Your Room

A Poem by Nick Pasta

You can get a lot done

right here in your room.

You can talk to your friends

through Discord or Zoom.

And if you get hungry there's no need to leave

just log onto DoorDash and eat what you please.

"Umm… what about money?"

You say with a smirk.

Well, that’s easy to do

just find remote work.

“That must be wonderful

it sounds like a dream!”

staying in your room is not all it might seem.

There will come a day on Discord or Zoom

when none of your friends will be in their room.

The Dashers you’ll need when you want to eat

will all be at home, not out on the street.

And just one more hour of working alone

hurts you to the core, right down to the bone.

Cause, when that day comes, and it will come quite soon.

You’ll wish you’d not spent so much time in your room.

Hi all!
Was feeling a little lonely yesterday and so I used that as inspiration for this poem. If anybody knows someone who does illustrations I’d love to get in contact with them to make a cover for this poem.

Thanks again to anyone who reads this. I hope it makes your day a little bit brighter!

Leave a comment

by Nick Pasta

In a bustling metropolis far removed from the secluded woods, Professor Arthur Caldwell pored over ancient tomes and ciphered letters, chasing a trail that seemed to lead only to madness and death. His obsession, as fevered as it was, was ignited by rumors and whispers of a man, a lone survivor of some unspeakable ordeal, who had seen past the veil of reality and lived to tell the tale.

From the depths of cold-war era archives, Professor Caldwell had unearthed the name of Ilya Petrov. A name that was mentioned with dread and spoken in hushed whispers even among the hardened men of the Soviet occult division. The deeper Professor Caldwell delved, the more terrible a picture began to form.

Recruited by the Soviet Union during World War II, Ilya Petrov was enlisted for his expertise in the occult. He was to find something, anything that could be of an advantage to the Soviets.

From what Caldwell found. Ilya had succeeded.

Caldwell managed to get his hands on secret reports from the aftermath of the government site. He read grim reports describing whole rooms of men decimated from the operation. He read their corpses were hollow, no thicker than leather. And that they were thrown around like rags still dripping blood.

Caldwell found accounts of murders that seemed linked to Ilya after his tenure. Speculative articles of disappearances. The bodies of the missing found flattened and carved out like bear rugs in piles. Hair, teeth, and nails still in place. The killer was never found.

Professor Caldwell felt both dread and an irresistible pull. The terror that had shattered the mind of Ilya Petrov could be the key to unlocking knowledge that mankind had sought for centuries.

After all Caldwell stood on the shoulders of giants. The practices of the occult had refined much since the time of Petrov. Petrov’s practices were old, brutish, and barbaric. Modern practices were refined, clean, and left little room for error. Perhaps in his search for answers he could free Ilya from this prison in the process.

The disappearances had stopped so he must have left the city, and no reports of these murders had appeared in any other city either. Caldwell pulled up aerial photos taken from planes and scoured them for months combing the forest for a dwelling that might belong to Ilya. Eventually he found it. A dwelling in the middle of a dense forest that appeared to emanate toxic gas that twisted and charred all the foliage around it. That had to be him.

With the name of Ilya Petrov etched into his mind and the whispers of the long-dead Soviet occult division echoing in his ears, Professor Caldwell embarked on a journey that would lead him into the heart of darkness. He was in search of answers.

The forest was dark and eerie around Petrov’s dwelling. The treetops were so dense only fractions of light made it through to the grungy forest floor. The subtle smell of sulfur tinged the area around the house as all life seemed to stop just a few meters from the door.

The closer to the house Professor Caldwell got the more the trees began to twist and curl in unnatural directions. A sense of foreboding took over the professor as he felt the presence of something frozen in time beyond the door of the cabin.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He panicked! He looked at his arms and could have sworn he felt himself being sucked from the inside out, or that he was suffocating on whatever toxic gas had caused the forest around the cabin to crumble. No, that was just an illusion. His anxiety playing tricks on him.

The shack was run down. The outside of the house was covered in corpses of animals who strayed to close to the dwelling. Their hollowed bodies shed from their soul, and shriveled as if sucked out by a straw.

With all the confidence he could muster Professor Caldwell pushed away the corpses, walked up to the door and knocked. 

Silence.

This was a terrible idea, he thought. Every moment an eternity. He continued to check his body for physical symptoms and noticed no changes. Maybe Ilya controlled it somehow?

Suddenly the door opened. The inside of the cabin was pitch black, and all that could be seen was the outline of a grotesque figure, hobbled, old, and rotting away.

The figure in the doorway stood silent and still, an ominous silhouette against the unending blackness of the cabin's interior. For a moment, Professor Caldwell could do nothing but stare, his heart pounding in his chest. The grotesque figure seemed to radiate a sense of decay and madness, a palpable aura that threatened to suffocate the professor.

Finally, the figure spoke. The voice was a mere croak, a dry rasp that bore the weight of decades of solitude and torment. "Professor Caldwell," it rasped. "Why have you come?"

"I seek the truth," Professor Caldwell replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "The truth that you discovered, that which broke you, that which lies beyond the boundaries of our understanding. I seek that truth."

Ilya let out a dry, hacking laugh, a sound devoid of any mirth. "The truth?" he croaked. "The truth leaves a man hollow."

Despite the fear gnawing at his gut, Professor Caldwell held his ground. "And yet, I must know," he said, determination burning in his eyes. "I must understand, no matter the cost." His nose still burning from the stench.

Ilya seemed to consider this for a moment, his silhouette shifting slightly in the darkness. "Very well," he finally said. “Enter if you wish.”

Professor Caldwell looked back to the safety of the twisted curled up forest. Then took a step into the cabin.

The darkness did not subside upon entering, but instead it became suffocating. The lantern he held did little to quell the darkness aside from creating a small halo of light around him.

Ilya slowly gestured to a chair in the corner. “Please sit.” He said. 

Professor Caldwell looked over to the chair, and back at the man. The cabin was small, but with the unbearable weight of stench, darkness, and foreboding, the professor resisted. “I think I’ll stand,” he said.

“Very well.” The old figure muttered.

“So what do you know?”

“In all honesty, very little,” Professor Caldwell said. “That is why I’m here. I am your disciple, I seek to learn from you and perhaps cure you in the process.”

Ilya looked to the floor then to the roof. “Perhaps this is a blessing then. If you are anything like me you will make an acceptable candidate.” he said trailing off in thought.

Caldwell stood there “I am ready.”

Ilya perked up “Before we start, there are some things we have to establish.”

Ilya hunched over and said “We are going to keep this discrete, we cannot be found.”

Caldwell quickly responded with “Yes, absolutely. My trail is untraceable”

Next Ilya perked up again and asked “Are you a loyal researcher of the occult?”

“Yes” Caldwell responded “I’ve been studying it my entire adult life.”

“Very good.” Ilya complimented.

“It is not a popular area of study, I found it hard to keep friends and connections”

Caldwell responded “Indeed, that is perhaps one of my biggest struggles, but still I persist”

“Very good.” Ilya complimented again.

Caldwell checked his body again for signs of damage, and to his surprise he still found nothing. He felt reassured.

Ilya perked up and said finally, “Yes, this is very good. Lets not lose this opportunity.”

Ilya slouched, “So tell me Professor, what do you want to know?”

Professor Caldwell swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine. "What did you find?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Ilya turned to him, his eyes piercing the darkness. "Not what, but who," he said. "We found an ancient one, a god older than time itself. A being of such cosmic power and malevolence that merely to look upon it is to invite madness."

The air seemed to grow colder as Ilya spoke, the darkness pressing in around them. Professor Caldwell felt a growing sense of dread, but he knew he had to press on. "And what is the name of this god? Was anyone right? How can I see them and survive?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Ilya leaned in closer. “We can perform the ritual, but we cannot promise anything” he said.

Professor Caldwell was determined to go forward. This man was different, this man had survived, perhaps he knew some trick that saved him.

But then Caldwell realized, “We who? Are you going to perform the ritual with another… I thought you were alone?”

“I suppose you have done me a favor” said Ilya “They hunger for another. The life around here is all dead, and they are angry”

“What are you talking about!” Professor Caldwell demanded. He took a step back and trembled.

“No matter. You should sate it for now” Ilya said, ignoring the professor.

The last words of Ilya echoed in the suffocating silence. A moment passed, then two. Professor Caldwell felt a sudden chill, an unnatural cold that seemed to seep from the very bones of the cabin.

"Forgive me, Professor Caldwell," the old man whispered. "But now you shall know what it is that you seek. Perhaps you can find solace in that."

Professor Caldwell panicked. He reached into his pocket for a match to re-ignite the lantern. “I don’t know what you intend to do but I am leaving!” Through his fear he fumbled with his pockets and eventually was able to release the matchbox from its chamber. But it was too late.

Before Professor Caldwell could react, the ground beneath him seemed to shift, to writhe. He looked down and, in the faint glow of the dying embers, he saw it. A mass of tendrils, dark as the void, writhing and pulsating.

"No..." Professor Caldwell began, but his protest was cut short as he felt something cold and slimy wrap around his ankles. It began to pull him downwards, into the abyss. He felt his legs shrivel as he was consumed from the inside out like a spider consuming its prey.

He attempted to scream but the tentacle had covered his mouth and begun consuming his lungs.

Ilya watched as the professor was consumed, his old, weary eyes filled with a profound sorrow. "Forgive me," he whispered again. But there was no one left to hear him.

Hi!

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this short story. I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback from readers and friends who loved our stories! Its truly been great to hear from everyone! Thanks so much!

This was supposed to just be a thing to work on while I finished up my degree. And believe me when I say things got very busy at the end of my last quarter.

The great feedback I received has inspired me to reach out to some of my old writers, and get some posts going again!

Funnily enough as I looked through the drafts this story was just sitting there completely done from who knows how many months ago. (Edit: Ok so I actually sat down and edited it for a couple hours to refine the concept)

I’ve reached out and apparently we still have a few in the backlog that I’ve neglected. Sorry Daren. So expect some familiar faces in the coming weeks.

This is all free. Nobody is getting paid anything. Don’t expect consistency from us, but I’ll do my best with the time that I have.

Check Out Nick’s: Twitter | Instagram | Linktree | Itch | Steam Curator |

Chat with the writers themselves on the Bits N’ Pixels Discord Server!

Whittaker bent over and found a video camera on the ground in the middle of the woods next to a tree.

“Huh, what are you doing here?”

“Hey Whittaker, are you done surveying the land over there?”

“Yeah! I just found a camera on the ground. Looks like an old one from 2009, but professional grade.”

“Yeah ok, whatever. So can we start chopping these trees now?”

“I’m not even sure why you bring me here, it’s not like you care what I tell you.”

“Whittaker you are absolutely right, I really could care less. Now please move.”

Whittaker looking at the foreman leaned back to rest on the tree she was near. But to her surprise she instead fell straight to the ground.

“You lose your footing?” The foreman joked.

“Heh, very funny.” She responded “I coulda swore there was a tree there.” She shook her head. “All those shots must still be getting to me.”

The foreman and his team got started with their equipment. Whittaker stepped aside.

“Dennis, are you ready? Do you have the trees marked for today?” The foreman yelled to the planner Dennis.

“Yep we’re all good to go,” Dennis said.

After instructions were given to the workers the foreman walked back over to Whittaker.

“Since you care about the land so much, do you know what the locals called this part of the forest?”

“Does it really matter? There won’t be a forest left when we’re done,” she responded.

“Haha, that’s the spirit! This was known by the locals as the Bermuda Triangle of forests. When we’re done with it, it’ll be the Bermuda Triangle of Parking Lots.”

Whittaker scoffed and looked away.

“Yeah, honestly the world is probably a better place without it.” The foreman continued.

“Seems like a huge waste of money to fly me in all the way from the US just to have you stand here and tell me ghost stories.”

“Yep it is. But it keeps the environmentalists off our backs. So for the moment, you’re stuck here with us.”

Whittaker stepped aside and let the woodsman do their work. She fiddled with the camera.

She pressed the power button… Nothing happened.

Its been sitting out here for like 30 years, of course it wouldn’t turn on.

The cable slot was an old USB Type-B connector. Whittaker recognized it immediately.

She looked over to the foreman, “Hey! Do you guys have any old USB connectors lying around?”

“What, why?” he responded.

“I want to plug this in and see whats on it”

“You’ll be lucky if it even works,” the foreman responded. “But yeah you should find out what’s on it, it could be very important,” He said sarcastically.

“If anything at least it might give you something to do instead of breathing down my neck.”

“I’m a good multi-tasker. I think I can do both,” She retorted.

Later that night Whittaker got home to her RV and put the video camera on a table.

“Fortunately for me, I don’t need a power cable for you” she talked to the camera.

She slumped down onto the couch in the camper, “Luckily I have a camera of my own!” She sighed “I wouldn’t be a good environmentalist without it.”

Whittaker popped the SD card out of the camera and slotted it into her camera.

“Please, please please.” She said clenching her fists. Whittaker pressed the on button on the camera, and the screen flicked to life.

She navigated to the cameras memory and clicked view. A dialogue box popped up saying Memory Card Unreadable.

“Damn.” she said to herself. She took the sd card out of the camera and blew on the contact end of the card, and also in the sd slot of the camera.

“Probably still had some dust on it” she thought.

She slotted the card back into the camera. This time the memory screen filled up with videos.

“YES!” she said.

She flicked to the first video on the card and played it.

The face on the screen was immediately recognizable. “Slammin’ Salmon-man!” she shouted.

Whittaker knew who this was because she had seen him on TV when she was a child. He was the host of a nature survival show. Famous for daring stunts and teaching people to survive in impossible conditions.

She remembered that he and his crew had disappeared during a shoot of one of his episodes. Could this be a camera from that last shoot?

That was ages ago, so it was unlikely Whittaker knew. She watched some of the clips left on the camera and sure enough they confirmed the identity of the camera.

“Wow what a find” she thought. She was probably one of the first people to have any evidence of what happened to Slammin Salmon.

*THUD* A loud sound from outside the RV. Whittakers head snapped towards the sound. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

It was clearly loud enough to have rustled everyone on site. Whittaker creeped over to the door of her RV and peered out from the camper in her comfy pajamas.

The rest of the workers had been rustled and were on the lookout for anything suspicious.

“Over here!” somebody yelled. Everyone rushed over to the source of the sound. By the time Whittaker had made her way over to the source of the sound a sizeable crowd had gathered.

What Whittaker saw when she pushed her way through the crowd of rowdy arborists was hard to make out. At first she just saw what looked like a pile of clothes on the floor, but her eyes slowly adjusted. Bones, limbs, and blood. Blood everywhere.

Whatever had happened here she was looking at a worker, or at least, what was left of him.

The rowdy crowd had become restless. The sounds of screams as people witnessed this horrific sight. As one person saw the mangled pile of bones on the ground and became sick another person would push their way through to start the cycle over again.

“Who was that?!” some yelled, “I think it was Jim!” “No I’m over here!” “Oh thank god. Then who was it?” With all the chaos it was hard to make out who exactly was missing.

“What the hell is going on!” the foreman yelled. All heads turned. He made his way over to the gruesome site. “Holy hell!” he yelled. “What the fuck happened here?”

Silence.

“Well it had to be something! He’s a fucking puddle! You don’t just turn into a fucking puddle out of nowhere. Turn on the floodlights and lets flush the fucker out that did this.”

“Someone get the goddamn rifle!” His orders echoed through the forest clearing as everyone mobilized and got to work.

The flood-lights flicked on, bringing the scene into clearer view. Some workers searched the area for animals while the foreman and the senior members cautiously examined the scene for more clues.

“What do you make of it?” The foreman asked openly.

“Well he was obviously crushed..” someone pitched in.

“Ya don’t fuckin think?” the foreman said sarcastically.

“Why is he covered in leaves?” someone else said.

“Whats that puddle in front of him?” Whittaker pointed out. “Its not blood”

One of the other workers leaned forward and took a closer look. “Hmm, you’re right” Then the smell hit him.

“AUGH! Its urine! He was going to the bathroom”

“Ok so he left his housing unit to go to the bathroom… thud… then… puddle. What does that mean?” asked the foreman.

“Perhaps he accidentally attracted some creature?” someone else chimed in.

Whittaker interjected, “I’m feeling unwell. I’m gonna go back to my RV.”

Nobody paid her much attention as she walked back to her RV. She was anxious to think about something else. Perhaps she would feel better if she looked through more of those old videos.

As Whittaker stepped back into the RV, she slid the SD card back into the camera. She pressed play and started watching one of the later videos. This time, Slammin’ Salmon was visibly worried. He spoke of strange occurrences in the forest, shadows that seemed to move on their own, disappearing equipment, and an eerie feeling of being watched. His last words on the video were, "We're leaving first thing in the morning. This place, it ain't right."

Suddenly, Whittaker remembered something the foreman had mentioned earlier: the locals called this place the Bermuda Triangle of forests. She began to put the pieces together. This area was notorious for unexplainable incidents and now, a gruesome death. Maybe this wasn't just an accident, she thought.

The next morning, Whittaker approached the foreman with her findings. He was dismissive at first, "Old ghost stories and a TV show host's drama. You're losing it, Whittaker."

"Maybe," she responded. "But we should take precautions. We can't explain what happened last night."

Reluctantly, the foreman agreed to halt work for the day. The crew was more than happy to rest after the previous night's incident. Whittaker seized this opportunity to explore the woods, with the camera in hand.

She spent the entire day scouring the woods, observing the trees, the ground, any signs of irregularities. And then, she saw it - a tree, just like the one she fell through the day before. She reached out, and her hand passed through the bark. It was an illusion, just like the one she had experienced before.

Suddenly, she heard a loud rustling sound from behind. She turned around and saw a figure quickly disappearing behind the trees. Whittaker gave chase and as she got closer, she could make out the figure - it was Slammin’ Salmon. Or at least, it looked like him.

As she got closer, he turned to her, his eyes filled with fear. “Run!” he screamed. “Run before it gets you too!”

Suddenly, a loud, indescribable noise filled the forest. Whittaker, filled with fear, turned and ran back towards the campsite. She could hear the trees crashing behind her as she ran. She didn't dare to look back.

When she reached the camp, she found it in chaos. The workers were packing their things, their faces pale with fear. The foreman, upon seeing her, rushed over. "We heard it too," he said, his voice trembling. "We're leaving."

As Whittaker looked back at the forest, she knew they were making the right decision. There was something unnatural about this place, something that didn't want them there. As the sun set, they drove away, leaving the Bermuda Triangle of forests behind.

And as the last of the vehicles disappeared from view, a lone figure stood by the edge of the forest. It watched as they left, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light. With a final look, it turned around and disappeared into the forest, leaving no trace behind.

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In the middle of the United States, there exists a building almost 2,600 miles long. There are no divides; it is a single, continuous hallway made of concrete, glass, pipes, and wires. Home, factory, and farm, all for a few dollars as rent. Roadtown, a new way of living for the working class.

Beneath the busy cement hallway, two subterranean monorails glide from California to New York at 90 miles an hour. As night falls, they shift from trafficking passengers to freight. Curios shifting from coast to coast.

A collection of notes concerning a peculiar lineage, hidden among worthless brass and tinsel, arrives in the city where people pass faded notes bearing the likeness of a man who proclaimed himself emperor, to the other, where a man pedals the philosophy of the voice in the corner of his room.

A letter, inquiring on the continued failure of sieges in Paris and the existence of spies in the capital city of Tours, leaves the town where bombs and guns tried to halt the reveal of a mayor’s corruption to be shipped overseas from where a city planner will find a way to give himself all the power needed to shape the country.

A small revolver, missing from its display case, arrives where an exhibition built a palace on the waterfront to celebrate the connection of the seas, sent from the city where an exhibition built a temple where the nation’s leader laid covered in his own blood.

A message, furiously accusing the recipients of knowing some secret to the event nearly two decades ago, leaves the city where an old reporter reflects on a colleague who left for Mexico and never returned, to be delivered where a circle of authors take names created by a missing man and attach them to a cosmology of nightmares.

A strange device, comprised of coils and made to replace rays with particles, arrives  where a strange silver moon shines above the world's longest bridge, sent from where fire engulfed the work of a veteran of the Currents Wars. 

A threat, telling its recipient they know the truth of events two decades ago, leaves from the city where a millionaire employed reporters, one of whom is now missing, to the other, where the same millionaire manufactured support for the war by fabricating attacks.

A book, banned in all of France but it’s former capital, arrives where a society of artists and patrons gather in the forest, ready to perform a play despite a missing member, sent from where a forbidden script is about to be read, a figure cloaked in yellow awaiting an audience. 

A professor’s account, detailing strange things that watch from beyond the stars, leaves the city where a man imprisoned on an island slowly wastes away with a smile on his face, to then arrive in the city where years before he had ordered the murder of seven rivals.

A man, whispering in a tongue known to none on this Earth, arrives in the city of the phoenix, newly risen from the ashes, leaving the city now signaling the end of a golden era.

The monorail departs for New York, where a death will not happen. The designer of the Roadtown will not be found dead by his own hands. His impossible building will be accepted by the World’s Fair Corporation. 30 years after the fair that ended in the assassination of the president for the good of the working class they will hold the fair that begins with the unveiling of a new way of life for the working class.

The monorail departs for California, carrying with it a waxen mask and robe. The song is the same: Black stars dot the night sky, and blood will pour on the flowers below. Then the first shell will fall.

It’s dawn in Roadtown.

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VO By Nick Pasta

A rainy fall morning in small town, USA. The sky wept down upon the old town cemetery. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops fell upon a wooden coffin. Jack watched with a somber face as it slowly descended into the Earth. A grizzled Gulf War vet in his early fifties with a prosthetic left leg. He buried the only good thing in his life. A final goodbye to his wife, Jane. Cancer. A tough hand, but she put up one helluva fight. 

Several days following the funeral, Jack laid awake in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. Dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink since the service. He glanced over at Jane’s side of the bed, then over at a digital clock on the nightstand. 12:01 AM. Jack let out a tired sigh, then threw the covers off of him. He needed sleep, but the trailer home kept reminding him of her absence. Time for a change of scenery. 

Jack took the bus into town. He stepped out into the crisp night air, then lit up a cigarette and took a few drags. He glanced down at his smartphone. A picture of Jane hugging him in his Marine uniform illuminated the screen. An old photo from before his four tours in Iraq. The phone read: 12:58 AM. He buttoned up his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair to at least appear somewhat presentable. He wasn’t fooling anyone though. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a store window. He looked ready for the firing squad.

A red neon sign above him flashed, The River Styx, a local dive bar that Jack used to frequent before Jane made him sober up for good. He stubbed out his cigarette on a bus stop trash can, then went inside.

The bar’s interior was equally as underwhelming as its exterior. Classic Americana themed with a pool table and dartboard. A melancholic country song played softly over the stereo. Typical Sunday night. Just a few lost souls remained gathered around the bar counter like pilgrims at a shrine.

“Last call! Last call for alcohol!” cried the bartender. 

Jack took a seat at the far end of the bar counter away from the others. 

“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a long while. Good to see you, Jack,” the bartender said. 

Jack nodded solemnly. 

“What’s your poison?” asked the bartender.

“Whisky. The good stuff,” replied Jack, holding up two fingers. 

The bartender poured Jack three shots.

“You look like you need one more,” said the bartender, “third one’s on the house.”

“Thanks, Ron,” said Jack with a faint smile as he pulled out his wallet. 

“Just happy to support the troops any way I can,” said Ron.

Jack handed Ron a twenty, then downed his three shots in quick succession. Ron moved away to serve another patron. Just then, a man wearing a black hoodie and jeans sat down beside Jack at the bar counter. Tall, gaunt, and slender with a pale face obscured by his hood. Jack clocked an ivory skull ring on the man’s right index finger. The guy had a peculiar aura about him.

“Do I know you?” asked Jack.

“You will someday,” replied the rogue in a deep otherworldly voice.

“Excuse me?” uttered Jack, caught off-guard by the man’s cryptic comment. 

The man paid Jack no heed, and produced a silver dollar from his waist side pocket. He rolled it up and down his knuckles effortlessly, then slapped it down on the bar counter.

“My condolences about your wife, Jack. She had a pure soul. Hard to come by these days. Just thought you should know that.” 

With that the stranger stood up and made for the door.

“Wait!” called Jack, “who are you?”

“Everything and nothing,” said the hooded figure, “until we meet again.” 

The man left the bar, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. Jack stood up and ran outside into the street to confront the stranger. 

“Where is she?” asked Jack desperately, “please… I have to know.”

“You’ll meet again, but not yet,” whispered the man, “you still have time, Jack. I suggest you make the most of it. It comes down to a simple choice: get busy living, or get busy dying.”

And with that, the stranger vanished into thin air.

Just then a horn blared! Jack whipped his head around and saw a bus barreling towards him at full speed. He stood there like a deer in the headlights. Life flashing before his eyes. The bus plowed into him. And in that fleeting moment between everything and nothing, Jack felt his wife welcoming him into the warm embrace of eternity.

Jack awoke slouched over the bar counter the next morning.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” chuckled Ron as he cleaned a glass pitcher over the bar sink.

“What… what happened last night?” groaned Jack.

“You don’t remember?” said Ron, “you drank your shots then passed out. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. You alright?”

“Yeah… I just… strange dream,” Jack mumbled, “thanks for lettin’ me stay the night, Ron. I’ll get outta your hair.” 

Jack slowly sat up and stumbled off the bar stool. He made for the door.

“Hey! You forgot something!” yelled Ron.

Jack turned and went back to the bar counter. Ron pointed out a silver dollar lying heads-up on the counter-top where Jack had passed out. Jack stared at it in sheer disbelief.

“Ain’t seen one of these in a while. Where’d you get it?” asked Ron.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jack, “it’s all yours. Consider it a token of gratitude.”

“Much obliged,” said Ron with a subtle smile, “take care, Jack.”

With that, Jack stepped outside into the morning light. His spirit rekindled. A bus pulled up to the curbside stop. The doors swung open, and the driver addressed him.

“Where you headed?” asked the driver.

“Home,” Jack responded.

“Need a ride?”

Jack approached the bus door, then paused.

“On second thought… I think I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself,” said the driver, “have a good one.”

The bus pulled away. Jack watched it go, then began his long walk home. He didn’t mind though. For the first time in ages, he was just happy to be alive.

Images Courtesy of Nickpasta

Mars or Bust

By Nick Pasta

John spent this morning just like every other morning. He looked over at his wife, Stacy, still fast asleep and kissed her on the forehead. John lurched out of bed with a huff and a groan.

“Oooahhhgg” He muttered.

He buttoned up his red plaid shirt over his undershirt, and slipped into his overalls. On the wall hung a poster “Mars, or bust!” He gave it a look and chuckled.

“Heh. Yeah right” he said to himself. “Some new manifest destiny this is.”

He worked his way downstairs and fixed himself some breakfast. As he did he looked out the window. Billowing crop fields as far as the eye could see. The stark red landscape of the ground contrasted with the yellows of grain, and the bright blue of the sky.

The sky, of course, was not actually blue. John and his wife lived in a community bubble on the surface of mars. This town was affectionately called Hermes’ landing.

Terraforming mars was far to expensive for any one government to fund. It also would take far too long. So, the governments of the world did what they do best. Propagandize. They labelled Mars as the next manifest destiny, and sold it to the working class. Terraforming it one town bubble at a time. The government would subsidize some of it, but a large amount of debt was taken on by those who sought for land on the next great frontier. They went to mars with the hope that one day, enough people would move over, and enough crops might be planted that they would one day remove the bubbles entirely.

John pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard, poured some into a bowl, and topped it off with oat milk. Bran. Bran was not Johns favorite, but it was the cheapest. Considering the sizeable debt John had taken on in order to afford this homestead it would have to do.

John finished his breakfast and got to doing his chores. First thing he always did was check on the livestock.

In the barn holding the livestock there were monitors of all the vital signs of each cow. Since mars did not have the ground coverage of grass necessary for grazing, the barn was also equipped with automatic feeders to make sure the cows receive a proper diet.

John liked to walk through the barn and say hi to all the cows anyway. Cows are social animals after all, and John thought the least he could do was stop by and see them every morning.

“Mornin’ Bella", he said. He gave her a pat on the snout. “Ronda, Trixie, Marnie,” each cow affectionately presented itself as he passed, and he patted each of them in turn.

“How are y’all doing this morning?” He said.

“Yeah I’m doing well, thanks for asking.” Trixie snorted. “Hey, Trixie don’t give me that attitude. You know I’m working hard to get you grazing space! Grass is expensive around here.” He walked over to her and gave her a pat again. “Soon enough y’all ladies will be able to see the sunshine, and have space to stretch your legs. Just wait a little longer.”

He exited the barn and made his way over to the vast fields of grain. Still a couple of weeks till harvest.

The smell of bacon creeped its way from the house. Stacy was up. That meant chores were over for now. John made his way back to the house

John opened the door, and walked to the kitchen. “Mornin’ darlin’.”

“Mornin, sweetie,” she replied. *Knock knock knock*. They both swerved their heads towards the door. “Hmm, I wonder who that might be at this hour,” John said.

He walked over to the door and opened it. On the other side stood a clean looking young man in a brown suit.

“Is this the house of John Weir?” said the man.

“Why yes it is, who are you and how can I help you?” John asked in response.

“My name is Dennis Crocker, I’m a representative from the bank. I wanted to talk to you personally about your pending loan for an acre of grass.”

“Couldn’t you have called? I spent a fortune gettin’ our house wired up to the internet!” John said.

“Afraid not, the higher ups thought it would be best If I came and explained it to you personally.”

“Explained it?! Explained what?” John said, realizing the slip in language of the young man.

“Err, My apologies. I didn’t mean to come off…” John cut the boy off mid sentence, “Oh spit it out will ya?”

The boy looked shocked. He took a second to collect himself. He took a big deep breath, and with a huff he spit it out.

“Your loan for the grass has been declined.”

“Wha…” it was Johns turn to be speechless.

The boy continued “With your current outstanding debt still unpaid the bank was unable to see how shipping grass in from Earth would increase the output of your farm. So your loan was declined.”

John grew angry. “Of course the grass won’t increase the output of my farm! It’s for the cows. They need space to graze it keeps them happy!”

Dennis continued “That may be, but getting grass here is very expensive. Maintaining grass here is even more expensive. Like it or not your loan was declined.”

John’s rebuttal was fast “I bet you didn’t even bat an eye at the cost of shipping grass in to be ‘maintained’,” John imitated Dennis, “By the wealthy folks and their big techy townhouses!”

Dennis responded “That is none of my, or your concern at the moment. Have a good day.”

“Piss off.” John said dismissively as he slammed the door shut. He would figure out a way to get that grass. Somehow.

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Mars terraforming debt, Martian homesteading struggles, space colonization corporate exploitation, raising livestock on Mars, working-class sci-fi stories, Mars community bubble life, interstellar agricultural loans, dystopian space capitalism, manifest destiny propaganda critique, Mars farming challenges, sci-fi socio-economic allegory, Nick Pasta Mars fiction, terraforming vs corporate greed, space frontier debt crisis, sustainable agriculture on Mars

by William Danton

I was a ranger of these Great Smoky Mountains when I was 21 years old. Hard to believe. Grandfather was a ranger. Father too. Me and him was rangers at the same time, him up in Gatlinburg and me down in Bryson. I think he’s pretty proud of that. I know I was.

My pa always told me that these mountains was the oldest in the world. “Older than time,” he said. Shrouded in mystery. He’d seen and heard all manner of unexplainable things during his years with the National Park Service. Bigfoot. Wildmen. Witchcraft. You name it. My old man was real superstitious, so I took his tales with a grain of salt growin’ up. That all changed with the Andrew Graves case. I realized there might have been some truth in what the old man had been tellin’ me.

June 21st, 1983. The solstice. I remember. Was fresh out of ranger school at the time. A young buck eager to prove myself. Pa had garnered quite the reputation with the park service, so I knew I had some big shoes to fill. I was ready for anythin’, but no amount of training or fatherly wisdom could have prepared me for that fateful day.

They had me posted at the Deep Creek Station. It’d been pissin’ rain all mornin’, and it was just startin’ to let up that afternoon. That’s about when some feller ran in soaked to the bone. Panicked as all hell. Said he was a Scoutmaster. His troop had been hiking along the Deep Creek Trail when they got caught off-guard by the storm and had to shelter in place. That’s when he noticed one of his Boy Scouts was gone. Andrew Graves, age ten. He told his troop to stay put, and braved the downpour for the nearest ranger outpost. I immediately called in a missin’ person report for the boy. This was serious.

We were burnin’ daylight. Time was of the essence. About an hour later we’d scrambled together a modest search party of a couple dozen men at the trailhead. A few rangers, a few cops, and some local hunters. We quickly spread out in search of little Andrew.

Day turned to night, but the search pressed on. Our party numbers had quadrupled by sundown. More rangers, police with dogs, and volunteers joined our ranks. They even flew in a search and rescue chopper from Knoxville. All this, yet still no sign of the boy.

As night fell, a thick layer of fog rolled in, suffocatin’ the woods in an eerie haze. The fog became so dense that they had to abort the chopper. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Too risky to fly in those conditions.

‘Round midnight, we got a glimmer of hope on Andrew’s whereabouts. A police K-9 unit found one of his hiking shoes stuck in the mud. At that moment, it dawned on me that the boy had been runnin’ from someone… or something. Any trace of whatever it was had been washed away by the storm.

Myself and several other rangers followed the search dog to the mouth of an uncharted cave about a mile off trail. What we found inside still haunts me to this day. 

We followed the dog into that ‘ol cavern with our flashlights and sidearms drawn. Cave paintings depicting scenes of death adorned the walls all around us as we delved deeper into the unknown. After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached the end of the cave. That’s where we found him... motionless… lifeless. 

 I’ll never forget the look on that poor boy’s face. Pale as death. Bug-eyed with his mouth ajar. Terror stricken. Coroner said he’d screamed so loud that he dislocated his own jaw. I can’t imagine what he witnessed in his final moments. I shudder at the thought.

His chest had been torn open exposing a broken ribcage. His heart was gone. The official coroner’s report listed Andrew’s cause of death as a cougar attack, but I knew it was bullshit. Just somethin’ to give the tourists closure. Somethin’ that made sense.

Years on, I worked up the courage to go back to that godforsaken cave. Why? Morbid curiosity I guess. Pa warned me not to, but I went anyway. I should’ve heeded his advice.

I returned to where we found Andrew’s body. That’s when I heard it… thump-THUMP… thump-THUMP… thump-THUMP… a heartbeat echoed through the cave. Just then my flashlight died unexpectedly, and I was at the mercy of the darkness. Again… thump-THUMP… thump-THUMP… thump-THUMP… only louder. I’ve never felt fear like that. The kind that penetrates your soul. By some miracle, I was able to feel my way back out into the light. I was lucky to be alive.

In my youth, I loved wanderin’ off the beaten path. Nowadays, I’m less adventurous. Not out of fear, but I don’t wanna put my chips forward and go out and meet somethin’ I don’t understand. My pa always told me that these old mountains held some very deep dark secrets. Secrets that mankind ain’t meant to know about. Whatever killed that boy all them years ago is still out there. Out there, in the woods somewhere.

The interplanetary fishing guild is an exclusive club.

Its members include the likes of the legendary Kelbab Zeetox who was the first person to pull up a fish larger than a school bus on a small planet in the andromeda galaxy. It also included John Fisherman who was genetically bred to be amazing at spotting fish. Surprisingly, his amazing genetic ability for spotting fish became such a distraction while trying to focus on just one fish that he wears a blindfold most of the time to prevent overstimulation.

Anyone who’s anyone is a part of the interplanetary fishing guild. It is a surprising thing. Life has become intelligent enough to jump between planets, yet it still seemed captivated by the archaic art of pulling creatures out of water with a line. Of course the Aquatic Lifeform Association (ALA) was against fishing as it endangered intelligent life in water.

However the opposition always argued that if it was dumb enough to bite the hook, it couldn’t have been very intelligent to begin with.

The art of fishing had evolved far beyond the hook, line, and sinker days. Interplanetary fishing was a whole different beast. More modern, more humane! When someone said they were going fly fishing they meant it. High tensile strength line hung from floating hover-ships. Adaptive nano-bait was used to pull creatures in. The bait utilized color changing nano-bots powered by an AI to turn into whatever each individual fish wanted most.

The bait was so advanced it was known to accidentally hook people if left in the wrong place. However the opposition argued that if someone was dumb enough to bite the hook, they probably deserved it.

All this high tech machinery was necessary. The fish being caught were no ordinary fish. With the entirety of the whole universe available you can find some pretty impressive creatures.

This was how Christian Smith was granted her place in the guild. She pulled a biblically accurate angel out of the water. This, of course, lead to religious fanatics labelling Christian as the next messiah. Things only got more confusing from then on. Due to the name conflict the fanatics couldn’t call their new religion Christianity, so they opted for Smithism. Those who practice Smithism call themselves Smithsonians.

The museum of the same name had been closed since 2024 after the US government focused all of its resources on going to war with the moon for having total control over the tides.

Though the guild of Interplanetary Fishers is exclusive, that doesn’t mean there aren’t lots of people doing it. Interplanetary fishing is actually the second most popular televised sport and its on the rise. The most popular and captivating sport was, of course, Baseball. What attracts people to Baseball, and Interplanetary Fishing is the danger. They trigger something in the pre-historic animal mind that keeps intelligent life hooked.

There really is nothing more exhilarating than seeing the air above the water covered in ships hoping to catch something big. Then a giant neptunian super-whale the size of a football field splashes out of the water destroying all but a handful of ships. Once the original barrage is survived the person who actually ends up catching the fish is the one who brought the most food. It can take anywhere from a few minutes to years for these fish to die.

Famously Jamie Heineman, named after the mythical mythbuster, was almost inducted into the guild, but died of old age before successfully bagging their catch. The fish died with him just a few months later. They now share a gravestone on the most prestigious grave planet Greece 2.

interplanetary fishing satire, sci-fi fishing comedy, cosmic angling adventures, futuristic fishing technology, AI nano-bait in fiction, Neptunian super-whale lore, Aquatic Lifeform Association parody, Smithism religious cult humor, space fishing guild stories, absurdist sci-fi short stories, galactic fishing hazards, Kelbab Zeetox fishing legends, John Fisherman genetic engineering, Christian Smith biblically accurate angel, Jamie Heineman mythbuster tribute

Happy Easter!

I wanted to do more fictional stories. I think I’ll try to do at least one a week if I can!

Thanks again to those who read these. I love you all! In the substack chat I’d love to get your writing prompt ideas if you have some. I could use the ideas right now!

The Shadow’s Catch

The fisherman ghasped.

“What on gods green earth is that!”

He screamed in such a way that caused the closest deckhands to jump in fear.

They looked at the source of the sound for guidance. However, They were met only with the fisherman’s frozen stare, unmoving, and his finger pointing straight at the fishing net.

The net was hauled out of the water only seconds ago. Inside it, lay the ghastly figure of some creature. The figure was unrecognizable, an aura of blackness consumed, and surrounded it. As if light itself could not escape the creatures grasp.

The whole boat lay silent. The fisherman and the deckhands slowly gravitated towards the net, never taking their eyes off the creature.

“Hehe wow, I must be one lucky guy, its my first time out and I get to see something none of you have ever seen before” said one of the deckhands.

”Yeah… you said it… what the heck is that thing?” said another, obviously more experienced deckhand.

As they talked the black creature writhed within the net, much slower and more calm the the erratic and desperate motion of the fish surrounding it.

Someone interjected, “Shit I wish we had a marine biologist on staff. Has anyone seen this before?”

Standing opposite from the rest of the crew the fisherman, no longer frozen still, is backing up to the edge of the boat.

“I have” the fisherman whispered. He trembled, as if every word of that two word sentence had cost him a hundred lives.

Nearly at tears, the fisherman climbed onto the railing of the boat, screamed, and jumped off the side of the boat into the ocean below.

The whole crew of the boat turned, startled by the scream, to see the fisherman abandoning the ship. A few of them ran after him .

“What are you doing!” They yelled. But just as the fisherman turned to answer another deckhand called!

“Wait where did it go? Did someone cut it out?”

The rest of the deckhands turned to see the net full of fish, with the ghastly creature no where to be seen.

The fisherman turned back and resumed his panicked swim away from the boat.

“GET OFF THE BOAT!” he screamed!

Postmortem

Ok I’m not gonna lie I ran out of steam on that one. I had the idea of the monster only killing those who entered shadows now that it has been released on the ship. But to be honest that was making this story longer than I wanted it to be. Then I had the idea that maybe the monster killed people who weren’t being looked at. So two people would have to keep an eye on each other to survive. But that sounded really hard to survive, and I had no idea how they would come to discover that without all dying.

I’ve been playing through Dredge and wanted to write something inspired by it. I used the theme Eldritch Horror Fishing as my starting theme.

This was a fun experiment in suspense though.

Hopefully I’ll get to build on this more. I’m not even sure what qualifies a short story yet.

I’m a huge fan of sci-fi and wanted to give some fictional writing a shot. Seeing as the target audience for this newsletter is… well… me, my family and some friends I have no reason not to put stuff out there! It really is something that I’ve always wanted to do, but school always pushed me away from it. All those damn essays telling me I need to write within the lines. TOMFOOLERY I TELL YOU.

I WRITE HOW I PLEASE!!

I’m very happy with the amount of creative writing I have gotten to do in my games program, and I can only hope to be able to do more in the future. All great things start as a tiny seed. Unless of course its an animal… or… anything other than a plant.

Shoutout to my narrative choice game Just Focus

I Have No Mouth Yet I Must Eat

Karen stood there in shock.

Just a few moments earlier she had witnessed a construction robot burst through the door of the canteen, and head straight for the nearest table. The robot leaped onto the table, injuring all those in its path. Then it did something no one expected. It started grabbing food off plates and mashing the food against itself. Of course the robot had no mouth, and no need for food. It was built solely for construction, which made the scene Karen stood witness to all the more disturbing. This all-metal utilitarian machine just stood on top of the table screaming.

“Can’t Taste! OH GOD! Cant Taste! Can’t Taste!”

Within moments a team of people in cleansuits burst in through the very same door, shot the robot with an emp stunner, and it came to the ground with a thud. The robot was dragged out of the room. Everyone in the room was questioned about what happened, and treated for injury.

The cleansuit soldiers assured everyone in the cafeteria that what they just witnessed was a computer AI glitch, and that the team needed as much info as possible in order to sort the issue out.

Karen, however; felt something was wrong. She had been working in this facility for 30 years and never seen a robot do that. Plus glitches usually cause the robots to drop things, put them in the wrong place, or walk into walls. This was totally different. The machine was determined… borderline deranged.

And why had the robot team been so hot on its trail?

Normally robots would be stuck running into the same wall for hours, but it seemed like they were already chasing the robot before it exploded through the door.

Something was wrong. Karen had the distinct feeling that she had just witnessed something she was not supposed to see.