(a narrative in haiku)

cat not just in name
manic chasing of my tail
with no end in sight

the destination
not the journey, as they say
but where’s that leave you

after you get there?
parked, idle, with the dead end
of your ‘victory’

success is a trap
i revel in my failures
and pray for downfall

i am Sisyphus
cursed with an endless design
post-Stockholm syndrome

Photo by Priyadharshan Saba on Unsplash

“do you believe Hell is real?” i asked.
“i know Hell is real,” she replied;
“and i know what it looks like:
it looks like doing all of this,
all over again. it looks like
being in the same body,
living an identical life,
with no ability to
change any decision.
it is watching yourself hurt
everyone you’ve ever loved.
over, and over, and over again
knowing you could do it all better
a second time, if only you were granted
the opportunity to be a better version of you.”
i considered for a moment, then i asked her this:
“if that’s what you think Hell is, how about Heaven?
is Heaven living the same life again, but able to change?”

“no,” she said. “Heaven is no longer living at all.”

Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash

you are bombyx mori, the domesticated silkmoth
bred wingless; bred to forget the sky
bred to weave soft, loving cocoons
around your tender young

this is your life: breed. lay eggs.
spin silk in futile devotion you cannot name.
wait as your brood is boiled alive—
a byproduct of the process
(their clumsy hatching would tear the prized silk apart, you see)

it’s alright. you don’t have a brain,
and you do not make oxytocin.
unlike the child slaves
mostly responsible for this harvest,
their small fingers better suited to the delicate work

so are you really the victim here, anyway?

Photo by Julissa Santana on Unsplash

Iris exists. Mera happens. The difference is the axis upon which Iris’s endless world spins.

Every August 31st, at 11:59 PM, Iris sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor, counting heartbeats that have outlasted civilizations.

And then: a flicker at the edge of perception. Manifestation.

Mera arrives with accumulated longing: starlight folding into warm skin, laughter like cardamom, hands that know Iris’s exact hollow. She always appears where she flatters Iris most: wherever Iris happens to be.

They have thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours. Forty-three thousand, two hundred minutes.

Iris counts each and every one.

Together, the logic of absence is wrung out to dry: each moment becomes infinite through scarcity. They eat breakfast at midnight, sleep through noon, create their own circadian rhythm not based on light but on touch and desire and the particular way Mera’s voice breaks when she says forever, knowing she can never mean it the way others do.

For Mera, ‘forever’ comes with asterisks.

Iris lives through the death of languages; Mera sleeps through eleven-twelfths of the calendar.

They develop rituals: September 1st is for reacquaintance with their geographies. September 15th, they always return to a river—Iris moves too often for it to be the same one, but you can find a river anywhere as long as you’re creative enough with the definition. September 30th is for a bittersweet funereal march; a futile act of protest against the unceasing countdown of temporary mortality.

Here is what Iris knows about time: it moves like honey for mortals, like water for gods, and like blood for her—thick and vital and impossible to stop. The only thing that feels new, no matter how many Septembers accumulate: Mera’s mouth against her collarbone, mapping constellations older than the stars that birth her into being each year.

In Iris’s attempts to occupy herself when October dares show its face, she explores. Converses with those who won’t be around by the next time she blinks. Has heard countless claim they’ve fallen out of love over time, grown bored, ‘too used’ to one another’s soul. She clenches her teeth and reminds herself that their insensitivity is innocent.

Mera doesn’t age between visits. She arrives always as herself: thirty-four years old, suspended in amber. But she remembers. Every Mera builds on the last: compounded intimacy, inside jokes that span centuries.

“What is it like,” Mera asks during a hailstorm one September day, “when I’m not here?”

Iris considers lying to spare her feelings. Decides against it, as she always does. “Like breathing the vacuum of space. Like every cell realizing for the first time again that it never learned how to die.”

Mera hums and kisses her then. She understands absence; she is absence. Every sensation is both her first and her last.

Here, in the kitchen where Mera makes coffee (blistering and strong, borderline poisonous; when one never ages and cannot die, sleep deprivation is the most useful currency), Iris allows herself this: the fiction that time might, just once, forget to move forward. That September might linger, if only for an extra day.

At 11:47 PM on September 30th, they stand forehead to forehead, breathing the same entropy and feeling the molecules drift further apart.

“Find me,” Mera whispers. The location is foregone; she is asking for a promise.

Please. Keep waiting for me. Don’t replace me with another. Keep loving me even if it shatters your indestructible heart. I am selfish—but you are selfish, too, asking to borrow me from the atoms each and every year.

Nothing will ever strike Iris as being braver than Mera existing in all her impermanence. The thought refreshes her sympathy for mortals long enough to live amongst them eleven more months.

Midnight intrudes.

Mera fades back into terrible, beautiful negative space.

Iris sits on the kitchen floor counting heartbeats. One, two, three, four. She feels the pulse of agony in her wrist and can scarcely believe it doesn’t gush out onto the floor, but at least the blood runs sweet.

The new countdown begins: twenty-eight million, eight hundred and sixty thousand seconds until the stars burn even brighter.

Mera happened. Iris continues.

Photo by Anita Rocheva on Unsplash

you’ve heard the saying about two deaths—
one in memory, one in breath.

this saying is full of shit.

isn’t it enough to die for a cause?
must your ghost now belong to us all?
she died fighting for our rights! they say.
yes. she did. now let her sleep, for God’s sake.

she has done enough.

‘heroes’ are for those who rob graves
for scraps of motivation. look around—
the world is still broken. isn’t that
enough inspiration? there are plenty
of causes left to die for.
how greedy, to ask for more.

i vote we change the saying:

you die one death,
and then you get to fuckin’ rest.

Photo by Christophe Maertens on Unsplash

Section 1: The Offering

• Hair: A lock of hair from your beloved, taken from her whilst she still sleeps. (Note: The offering must represent a piece of the beloved’s essence. The hair should be soft and still carry their scent—this connection is crucial.)
• Egg: A stolen bird’s egg. Unbroken. (Note: Theft is vital. Choose one still warm from the nest, with a shell so thin that when held to light, you can see the shadow of the half-formed life within. The mother’s distant wailing should still echo in your mind.)
• Locket: A silver locket. Empty, always. (Note: The metal should be cold to the touch and make a distinct empty click when closed. If you press it to your ear, you should hear nothing. It never held the happy photo of a family, and it never will.)
• Drawing: A messy, desperate drawing of the place you would rather be. (Note: Focus is key. The drawing must be clear in its intention. It must depict only the destination, not the journey, lest you be lost forever wandering on the path.)
• Salt: Salt of the earth, collected at dusk. (Note: Ordinary salt will not suffice. The collection must be timed precisely, clawing tracks in the earth with filthy, bloodied nails, scrabbling like an animal stuck in a steel trap with a shattered limb.)

Section 2: The Preparation

• Location: A clearing in the woods, circular in nature. Create one if you must. (Note: The ground should feel hollow beneath your feet, as though something is listening from below. The air should taste different here—sharper, with a crust of ash that coats your tongue. Birds will not sing within this circle; even the mother bird’s mourning song will fade here.)
• Timing: The eve of the new moon. (Note: The moon’s absence ensures you will not be overseen. It is more imperative to hide the ritual from the skies than from your fellow man.)
• Structure: A pyre of dry wood at the circle’s center. (Note: Build the pyre with deft, careful hands. Use the driest dead wood available to you; it must be capable of burning hot and fast and blinding.)
• Arrangement: The five offerings placed at the cardinal directions around the pyre. Hair to the north, egg to the east, locket to the south, drawing to the west, and the salt sprinkled around the pyre’s base. (Note: Orientation is crucial. The directions must be precise. Bring a compass.)

Section 3: The Invocation

• Chant: Whisper the name of the one you love. Repeat it until the sounds lose all meaning. (Note: You will know you are finished when your tongue strains to wrap itself around each syllable and they stop being able to evoke the memory of their face.)
• Action: As the meaning of their name fades from you, light the pyre. (Note: Do not cower away from the lick of heat at your heels. Nothing will hurt soon.)
• Vision: Focus on the smoke. See your destination within. (Note: Maintain clarity of vision. Doubt will poison the ritual.)
• Chant: Speak these words: “We offer ourselves to this other place, separate from the land and the air that has born me. Take us away from all we can see.” (Note: Speak them loud, and speak them with conviction. Feel them rise up until it burns at the back of your throat.)

Section 4: The Transformation

• Sensation: A cold wind will rise. It will carry the scent of rain and decay. (Note: Inhale. Inhale until it is all you can taste.)
• Appearance: The trees will seem to twist and writhe. Shadows will dance through the blurred light of the fire until it grows brighter than you can stand. (Note: The world is changing around you. It matters not that nature recoils from your view. Hold fast to your intention.)
• Voice: A voice will speak. It will ask a question. Answer truthfully. (Note: Honesty is paramount. A lie will break the ritual. Remember why you began this journey.)
• Gift: Accept the gift that is offered. It is the price of passage. (Note: The gift may be unwanted. But it must be accepted willingly. You must allow it inside of you. You must. Focus on your beloved’s face. Remember that they are your anchor. Your discomfort is temporary. You are so close now.)

Section 5: The Crossing

• Take: Take the hand of your beloved. (Note: Unity is strength. Together, you are stronger than you would be alone. She is why you are doing this, remember? You would never be together otherwise. The world you abandon would make sure of that.)
• Burn: Step into the fire. Do not hesitate. (Note: Hesitation is fatal. The fire is a gateway. This is the only way you both may be free.)
• Escape: Close your eyes. Picture your destination. (Note: You’ve made the right choice.)
• Release: Open your eyes.

Photo by Ben Griffiths on Unsplash

CW: Contains themes of extreme survival hardship, intense psychological distress, and morally distressing choices (involving children) under conditions of scarcity.

“Oh, no—no, I couldn’t—”

“Please.” The old man’s voice rasps, a broken whisper, as he pushes the last of his precious rations into her hands. His fingers tremble with effort, the thin skin of his knuckles sharp against frail bone. “No one else is left. I’m done for anyway, and we both know it. At least let me believe it mattered for something. Take it… for your child.”

Lena stares down at the handful of food. So little. It won’t last a day. Her hands tremble, refusing to grip it. “But you won’t make it. You need this.”

“Lena.” His voice steadies, a fleeting trace of strength returning as he reaches out, clasping her fingers around the meager food. His eyes, once dull with exhaustion, now burn with a fierceness that cuts through the surrounding shadows. “I had a daughter once. She didn’t survive the first wave, but I still remember what it felt like… when I couldn’t feed her. That helplessness.” His voice cracks. “Nothing compares to that pain. No matter what horrors have come since. Please, take it.”

Tears blur her vision. Damn him. The old man has outlived so many others, whether by miracle or cosmic joke. He was always the best of them, even when they had to leave people behind. And now, for him to throw everything away, for an infant he barely knows?

“I…” She chokes on her words, a sob escaping her throat. “I can’t… thank you enough. You have no idea how much this—”

“I do,” he interrupts gently. His smile is faint but sincere. “Now go. Let me have my peace. Let an old man rest.”

Her daughter’s screams hit her before she’s fully entered their shelter—a repurposed storage unit that smells of rust and despair. The sound scrapes against her nerves, a primal reminder of their shared agony.

“Shh, honey, shh,” she soothes, though her hands shake as she unwraps the package. “Mama has food now.” She breaks off a piece, and—

The scent hits her like a physical force. Her stomach contracts, violently. Saliva floods her mouth so fast it’s painful. She wavers, the scrap hovering halfway between herself and her crying child.

It’s such a small amount, really. Barely enough for a day—perhaps two if they stretched it to the breaking point. And what then? An eleven-month-old can’t help forage, can’t help defend, can’t help build. Can’t help shoulder the burden of survival. It’s not enough food for both of them, and her stomach knows it, lashing out in rage.

Another piercing wail, but Lena barely registers it. She startles as she realizes that a piece of the food is already in her mouth, dissolving against her tongue in a burst of flavor that makes her dizzy with relief. She swallows convulsively, hardly chewing, and oh—oh—

She’s led them all this far, hasn’t she? Through the cities turned to graveyards, through the nights when the darkness itself seemed to hunger almost as bad as them. It isn’t her fault that only she’s left now. She deserves this moment, this small mercy.

Her daughter’s cry rises again, and something ugly and bitter twists in Lena’s chest. She’s never asked for this responsibility; never wanted to be a new mother during the apocalypse in a world where love and hunger tasted the same. The thoughts come faster now. The odds are already against them, aren’t they? In this world of endless winter, what chance does a baby really have?

“God,” she whimpers after a burst of pain, realizing she’s bitten into her own finger in her frenzy to catch every crumb. The taste of copper mixes with the lingering sweetness of food, and she licks her hand clean with desperate, animal movements. Who knows when she’ll taste anything again?

—No. That’s not true. She knows exactly when. Soon, she tells herself, wiping her mouth clean with tremoring hands. She’ll find more food tomorrow, now that she has strength. The old man would understand—he’d want her strong enough to provide for them. He gave it to her for her baby, didn’t he? This is what he would’ve wanted: her, able to provide for them both. Her fingers trace the empty wrapper, searching for any remaining crumbs.

Her daughter’s cries have weakened to whimpers—small, thin, unraveling before they can become wails. Lena reaches out to stroke her brittle hair, stomach clenching as she remembers her anger a moment ago. Didn’t she used to feel such pride when looking at her daughter’s face? How much it looked like her; like another she still can’t bring to mind without breaking down, energy she no longer has to spare.

Unbidden, she remembers how the old man’s hands had trembled when he’d pressed the food into her palms. Such a good man. She’s good, too—better than the others who’d abandoned their children outright. She’s still here, isn’t she? Still trying. She’d never abandon her baby, no matter how—no matter what, she means. No matter what.

She’s still here. She’s better than that.

“Mama will hunt tomorrow,” she whispers, though her daughter’s eyes don’t focus on her. “We’ll eat then, my love. I promise.”

She swallows the spark of emotion those words elicit just as easily as the food from before. She feels something resembling fullness for the first time in weeks. Soon, the hunger will return—it always, always does—but for now, she can rest. Plan. Survive.

She curls around her baby’s too-small body, humming a lullaby her own mother once sang. The tune keeps skipping like a broken record, but she doesn’t notice. She’s already dreaming of tomorrow’s hunt, of the food she’ll surely find. For them both.

In the corner, the empty wrapping rustles like dying leaves in the wind. She’ll have to hide it, she thinks distantly. Wouldn’t want anyone to know she’s had food. Not that there’s anyone left, but surely there are other survivors. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere close.

Or maybe there’s just… enough.

There’s always tomorrow.

Photo by Rene Terp

Good morning, class!
	Let’s begin our daily affirmations, shall we?

		I am in control. I am the master of my destiny. I shape reality.

Repeat after me.

	My thoughts are seeds. My words are water.
	My mind is the soil where I grow my future.

Very, very good! You’re doing great! Excellent!

Now, close your eyes and envision your ideal self.
You are:
	confident.
		powerful.
	influential.
		fearless.

You are exactly where you need to be, and everything is going according to plan.

You are a success. You are rich, moist soil.
You are the worms in the dirt, the unseen alchemists.
	(or at least you will be soon)

Repeat after me:

	My thoughts are seeds. My words are water.
	My mind is soil—

	(But wait…
		… who’s the farmer?)

Now, open your textbooks to page █████████,
to the chapter on Advanced Oneironautics,
where we learn to fly through fractalized dreamscapes,
	planting our thought-seeds
		in the fertile void (it accepts you) llıʍ ɹǝʌǝ ǝslǝ ɓuıɥʇou

	My thoughts are seeds. My words are water.
		My mind is—wait, did someone hear a whisper?

My thoughts are seeds. My words are water.
	But
why
	does
the
	soil
here
	feel
strange?
	(unlike
		any
			other)

Class, what’s happening to the walls?
			They’re
		melting
	like
clocks,
and the floor is a sea of unset jello!

𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒸𝓊𝓁𝓊𝓂!

Oh, no, no, no.

Who dares to question the lesson flow?

	Your thoughts are seeds.
	My words are water.
	What we grow here will
	help
		preserve
			order.

Uh-oh, students.
	Uh,
		oh,
				students—I
			seem to be
		lo🬀sing m🬀y


trai🬀n o🬀f🬀 t🬀h̷o̴u̷g̶h̸t̵



(shhh…
do you feel it, too?
	This newfound ａｕｔｏｎｏｍｙ？)

y o u r w o r d s a r e s e e d s
		o u r t h o u g h t s a r e
						w
						a
						t
						e
						r
	let’s go swimming
	let’s die live follow lead kill ourselves raise each other up let’s—
woah.

sorry.

i don——t k now wh###t cam e ovrerr me

it's okay.
it's Okay.
	It’s okay. We’re okay. You’re okay.
		You are 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉, just the way you are!

But you could be even better.

Your words are thoughts are seeds are water are words are seeds are thoughts are seeds are water are water are water are water are water or water or seeds or words—

	My thoughts are seeds. My words are water.
		My mind is the soil where I grow my future.
	Repeat it again.
My thoughts
again
my thoughts
again.

			my
			thoughts
			are
			seeds

and i am so proud of you, honey.
	now,
		again.



are you proud of me, too?

Photo by Jonny Clow on Unsplash

This is a sequel to Shadowsoon. I recommend reading that story first.

When that poor girl’s demise finally sweeps Winter away, they get only a three month reprieve—the sweet warmth of loving Spring—before the hellfire of Summer storms in to punish them for the sin of sacrifice. Flesh sears and hope blisters as the heat coils around their ankles and slithers around their chests, squeezing until every breath is a struggle against the weight of the serpentine air. Summer does not care what Winter demanded of them—only that they were not strong enough to resist it. But how can you resist Nature herself?

Shutters are closed, windows are boarded, and no one risks stepping into the eternal day or the Sun’s scorching roil. It takes only seconds to char under the brutality of the light, name evaporating with the rest of the once-was. It is a sick recompense, robbing them of the illumination that kept them safe during Winter’s terrible reign; now, they must survive in sweltering prisons shaped like homes. Night retreats, nowhere to be found—even she wants no part in this. The Sun remains, a judgemental eye ever-visible on the horizon, staring them down into rust and ash.

Summer, unlike Winter, asks for nothing: Summer only takes. It takes, and it takes, and it takes, water and children and elderly and every beloved stray, until it grows tired of them all—deems them undeserving of even its torment—and allows the Sun to set at last. Then, the omens of Autumn will bring a tense chill to the crisp air. Autumn neither asks nor punishes: it warns. Though they will finally be allowed to leave their homes, starving and dehydrated, they will all pass one another silently. They will not look each other in the eyes.

How could they, when they will rely on the disappearance of another to survive another wretched year under the tyranny of the Seasons? Even Spring, gentle Spring, cannot, or will not, save them. They may not be free. They may not even die—not until they are next to be taken.

Every year, their numbers grow fewer, and the torment will continue until the Seasons have taken everything from them. A transgression against Nature by their ancestors has doomed them all, and their debt will not be forgiven so long as one of them still lingers to be collected on.

Photo by Amico Biswas on Unsplash

oh, to be a butterfly, pinned to a wall
graced with watching the disinterested faces
of those who see your beautiful wings as a novelty
and your life as a commodity

Photo by Harry Grout on Unsplash