doing something, I came up with Herb in his kitchen trying to remember who he is.

The premise was a partial call back to the movie Memento, which is where the post it notes motif came from.

Character driven story - I needed a companion to help the guy who can’t remember anything, so I created a obelisk, Amazon Alexa-like assistant with a twist—-it contained all of Herb’s consciousness.

I open the story with Herb looking at this cryptic post-it note. When saying the contents aloud triggers Obelisk Herb, human Herb has someone to converse with. At this stage, I hadn’t thought of anything beyond this setting.

There is this dynamic of language to indicate that the obelisk is an extension of Herb by using the royal “we” and then shifting the tone when the distinction kicks in with the use of you and me. There was no strategy to this. It felt like a natural progression of an amnesiac reading a note aloud and hearing himself respond with the use of “we.”

Great, now I have a mechanism of backstory and worldbuilding—-A guy and his talking Obelisk. The 1980s television series, Knight Rider, fit the vibe of what I wanted with a guy trying to figure out his life, paired with an intelligence greater than his.

The kitchen gives the story a place that acts as a grounding device. It is familiar enough for Herb to exist in, but ordinary in how Herb navigates in the space. I want the reader to be in that kitchen and to feel what Herb is feeling. I still don’t have a plot. I’m just listening to the two characters interact with each other.

As their conversation builds, I realized I needed there to be an urgency, mystery, and a sense of dread. That’s when the two devices appeared on the table. This was initially supposed to be a stack of books and Herb was supposed to be a writer—-but I felt that it was too cliche trying to be an amnesiacs version of The Shining by Stephen King.

With the objects being devices that Herb doesn’t remember making, it raises the stakes. But the story still doesn’t have a plot. I’m still working that out by having the two tell me what those machines do.

The obelisk Herb provides the backstory, but now I need a structural element that will shift the tone and introduce urgency. The business card was that ticket. We needed to see Herb in other familiar places within his house. This allows me to get him out of the back-and-forth conversation for some action related tension and character exploration.

The only familiarity Herb has with his room is superficial furniture arrangement, everything else was a missing memory. Having the phone ring while Herb is trying to regroup is supposed to be a jarring and pivotal moment. Dialogue had to be concise while also being revealing. I think we now have enough to trigger a plot.

Having the story world time constraint of ten minutes add a sense of urgency for the reader as well. The pacing needs to be short, punchy, and still true to character. This is where I forego minute details and zoom out for quick pacing.

Herb’s frustration and the pressure of someone arriving in 10 minutes forces Herb to seek meaningful discoveries. He picks up the second device and in a moment of crisis, he takes aim at a plant and nearly poops himself.

Making the plant go from this innocent thing created by nature and then modified by man makes several metaphorical allusions. It’s the arrival from the agency that sets up the final reveal.

Herb might not know how to use the device, but these men from the agency know what they’re doing. This sets up the idea that Herb’s memory resets often enough that when these guys arrive, they already know how to use the device before Herb becomes a blank slate. This begs the question: Who or what is the agency?

At this point, I’m running low on word count, so I need to end this early enough to leave unused some words for revisions.

The tension of the agents converging on Herb needed a breaking point. I went with procedural “Just another day at the office” vibe. This is why one agent snatched the device and neutralized the plant, while knowing how to operate the device.

I could have let them do more back and forth, but I felt that the story was told. I used the final exchange to leave the philosophical implications.

Not only is the first device gone, but now the second device along with Herb’s memory is on the list of things no longer there. I let the agent have the last word to allow the final beat, be the point of reflection for Herb and the reader.

I think this piece accomplished my goal: grounding with a focused look at Herb, while exploring the deeper societal issues that answers the proverbial, “Why can’t we have nice things?” Perhaps this is why Utopia is fictional as well.

That’s the story behind the story.

Thanks for joining me at the Peripheral Edge,

-Daniel

STORY

Lorenzo Valentino stood at his post, back straight, arms at his sides. Only his eyes moved as they scanned the area around him. The reddened sunlight eased through the arched openings, casting elongated shadows of the decorative marble statues. He knew them well. He knew all of the shadows that accompanied the late evening hours of the basilica.

For three years, since his wife’s death, Lorenzo had fought his loneliness with these shifts. This basilica, where they had once married, was the only place he hoped would bring him some measure of peace. The smell of old stone, the cool touch of marble beneath his hand – these were small comforts. He revealed his true motive to no one. To others, he was simply dedicated, a loyal guardian of the basilica.

Long after everyone had left that night, he heard footsteps. They patted against the ornate floor – soft, slow, and deliberate, imbued with a solemn quietness. He peered towards the sound, estimating that its source would emerge from behind the shadow of a four-foot cherub. And it did.

A figure clad in a black hooded robe appeared. The hood’s uppermost edge obscured the eyes, revealing only a pale nose and barely pink, thin lips almost indistinguishable from the rest of the face.

Lorenzo wiggled his toes, ensuring he could move quickly if needed.

A left arm lifted; two fingers emerged tentatively from the robe’s cuff, forming the sign of the cross before the figure crossed the threshold.

Lorenzo squinted, trying to discern if the visitor was man or woman through the remaining light and swirling dust motes. He should notify them that visiting hours were over, just as he had done hundreds of times before. If the head priest found a stranger here, Lorenzo could lose the job that was his only sanctuary. But his feet remained rooted to the spot. He opened his mouth to greet the visitor – “Buona sera...” – but no sound escaped. Puzzled, he mentally checked his body, from head to toe, clenching and releasing muscles, trying to ensure everything was functioning.

The figure had moved further down the aisle, between the pews, now humming a hymn. The sound, soft with a dry, crackling edge, confirmed to Lorenzo that it was a woman. She continued her walk with a slow determination, as if she had nowhere else to be.

Lorenzo had never seen anyone like her. Her presence unsettled him; he patted the hairs on his forearm and took a step forward, then stopped, turning to watch her fully.

She knelt on the carpet leading to the altar. The humming ceased, replaced by whispers that were just audible, echoing faintly off the basilica walls. Lorenzo listened intently, trying to decipher the words, but could only make out a few. Italian, he discerned from the few words he understood. Soon, she finished whispering those words and, just as she had entered, began to leave. Lorenzo, torn between a curious urge to know who she was and a compassionate desire to let her have her moment, watched her go. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he imagined them fixed downward, guiding her steps.

No other visitor came that night. Lorenzo resumed his post, watching as the shadows shifted, lengthening in the opposite direction with the sunrise. He thought he wouldn’t see the woman again, but she returned the next night, and the night after that, too.

Each night, it was the same quiet drama: the soft footsteps, the fingers making the sign of the cross, the slow walk down the aisle as she hummed the hymn, the kneeling, the whispered words, and the departure afterwards. And each night, Lorenzo patted his forearm. She never acknowledged his presence. He withheld the urge to clear his throat and alert her that he was there. His stomach twisted at the thought of interrupting her.

Lorenzo became determined to meet this woman, to see the eyes hidden beneath the hood, to understand her woe and what she sought. That evening, hearing her footsteps once more, he stepped forward from his post, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. His rubber soles muffled his movements. He had planned to speak to her at the door but found himself remaining shrouded in the shadows of the cherub.

He listened to the hymn, and her voice seemed to resonate throughout his whole body. He felt a tremor in his ribs, and held his breath, exhaling slowly, only as she inhaled. Her whispers were clearer now, too. In the desperate cadence of her whispered pleas, he recognized the exact pitch of his own midnight prayers, a specific grief that mirrored the one he kept caged inside himself.

She finished, and as she turned to leave, he stepped from the shadows. He offered a soft word of understanding, allowing her to see the shared sorrow in his eyes before slowly extending his hands. A sudden warmth washed over him, and he understood something beyond articulation – a divine moment perhaps, easing his lonely heart and quieting the unease in his mind.

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated (NotebookLM) commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story was conceptualized by a writing prompt at Dominican University of California’s MFA band practice.

The Story Behind the Story
When I Googled images of a basilica, I was amazed by the architecture, most of these were in Italy. This made for a great setting, which is why I gave it the Italian translation of Il Cuore Solitario.

We have this gothic place and a grieving man who wants to be alone with these thoughts and memories of his wife. What better way to spend time grieving than to sleep during the day when the world is awake and then continue a vigil during the night shift as the lone guard.

This is where I get an image of Batman the Animated Series. The cartoon was drawn on black background, not white—so the mood was already stark; add Batman’s penchant for observing the world from the shadows—also, while grieving and processing trauma. The way that show depicted day and night is what I called upon to illustrate the movement of time via shadows.

The tension comes from a hooded figure and his response. It is very measured and based on a shared emphatic bond of grief.

Beta readers wanted a happy ending, maybe one where the two get together, but life isn’t like that. Sometimes our loss, our grief, our traumas become so ingrained that they become an extension of us. You begin to see others like you and there is an unspoken bond, a subtle nod, a knowing glance as the world reminds you that you aren’t alone.

I like to think that he never returned to work at nights and found some resolution in knowing that his internal emotional and mental state was acceptable, and once acknowledged, it was time to pick up the pieces and try to live again.

I’m not sure about the woman. Perhaps she took his spot, humming a hymn nightly at the altar.

Thanks for joining me At the Peripheral Edge, until next time.

-Daniel

STORY

The office air at the shelter smelled of cinnamon-scented candle and kibble. He approached the woman at the desk.

“I found the one.” He gave the number.

Bernice was brought out. A stubby tail wagged. Her wide brown eyes held the same soft caution as the stray he’d found at the age of seven. He knelt. Bernice licked his hand. A small, familiar warmth bloomed.

“She’s never this happy.” The woman smiled, fetching paperwork.

He held Bernice. She curled against his inner elbow. Delicate fur. Pen in hand, he started filling the form. Occupants: 1. Children: 0.

Bernice pressed her nose to his chest. His hand over her paw. For the first time in years, he wouldn’t be going back to an empty house.

The doorbell jingled. A boy and his father entered. As they passed, the boy crouched and clicked his tongue. Bernice sprang from his lap to the floor, scampering to the boy. A flurry of sniffs and slurps.

He watched them. The boy. The father. Seeing the dog greet the child, the angle of the father’s head. Their voices... Not just familiarity. Truth. Impossible, undeniable truth.

When he saw the clover-shaped birthmark on the boy’s neck, his heart seized and the room tilted.

“Are you okay, sir?” the woman asked.

Bernice yipped, nudging the boy’s knee with playful zest.

He covered his own neck, the phantom itch of a matching clover burning against his palm. He folded the incomplete form. Stood. Looked at the boy, then his father. “She’s theirs,” he told the attendant. Managed a nod at the father. “Maybe another time.”

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated (NotebookLM) commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story comes from a prompt at The Authors Only Collective. The prompt was something related to time travel for meeting ones past self.

The Story Behind the Story
I had just put my dog down at the vet a week or two prior to this prompt, that’s why there’s a dog. I also got my first dog after I was married and we had our own house, so I might have been in my early thirties.

I wish my child self would have had a dog. It would have helped out a lot while growing up. The positioning of this story is my present self, wishing my dad would have taken me to a local shelter to pick up one of the few dogs that I was privileged to have.

One thing I remember when visiting shelters was the paperwork. It was one thing to see so many animals looking for homes and once someone finds a pet, there is this crazy amount of paperwork.

I figured this is where the time clash would happen, because when I had adopted my first dog, a man and his son came over—-they wanted the pup and the kid was heartbroken when the clerk told him that I adopted it.

I miss my dad and I wish that moment, where we both arrive at a shelter and just as a man is about to adopt a pup, sees the heartbreak and lets me adopt it instead. The crux of this post is wishful thinking. I would have loved to see my father’s face and look into his eyes one more time. I wouldn’t say who I was. I’d just smile, nod and photograph that image in my mind and burn it in forever.

This piece got a little heavy, my apologies. That was my reality at the moment my fingers were on the keyboard.

STORY

The date was June 9th, and the year was 2029. An anomaly appeared on the camera on one of the rovers. Scientists didn’t know what to make of it. The discovery was escalated to the Oval Office and classified as Top Secret. Nevertheless, the news eventually leaked to the public. The media headlines were unanimous: We found a cow on Mars.

It should be noted that Mars still does not contain breathable air. As such, you can deduce that the cow was indeed dead. Nonetheless, there is a planet out there that we intend to inhabit that has, by all observable data, a dead cow.

Excuse me one moment; the President is approaching the podium. I’d like to hear what she says.

“My fellow Americans, and people of the world who are watching this now, what you have seen, heard, and read in your social news feeds is true. At approximately 5:34 am EST, on Saturday the 9th, the Pioneer rover confirmed the discovery of what appears, by all indications, to be a cow on Mars.”

In a run-down diner, Harold Schmidt momentarily looked up from his phone at the small group of people gathered around the display, drawn by the breaking news. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s dead.” His eyes narrowed and his forehead creased. With a flash of irritation and a hint of disdain, he took a sip of coffee and returned to the spreadsheet on his screen. He continued to scroll through the list of yellow and red cells. Yellow meant that the payment was late. Red indicated that something was going to be turned off or taken away.

There were a lot of yellow and red cells.

Ginny Ashford-Schmidt sat across from Harold. She was scrolling through her phone too, examining the same worksheet. Her task was to look at the yellow cells and determine which line items to risk, so they could make it through the month.

“Harold, what if we stock up at the farmers’ market? I’m thinking of green onions, carrots, potatoes, celery, and the like.”

“And save the seeds for another failed attempt at a vegetable garden?” The coffee in his cup rippled from his exasperation.

“At least they won’t spoil when the power is shut off.” She lowered her glasses and wiped the speckled lenses by bringing a napkin to her lips and using some spittle to moisten it. She removed the spot but left a smear instead. She decided to set her glasses on the table and make the best of what she could see by zooming in on the contents.

Harold slowly walked his fingers across the middle of the table and retrieved Ginny’s glasses. He removed a kerchief from his pocket and dipped the corner in the complimentary glass of water. With some careful circles across the lens, he held the glasses up to the ceiling lights. “Here you go, Gin.” He placed the glasses where Ginny had set them down.

Ginny’s face managed a brief semblance of the youthful hope they’d shared when they first met at the county fair thirty-two years ago. She stood at a booth with several darts in her hand, aiming for the red balloon in the middle of a circle of tightly packed blue ones tacked onto a white corkboard. The first dart went left and popped a blue balloon.

Her arms dropped to her sides in disappointment before she devised a strategy for the second dart. She pinched the brass base between her forefinger and thumb, lined the intersection of the fins with her dominant eye, and when the red balloon lined up, she cocked her forearm and released the dart. It hit the red balloon dead center and bounced off.

Harold and a few of his friends happened to be passing by in the background when the curls of Ginny’s shoulder-length auburn hair first caught his attention. He noticed the butterfly barrette she wore, with glitter outlining the wings. He stood back while his friends kept walking. His ears were attuned to the escalating tone that Ginny was making in her futile attempts to convince the game master that she had indeed hit the balloon.

“Sorry, doll. Them’s the rules,” the game master said.

Harold made a deliberate, but quiet, approach. Ginny’s face was flush, and the confrontation was causing her heart to beat so fast she could feel her fingertips throb with the blood. Harold stood beside Ginny and gave a friendly nod to the game master.

“What about you, feller? Care to try your luck, or... maybe you wanna help the little lady over here?” He spit out his tobacco behind the prize shelf.

“It’s okay, don’t listen to him. If you did it once, you could do it again.”

Ginny’s breathing was quick and shallow. The last time she was this angry was when the Comstock girl took her brownie and replaced it with baby carrots in preschool.

Harold leaned into Ginny’s ear. “You wanna know somethin’? The darts bounce right off that red balloon ‘cause they don’t fill it up all the way.”

“So, I can’t win, can I?” She placed the last dart on the wooden counter and took a long look at a bear on the prize rack.

“That’s the one you want, right?” Harold asked, as he pointed to it.

Ginny nodded without a verbal answer.

“Tell you what, you wanna get that bear?”

“Of course I do. But you said the dart will just bounce off. It’s rigged. That’s how life is, I suppose.” Ginny’s shoulders slumped forward, and she lowered her head with a sigh.

“Aim high,” Harold said. “Give it a good arc and let gravity do the rest.” He picked up the dart, took hold of the back of her hand, and placed the dart gently on her open palm. He marveled at the warmth radiating from her onto his fingertips.

The bridge of Ginny’s nose crinkled with a few lines of anger. Her eyebrows arched at the outer corners and narrowed towards the inner ones. She looked Harold in the eyes for the first time. She noticed his light brown irises accent the darker rings near the pupils, and she lost her train of thought for a moment.

“Look at me,” he said with his eyes locked onto hers. “Get that bear.”

Ginny squared up in front of that red balloon, raised the dart at eye level once more, and with a slow inhalation, she exhaled in an equal manner and aimed for the blue balloon above the red one. The arc was high, and the distance was as close as it could be. The tip of the dart grazed the outermost edge of the blue balloon, and it jostled one fin. The dart continued to fall, with its tip pointing directly downward, on a trajectory to meet the top of the red balloon.

Ginny closed her eyes; Harold widened his and the game master grumbled. The pop was loud enough to turn heads at the nearby booths and passers-by. The red balloon at the center was no more.

When she opened her eyes, the game master had lowered the bear from its perch, high atop the prize board, and placed it in her open arms as she hopped in place with excitement. He turned his gaze towards Harold and snarled with a curled lip and said to him, “Go on now, get. Y’all got your prize. Shoo now.”

Harold took that cue, turned, and extended his hand to Ginny. “Hi, my name is Harold. Friends call me Harry.”

Ginny’s smile was buried in the fur of the stuffed bear. “Thank you so much, Harold. I wouldn’t have ever...”

“You can call me Harry, and it’s nothing, really. You did all the work. You should be proud of yourself.” He patted her on the shoulder. It was so soft that he gave it a little squeeze to check if she was real.

“I rather like Harold. Besides, if everyone calls you Harry, it makes it that much more special, doesn’t it?” She lowered the bear and revealed a smile, with a glow around her eyes that made him feel weightless, like he was only kept on the ground by the weight of his shoes.

“Then it’s settled. You can call me Harold.” He put his hand to his waist and extended his elbow. “Care to take a stroll through the exhibits, Miss...”

“’Ginny,’ my name’s Ginny with a ‘G’, and I’d be happy to.” She interlocked her arm through his, and with the bear in her other, the two spent the entirety of the night walking the midway, laughing, and sharing stories, while the ride booth operators shut down for the night.

Harold took another sip from his coffee cup. “Fine, we’ll save the seeds and give it another go.”

Ginny picked up her glasses, looked through the spotless lenses before putting them on. She blew Harold a discreet kiss with a slight purse of her lips.

Ginny craned her head towards the growing murmurs from the crowd around the screen. “You know, Harold, they found a cow on Mars.”

Harold cocked his head to the side, peeked one eye towards the group and shHarold cocked his head to the side, peeked one eye towards the group and shook his head with a hint of a smile. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about... it’s still dead.” He looked back at Ginny. “But I suppose it proves impossible things happen every day.”

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated (NotebookLM) commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This story originates from a workshop at Dominican University’s MFA residency. The task was to implement multiple points of view.

The Story Behind the Story
There are several shifts that occur. The story starts with a narrator, Rod Serling, if you will. He sets the scene where people gather around the television and he shifts the scene to the President, while he makes his exit.

After the President’s speech, the camera shifts to a little area, a small, confined booth where we meet Harold and Ginny, who seem non-plussed about the discovery of a cow on Mars.

I think of Harold and Ginny as old souls from the George Bailey and Mary hanging out and singing Buffalo Gal after the school dance in Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. They two are a mix of the Baileys and the couple in Pixar’s Up. They have hopes and dreams as well as trials and tribulations—-all of this set with a backdrop of the fantastical cow on Mars bit.

So we’ve got the intimate Raymond Carver-esque human struggle juxtaposed to Rod Serling’s fantastical. But it still needs some bite to it. This is where Samuel Clemens comes in as the voice of snark and cynicism of Harold.

Okay, setting set, characters defined, now onto the story. There’s not much I can do with a cow on mars, so the story needs to shift to the problems this couple are having trying to make ends meet.

The original draft of this story caused a reader to ask, “If they’re broke, why are they in a diner?” This caused me to shift to a deteriorated diner and the couple only having water but using the booth as space away from the visible reminder of their condition at home.

With that pivot in place, the couple have a problem they’re trying to solve. The real problem is that I don’t know how to solve their problem, so I figure let’s give them some old timey moments that show their longevity and resilience as a couple.

If you pay attention to their dialogue, it parallels the conversation my wife and I have over her garden and some of the little things I do for her. She doesn’t wear glasses, though.

I needed these two to meet somewhere energetic and noisy, so when they bond, they can do it in the quiet moments. This is where time elasticity comes into play at the dart game during a carnival.

Every June, the city of Colusa would host the Colusa County Fair. I went for the rides, food, and the bootleg cassette tapes that were sold there. While there, I did see plenty of meet-cute beginnings. That’s what inspired the setting of Harry meeting Ginny.

An old timey guy wouldn’t win the bear for her, especially if he was trying to court her in a gentlemanly way. That’s why Harold is a smooth operator of sorts. Ginny is a firebrand. She’s independent, has strong conviction, and she has a glitter of hope in her eyes that Harold sees when he meets her.

They’re dynamic is very much how the dynamic was early in my relationship during before marriage. We’d hang out, I’d tell her not to give up and keep being her. Though 25+ years we’re still at it. If that electric car / rocket guy can actually get to Mars, we might not care about a dead cow being there before humans.

And that is the story behind the story.

📚 From the Archive
Related story link.

STORY

Beatrice was confined to her bed, desperate for a world beyond her surgical recovery. But when three of her thirty dolls started talking—one whispering caution, one demanding adventure—she had to decide if playing it safe was worth losing her sanity.

30 Dolls by Daniel R. Mangru

Three weeks after surgery, confined to bed, Beatrice snapped, “Agnes, if you tell me one more time to use this saline solution, I’m stuffing you back in the box.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It burns and tastes like pennies.”

Tap, tap, tap went Agnes’s porcelain knees. “Careful, dear, don’t strain yourself. The doctor said…”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘no strenuous activity,’” Beatrice mimicked in her high-pitched, seventh grade voice. Last week, her parents argued across the hallway when they discovered she had tried walking to the kitchen by herself. “I can’t even get outta bed, but even walking to the bathroom is ‘strenuous activity.’”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, Bea!” a rough voice boomed from the other side of the bed. Reginald, the rag doll with the button eye and a pirate hat, revealed a bright red lollipop instead of offering another doctor’s solution. “Come on, up and at ‘em! We got a whole pirate cove to explore with your little friends.”

Agnes gasped. “Absolutely not! You know she’s supposed to rest, Reginald.”

Anger jolted through Beatrice. “It’s not like I enjoy lying here all day. Watching everyone else play outside, like the other girls, with friends, doing kid things.” She sighed, making a small, feeble effort, and placed her hands in her lap. Dust motes floated like leaves in the sunbeams, slicing through the window, placing tiny spotlights on her loneliness. About thirty dolls filled her room, their glassy unblinking eyes forming a silent audience to her misery. While Agnes, Reginald, and Luna spoke up, the others just stared, silent companions in her confinement.

“Strenuous activity or not, Bea gotta make something!” Reginald jammed the lollipop into Beatrice’s hand. “Here! A sweet treat for energy!”

Agnes’s knees clicked together at a quick pace. “You know sugar doesn’t work well with your…”

“Knock it off, Agnes, or I’ll get mom’s potpourri sash and rub it all over you,” Beatrice said. Agnes placed her hands between her knees and subdued their clicking.

“Hah, that right, Bea, own it,” Reginald said.

Beatrice rolled one leg off the bed. “Ow, bad move.” She was slow to bring her leg back under the covers.

Beatrice glanced over at Luna, sitting still at the foot of the bed. Luna’s oversized glasses almost slipped off her nose as she thumbed through a miniature, worn book. She never said much. Just watched.

“What are you reading now, Luna?” Beatrice asked, while soothing her leg.

Luna spoke slowly. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “A dictionary.”

“Why a dictionary?”

“Words… they can take you away, Bea. To anywhere, to be anyone, to do anything.”

Agnes wrung her porcelain hands. “We just want you to be safe, dear. It’s for your own good.”

“How you going to play it safe if you never even check to see if you can do something on your own?” Reginald asked.

“Safe,” Beatrice whispered. “That’s all everyone cares about. Safe, safe, safe.” The pain in her leg was a burning cinder, each pulse throbbing to the beat of her fear. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a scream.

Reginald ignored her wince. “We gotta sneak her outta here!” he insisted, his mismatched button eye glinting with mischief. “Just to the porch! Fresh air, sunshine… we’ll make it an adventure!”

“Absolutely not,” Agnes gasped.

“Fine, whatever,” Beatrice said, her voice dulling as another spike of pain shot through her calf. “I couldn’t make it anyway.”

Silence descended upon the small room. Beatrice listened to the tap, tap, tap of Agnes’s knees, and the slight audible turns of Luna’s book pages. She was so tired. Tired of being careful, tired of being sick, tired of being alone to deal with her problems.

She looked out the window, longing to be out there with a palm full of birdseed, under the oak tree or at the center of the flower garden. The imagined warmth of the sun on her face was a painful phantom, taunting her with what could be. The unseen birds chirped their beckoning songs.

“It’s alright Bea, it’s ok. We are here,” Reginald said.

Agnes said nothing, but sorrow flickered in her painted eyes.

“The world is big, Beatrice,” Luna said, looking up from her book. “And it is full of endless adventures. What will you do?”

Beatrice stared up at the fluttery dust specks, each one a tiny, infinite world. She thought of the birds outside her window, of the stories they sang, and how the air from the fluttering of their wings would make her hair move across her face.

“Okay, everyone, stop talking. Just stop,” Beatrice said.

She decided if she couldn’t explore the outside world, she would rule her own. She shifted her attention to being a captive princess, plotting a grand escape. The thought wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She reached for the box of crayons on her bedside table. A golden yellow crayon felt cool and smooth in her hand. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her leg, she sketched designs for a princess crown on a scrap of paper, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the birds would come to her then to take her away.

Her breath was drawn out, pushing through the throbbing ache, listening to the birds, while mapping out the borders of her newly claimed kingdom.

🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated (NotebookLM) commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.

Author’s Note
This piece came from Dominican University’s MFA band practice, where a group of us gather, throw out some words into a digital hat, and use those words within our story. We write for 45 minutes and come back to read our works.

The Story Behind the Story
The origin for this story was the political climate. The message about children not needing thirty dolls for the holidays. There was also a short blurb in the news about the release date for another Toy Story.

I needed someone, somewhere, doing something: Agnes a 7th grader, in her bedroom, recovering from surgery.

A parallel in the real world is I know of a wonderful person who suffers from chronic pain—something internal but crippling when it hits. On top of this, I had my own internal issue and was confined to the house for a few weeks.

Now I needed a way to work in thirty dolls. This was easy because my kid has about thirty or more plushies, so it is plausible to have thirty types of dolls. The problem is that I have that Toy Story blurb in my head and now I need these dolls to talk.

I wasn’t going to create thirty characters with distinct voices, so I settled on six.

Beatrice (Bea) is our bedridden kid, but I wasn’t sure what she wanted. I had to think about a time when I returned from the hospital as a fourth grader. I remember being confined to the house.

The dolls would be a symbolism of her escape, like the Christmas Carol ghosts (past, present, future). These dolls would represent caution, adventure / exploration, and one that uses the power of imagination to facilitate an escape.

I didn’t have thirty dolls. I had a Knight Rider car, an Airwolf helicopter, and an F14 model airplane. So those were my coping mechanisms. The F14 was the bad guy and the two heroes, and me, were going on adventures in my room until I got hurt again. So, Reginald was a reminder to be careful

Now I couldn’t go on the ‘adventure’ the way I wanted, which meant the car and helicopter would have to go on without me. I was reduced to a stuffed puppy which represented playing it safe. I was so safe, I increased my level of sickness of boredom.

I had a bunch of books, but I’ve read those. From those old Encyclopedia Britannica’s—- not the full set, only the trial copies that the salesman would leave.

My mom would come by during lunch and dinner to leave a plate of food and a glass of something to drink, likely Kool-Aid.

To escape my confinement, not settling on thumbing through a dictionary, I began to write my own stories. But Beatrice didn’t have this option, I needed to frame her escape in entering her imagination—-something that no one can alter or restrict. This internal turn was her liberation from the doldrums of being bound to a bed with a pain that won’t let go.

While Toy Story is a tale of changing, maturing, letting things go, Beatrices dolls were her affirmation that her mind contained an escape from the physical. She was physically confined, but metaphysically free to be anyone, anywhere, doing anything.

And that is the story about the story.

📚 From the Archive
Related story link.

Introduction

I find the processes that authors produce/generate their craft to be an amazing insight into psychology, systems, and more.

This week, I thought I’d share mine, since I often get asked how I come up with the things that I write. Come along with me from a blank slate to a finished narrative that meets my requirements.

Here’s the raw and final draft, complete with history. Return to Earth: A Dark Comedy

In the beginning

Friday, April 10th 2026

It is another Friday and that means it’s time for my weekly generative writing.

The first thing I do is check my inbox. Two emails:

A prompt for 300 word max. The Authors only Collective

A set of 5 prompts up to 3000 words max. Reedsy Prompts

Mood check: Before I decide between a cap of 300 or 3000, I need to ask myself how I’m feeling. Today, I’m physically sluggish from a 90-minute drive from Sacramento to Sausalito for a public preview of “The Chaos Particle.”

My physical state puts me at a disadvantage from the start. The good news is I’m not depressed—-so the story won’t be grim.

Let’s see what the prompts are:

1. Write a story that takes place in a restaurant. (AOC)

2. Write a story with the goal of making your reader laugh (Reedsy)

3. Include the line “I don’t understand” or “I should’ve known” in your story. (Reedsy)

4. Write a story in which a character’s true self or identity is revealed. (Reedsy)

5. Center your story around an unexpected criminal or accidental lawbreaker. (Reedsy)

6. Write a story from the POV of a child, teenager, or senior citizen. (Reedsy)

This week’s prompts dive into the funny and the unexpected. Include a grand reveal, a surprise twist, or an unforgettable moment that’ll leave our judges howling with laughter. Do you have a story within you that can stop us in our tracks? –Reedsy

300 words about a restaurant seems super easy, but I want to laugh, so I’ll go with #3: Include the line “I don’t understand” or “I should’ve known” in your story.

When it comes to Reedsy Prompts, you’ll notice 5 options. I take one strong option and incorporate all 5 prompts when I can. This gives me a single story to put into five categories if I feel competitive. Most of the time, these stories are for my own amusement.

Topic picked—Let’s begin:

1. Open a google doc.

2. Paste the prompt in the header so it’s always in my face. It’s my North star if I get lost along the way.

3. Use some placeholder text—see screenshot.

   

4. Decision tree / brainstorm.

   1. The text needs to have the phrase, “I don’t understand” or “I should’ve known” and it must be funny.

   2. Random character name - think of last news article I read for someone.

      1. Found this NPR article written by Rob Schmitz and Nick Spicer.

         1. Swap their surnames: Rob Spicer, Nick Schmitz—nice! Now I have two characters.

   3. Place the characters somewhere - look through articles I’ve read earlier for locations. News sources are always good options for different locations where people do wacky stuff. I choose News.Google.com and click on the Science tab.

      1. The Artemis II return to Earth is a big deal. Can I use those quotes? Yes. Now I have two guys in a space capsule.

   4. They have to be doing something compelling enough to draw the reader in.

      1. Recall existing problems with toilet onboard Artemis - frozen urine in pipes. ←too easy, find something else

      2. Found this article about the physical impacts and radiation exposure (BINGO!)

      3. Now I’ve got two people on board a spaceship navigating Earth’s gravity. (Paste this in to my document header) and fill in the placeholder elements (see pic above).

5. Time Check - Total time spent is less than two minutes. Now the story can go many different ways, but entering LEO is not funny business—which means dark humor will be at play. I have just set the tone.

   1. Countdown to writing with the three ingredients: Someone, somewhere, doing something.

      1. Fact check:

         1. Capsule or shuttle? Orion crew capsule, splashing down in the Pacific Ocean off the California Coast (Yahoo News).

         2. Source Material and a splash of imagination

         3. Changes: Artemis to Zenith IV, 2026 to 2032, 4 crew to 2 crew.

         4. NASA titles are Commander, Pilot, Mission Specialists

      2. Quick math: Looking at my placeholder text, I need to remove 23 words. So wordcount - 23 words = total word count.

      3. 

6. Side note: This is where the writing purists or seminar gurus pop in and say that you need to apply a genre plotting device (Hero’s journey, horror, romance, sci-fi beats) with a character arc, conflict, and more points of failure before the triumphant end to the climax.

   1. I say, nope.

   2. They pivot and call me a pantser or plantser.

   3. No again. I’m a plotter who learned to listen to their characters. I’d say I’m an expert at that. I know where this story is going already and It’s written above. Two guys coming back to Earth and entering Low Earth Orbit. I already know what’s going to happen, how, when and how this story will end because I’ll forego traditional plotting to create simple beats.

      1. I have key beats in my mental roadmap.

         1. Entering LEO

         2. Crew communicates with Houston - status check

         3. Crew have a private conversation about risks and procedures

         4. A quick jab at Houston mission control for the laughs

         5. Begin reentry

         6. A panel flies off, speed picks up, coastline coming up fast.

         7. Dark humor (gallows humor) and a moment of panic,

         8. Backstory 1

         9. Splashdown—a few quips back to Houston Mission Control

         10. Backstory 2

         11. Floating in the ocean—mission accomplished.

         12. 2500-3000 words done!

7. Quick math (23 words on page that need to be removed) see screenshot.

   1. No character sheet aside from names and occupation (astronaut).

8. Strategy for the opening paragraph:

   1. I picked the names randomly, Nick got to be Commander. I need to showcase his personality, so I’m having him radio the moon base for the setup. This does several things:

      1. Establishes technological progress and sets up a timeline—-five moon bases already exist, and two-day delivery from Earth to the Moon is a convenient service offering.

      2. Commander Nick seems eager to continue doing deliveries—which establishes experience, confidence, and a voice as a corporate messenger too, which I’ll contrast in conversations with his pilot Rob Spicer.

      3. The second line: “No response from the moon base,” can be used to position the story in many different ways, horror, comedy, sci-fi, mystery, thriller, and more. This is flexibility on how I can hit my beat and the reader doesn’t know what the story will be genre-wise.

      4. 

      5. Self-Assessment: Phrasing sounds clunky. Go listen to some NASA Space comms on YouTube.

         1. Edited language for realistic phrasing after 45 minutes of interesting videos. I could have kept going, but research is not writing—-words on screen/paper is writing.

         2. Housekeeping - added first line indent to the formatting so everything is not left aligned at the margins. (see screenshot). This is my bad because I altered my default template for another project.

9. Content Analysis (opening paragraph audit):

   1. Dialogue should sound authentic now.

   2. Character should be evident - commander is procedural, but also has some snark. Pilot is procedural for now, eyes on safety.

   3. A timeline has been established were Moon missions have evolved with safety in mind, as evidenced by the Commander’s chair.

   4. Pacing is controlled with pertinent and relative data. Manipulating the time stretches with quick punchy dialogue and then long descriptive passages for reflective moments.

   5. We’re about to hit the first beat—The reader doesn’t know what type of story this is yet.

   6. 

10. Hit that first beat, feel out the characters, how do they act and how do they respond?

    1. At 619 words, the core story has been setup for a diversion.

    2. The characters are telling me they need to have a bonding moment. Let’s see where this goes.

    3. Spicer voices his concerns about the triviality of the traditional checklists that seem like a relic of past missions from decades ago.

    4. Now we’ve set the stage for any number of bad things to happen:

       1. The lack of Moon Base V’s response from earlier. Is there something wrong with the Moon Base, or are they just tired of corporate speak.

       2. Mission control got over a tense moment, might be too relaxed now for what is about to happen next. Perhaps an astronaut that cried wolf—-scenario?

       3. By stating that there are no longer any radiation issues, it makes the most sense to break that sense of normalcy. ←ding! ding! ding! We have a winner.

11. The Uh Oh moment

    1. I want this to be the click-click-click before going over the hump on a roller coaster—- and then the drop comes. That’s my roller coaster analogy.

    2. Raise the tension, quicken the pace around the 736-word count.

12. Options

    1. Put the brakes on the action with two backstory reveals, detailing interior thoughts and memories of both men as they face a possibility of death.

    2. Forego character development to further the action. I’m choosing A because I want to know more about these two.

13. Change of Scene at 930 words, plenty of room for exploration)

    1. As the two astronauts figure out what to do, ground control is scrambling.

    2. At 1123 words, there is chaos at ground control, let’s check in with our protagonists.

14. Change of Scene at 1123 words.

    1. Our astronauts now know the procedural book. Is that enough?

    2. We need to know what’ s happening in their head - time to slow things down.

    3. Shit is hitting the fan at 1485. We got Spicer’s backstory and have an emotional stake in his well-being.

15. Ground Control 1485 words

    1. We leave our astronauts in freefall as we check in with mission control.

    2. Things look grim until two sparkles in the sky appear.

16. Commander’s Backstory 1732 words

    1. The commander is in a freefall, so this is a good spot for some backstory.

    2. Oh crap, I didn’t think of a name for his wife. Alura seems too cartoony or space-y, Alanis works. Three syllables, good name for poetic prose.

    3. Backstory complete at 1975 words. Plenty of room to bring this story home.

    4. Splashdown commenced.

17. Nearing the end 2198 words

    1. I’ve told the story I wanted to tell at the beginning. Its time to add the prompts in a way that makes sense.

    2. Okay, at 2375, the prompts have been implemented

    3. Oops! I forgot this was supposed to be a humor piece.

18. THE END @ 2422 words - 24 placeholder = 2400 words

    1. I closed with dark comedy. Everyone involved from our astronauts to mission control have been on a wild ride.

    2. We start with low key comedy, shift to a very high stakes action sequence, move into dread, and then do an about face pivot for a way back to a dark humor ending.

Parting thoughts:

You have seen my thought process. I think it’s transparent, accessible and it serves an over the shoulder look into my methodology for craft. It’s a large shift from reading rules of writing and trying to make sure a story fits a mold.

This is a character-first story, with humor, then a tragedy, with a triumph, and dark return until closure.

There is no hero’s journey or 17-point plot plan. There is no Stephen King on Writing here, no how-to books. Could you twist yourself into a pretzel pointing out ways it could be? Sure; but my intent was stated up front, and the output is the result of that intent.

The takeaway is this: Start with the most basic elements: someone, somewhere, doing something. that’s it for step 1. Don’t spend too much time on this or you’ll over think it and derail yourself before you’ve hit your stride.

Once you have that, you are the captain of where that vessel goes and what form it takes. At this stage the characters are real, what they’re doing matters, and where they’re at is a centerpiece for now.

Be mindful to put some sensory elements (sight, sounds, touch, taste, etc) and find opportunities to show things in a cinematic way, the way it would appear on the screen.

Pacing is a big thing that I try to explain to people as often as I can. Like poetry, strategic line breaks help the beat land at the right moment. You can see it in action from the speed of the ups and downs and where I take forward momentum and time-dilate it.

Is this easy: I think so. I love the process and I do this weekly if not daily sometimes. The difference is that I’ve been doing this in long form with pen and college ruled binder paper since sixth grade. The change is that I know the terms and a few technical niceties, but the ore device of crafting a story and letting the characters come to life has not changed in millennia.

You do not need a Character sheet of 125 traits filled out before you start or knowing what type of pizza they’d order. You don’t need formulaic templates. You could, but then you lose a touch of authenticity, tone—your voice. That’s a big deal for me. I listen to people talk, which is so interesting, regional, and unique in many ways, but when they write something, it’s all bland westernized wet noodles, because of the way it’s ‘supposed’ to be—yuck!

Write in your authentic self and that will penetrate and linger in the afterthought of your reader and pop up in the future when they least expect it.

Closing it out

The total write time for this is roughly 6 hours, with bio and food breaks scattered about, in reality its only 4 hours, with at least 45 minutes of watching NASA Youtube Videos to see how they speak.

Here is a link to the original document. All human, including my its–it’s corrections: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1o-DNqPZ1fw-VV5Njlsn8S_QyPBk2WCr6d2YmSc6PMbs/edit?usp=sharing

Remember, this is just my process, and it fits me. I’m only one guy, and I’m curious as to your thoughts, and how you write.

Perhaps you can share your #Write-Along in the comments?

Author’s Note:

This story originated from The Author’s Only Collective prompt: An Unexpected Gift
The constraint being =<300 words

Story:

Chocolates, bouquets, and candlelit dinners with a picturesque view—I sell those all day, but I want none of them.

The calendar taunts me for days leading up to my birthday, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, and milestone events. No one dislikes receiving gifts more than me. I’m sure of it. Every ribbon feels like an emotional debt I never asked to owe.

Sometimes, I get the sense that I’m in a gift-receiving hell of sorts. As in, somewhere in the bureaucracy, down at the burning pits of brimstone, there is a mid-level demon manager who sends a recruit to me, bearing gifts as some rite of passage. “Congratulations, you’re a full-fledged demon now,” they celebrate.

These people have worked with me at the flower shop for over ten years, and I’m sure they mean well. All I can do is force myself to smile, nod with appreciation, and examine whatever it is with faux interest and an overflowing amount of gratitude—energy better served elsewhere.

This time, I’m not going to play my part in their feel-good ritual. I won’t be around when they come bearing gifts. I will be conveniently unavailable. No fake smile, no effusive gratitude, and no figuring out where to put another decorative indoor succulent. Today, I will give myself a day without gifts.

I grab my keys from my bag, flip the sign on the glass window to ‘Closed,’ and reach for the light switch.

Wait, what’s that on the counter? It’s got a bow and a card attached.

Yes, it’s for me, but it’s not true until I confirm it.

Nope, not going to do it.

Turn off the lights. Close the door behind you.

I’m going to hate myself, aren’t I?

Oh, gift-giving demons, why do you torment me?

The Story Behind the Story:

When I first saw the prompt, my immediate reaction was, “I hate gifting.” Not the generosity part—the performance part. Finding the “perfect” gift is subjective, and receiving one is even worse. If you love it, you have to prove it. If you don’t, you have to pretend you do. Either way, it’s emotional labor.

That was the seed: someone who dreads gifts.

From there, I built my usual baseline—someone, somewhere, doing something. A clerk, a gift shop, closing up for the day. Simple. Contained. A pressure cooker.

Then I asked the question that unlocked the story: what if the clerk is the one who hates receiving gifts? And what if it’s their birthday?

With only 300 words to work with, I couldn’t parade a dozen well‑meaning customers through the shop. So instead, I let the gifts appear on their own, as if the universe—or something darker—was taunting them. I call this the Rod Serling effect: take an ordinary moment and tilt it just enough to slip into the uncanny.

Gremlins would’ve been cute. Demons felt more honest. Especially in a small Bible Belt town where dread often comes with a moral explanation. I also implied that the bad place has a bureaucracy or fraternity, so they send a pledge level demon to wreak havoc.

That’s how this story came together: a simple annoyance, a small shop, a birthday no one asked for, and the creeping sense that the world is conspiring to give you exactly what you don’t want.

Thanks for reading.

—Daniel

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Metadata:

Length: 293 words
Tone: MOOD
Content Note: SFW
Series: The Author’s Only Collective

Author’s Note: Welcome to the first entry of my Substack. This piece, “Lonely No More,” explores the quiet, often heavy space between the lives our parents built for us and the ones we struggle to inhabit ourselves. I’m glad you’re here.

Carlos Jimenez stood at the edge of his wooden patio. To his left in the far corner of the yard was an old toolshed that had been recently repainted, long after his father Hector passed away. Carlos had watched his father put it together when he wasn’t old enough to help, but young enough to fetch tools, lemonade, and some tortas.

The chairs along the fence line were still there, covered in the shade of the large apple tree that was only a year older than Carlos. It was there that his father told him stories about his life. Hector had a story for every song on the soundtrack of his life.

Carlos sat in the chair, allowing his spine to rest along the back until he could feel his skin fill in the initials he had carved as a boy. As the years passed, Carlos finished college, and both his parents succumbed to illness and old age, one year apart from each other. The house was quiet now. Everything, from the portraits on the walls to the pots and pans in the cupboards, was left as is.

His routine—work, eat, sleep—was a cage he had built himself. Carlos looked across the grass and saw the shadow of a windmill attached to a weathervane. It was a machine entirely at the mercy of the breeze, twisting blindly. He traced its spinning shadow, feeling the hollow echo of his own directionless routine.

“This isn’t living,” he told himself.

He stood up and walked out of the gate. He followed the sun, against the breeze, moving on his terms. He passed the park where his mother used to push him on the swing. But as he continued to walk, the sheer scale of the unpredictable world terrified him more than the quiet of his backyard. Fear twisted his stomach.

He reached the center of town as the sky turned a dark purple. The cross traffic was fast. The burst of air from passing trucks pushed against him, a physical reminder of the world’s relentless momentum.

Carlos wasn’t afraid of death. Death was certain. It was life he feared most. Life was full of the unknown, the uncontrollable, the unexpected. By stepping into the dark, he had finally forced the wind to stop. He was no longer a weathervane controlled by the breeze, waiting to see how he’d be spun next.

The Story Behind the Story

This entry came from the Sac State Alumni writing group I occasionally attend. I should go more often, but that’s besides the point.

On this day, we all gathered at a friend’s house in Mid-town Sacramento, and they had this cozy backyard with a patio, large tree, an old toolshed, and some wooden chairs. It reminded me a bit like my childhood home.

The setting and the nostalgia of home made me think of the loss of my parents and the last time I visited their home to remove their personal belongings and some memories.

I created Carlos as a guy that I thought could have been similar to me. He had parents that were different from mine, but the interactions were the same and even though we share the same count of close friends, my kindergarten buddies are doing fine.

Carlos, like me, sometimes gets caught up on the daily grind and occasionally has an existential crisis. In my worst times, I shared a similar thought pattern with Carolos—-I was afraid of living.

The ending is ambiguous, but I’m here, so I like to think Carlos is out there too in his fictional world.

I’ll find the picture of the backyard that inspired this.

The craft I used here is minimalist, slice-of-life, observation of the mundane details we often overlook in our daily lives. The emotional beats that I wanted to hit are all there from careful contemplation, nostalgia, loss, grief, pain, and a few others.

The story started like any story that I explain to my students and fellow writers: Someone, somewhere, doing something. Once you have that, you can go anywhere and do anything with that character—-this is where people add their genre tropes like the heroes’ journey, murder mystery, sci-fi, romance, etc.

Well, that’s it for my first Substack entry. I’ve got roughly 80 more of these sitting in an archive. Who knows, maybe they’ll end up here.

Thanks for reading.

-Daniel